 by Sara Ney.jpg)
Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
The paparazzi were on my ass 24/7 and I needed a bit of breathing room—an escape from the madness—before the media frenzy begins.
Sure, I could have gone to a secluded cabin in the woods—but I didn’t want to be bored out of my mind. I’d seen enough wide open spaces as a kid from Texas to last me a lifetime.
So instead, I let my agent hook me up with a modest house in the burbs where we didn’t think anyone would find me hiding in plain sight.
I’d have a roommate; but supposedly, she was going to give me space. Stay out of my way and respect my boundaries. According to my agent, I wouldn’t hear a peep from her.
Wrong. He was wrong about everything and now my life was never going to be the same.
* THE SECRET ROOMMATE is a slow-burn, stand-alone, opposites attract romance
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
duke
I hated New York.
Hated everything about it, from the weather to the social scene, to the hectic, fast-paced lifestyle. Then again, maybe I just hate it because it’s not where I thought I belonged.
It’s not the place or team I thought I’d be drafted to.
Texas.
Texas is that place, and it’s where I belong. And Texas is where I’m going to play now that I’ve just signed a new deal with a team I’ve wanted to play for since picking up my first football.
The Longhorn State is in my blood.
I wasn’t drafted to the Dallas Steers as a rookie like I thought I’d be; prayed to be, actually. Instead, I was fucked over by my agent and signed to New York, a deal I remained furious about even coming off a Super Bowl win.
Fuck you, New York Condors.
And fuck you, Aaron Lightner, my former agent.
Fuck him for screwing me over when I was too young to know better; too young to know I had a choice when it came to who I wanted to play for. I had options, and he didn’t tell me about them.
The greedy bastard decided for me.
Hefting my bag, I lower the ballcap over my eyes and put on sunglasses despite the fact that I’m inside the airport. It’s not easy concealing my identity—in fact, it’s damn near impossible—but I’m quick, wearing a disguise, and don’t dick around.
It’s not long before I’m climbing into a waiting black SUV at airport arrivals and on my way into the thick of the suburbs.
I’ve never visited the Midwest; not to play tourist, not to sightsee, and I’ve certainly never lived here.
Well, today all that changes.
Today, I’m hiding out there.
See, my agent lives in Chicago and has the keys to the house where I’ll be holing up—hiding—in what he calls a “family-friendly neighborhood,” where I’ve been guaranteed no one will bother me.
No one will notice me. I won’t have to go out in public, won’t have to be seen, won’t have anyone breathing down my neck—paparazzi or otherwise.
I only need a place to lay low for two weeks. The only one who knows I’m here is my new agent, Eli.
Should be easy to stay out of trouble, yeah?
Speaking of places to hide—when the driver pulls up to a red-brick house covered almost completely in ivy vines, I almost gag in my mouth at how stereotypically wholesome the entire scene is.
White picket fence out front, mailbox attached to the house on the front door, doormat on the brick stoop.
It reminds me of the brick cottage from Hansel and Gretel or, better yet, The Three Little Pigs.
The doormat says Shut the Front Door!
Great.
My roommate thinks dumb shit like that is cute and clever? Awesome.
Rolling my bag over the cobblestone sidewalk, I frown when no one answers the door after I knock. My eyes do a quick scan for any forms of life and find none; I even peer into the front room through the window, shielding my eyes with the palm of my hand against the glare.
Everything is as quaint as Eli described, complete with a pineapple-shaped doorknocker in lieu of a doorbell.
Who doesn’t have a doorbell?
What the hell kind of setup is this?
Also—no one is here to let me the fuck inside! I feel like a dickhole standing out here. Knocking again, I shoot my gaze around the yard to the sidewalk and down the quaint street. I’m absolutely paranoid that someone may see me standing here and get nosy.
I’ve been given clear instructions by my agent to keep a low profile.
“Is anyone home?” I bang on the door with my fist.
So what if I’m early by several hours?
I helped myself to an earlier flight to get a jump start on my mini-non-vacation, thinking I’d be doing everyone a favor by leaping into obscurity sooner rather than later.
Time to relax while the powers that be did their jobs behind the scenes. According to Eli, my departure from the New York Condors will be the top news story the sports world will have seen in a decade. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I guess I have to learn to trust him.
Hell, I might even read a book or two while I’m here.
Start a woodworking project like my pops would have done. Hang a hammock and nap in the sun. Shit—the world is my oyster!
The world was supposed to be my oyster ten minutes ago, so it would be mighty helpful if someone would come to the gall dang door.
What was her name, the girl who lives here?
Peoney?
Patricia?
Pa…Pa…
P.
I open my phone to look at the address, her name a headline at the top of the screenshot.
Posey Kettner.
Posey, that’s right.
My temporary roommate’s name is Posey, like some goddamn flower or storybook creature, one of the single dumbest names I’ve ever heard, and I made no secret about it.