More Than a Memory (2 page)

J
ust my damn luck
. I lean forward and tilt my head, angling it closer to the windshield, trying to find a break in the pelting rain. The sky opened up five minutes ago and hasn’t relented since. This is what I get for complaining about the heat when I had to pull over an hour ago to change my flat tire, which I’m sure was karma for driving past the crazy-eyed hitchhiker ten miles outside of my hometown. I was finally leaving La Grande and Eastern Oregon University behind me, the last thing I needed was to get shanked in my truck by a man with more desire to get away than I had.

Taking a fortifying breath, I push my way out of the truck and manage to grab my duffle bag, but everything else will have to wait. The apartment I’m moving into is furnished, so everything I brought with me is in the backseat, at my mother’s insistence. Apparently, she actually bothered to look at the forecast before I left.

Making a mad dash to the covered awning over the apartment door, I manage to step in a puddle large enough to soak both of my damn shoes. I’m frustrated as hell by the time I knock on the door. As if traveling over five hours from home isn’t stressful enough, let’s add sopping shoes and planning to live with a dude before meeting them to the tension of the day.

I knock again when the first rap goes unanswered.

Finally, the door pulls open and the most adorable blonde looks up at me. Petite and almost fairy-like, she only comes up to my shoulder. My frustration washes away as my award-winning smile floats across my face. That’s not false advertising either—I was named “best smile” in high school, and it’s caught more women than I care to mention.

Her eyes narrow at the sight of me and my face falls. She must be Ollie’s girlfriend. The last thing I need is to get kicked out of the only apartment we were able to find on such short notice. Plus, poaching really isn’t my thing.

“Hey, I’m Bryson.” I drop my duffle bag to the ground and stretch my arm out for a shake, but she ignores it.
Tough crowd.
“You Ollie’s girlfriend?” Her eyes narrow further. “Sister?” I ask, hope filling my tone.

“
I’m
Ollie,” she says, venom in her voice. “Who the hell are you?”

“Bryson,” I answer. “Daniels? I guess we’re roommates.”

“Like hell,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a step back. “I thought Bryson was that girl’s dad.”

“It is. He just happens to be my dad also. I’m a junior. Look,” I say, trying not to let my renewed frustration rear its ugly head, “it’s no big deal. You have a room. I need a room. Two plus two equals I’m your new roommate. I’m paid in full through the end of the school year.”

I grab the strap of my duffle and walk farther into the apartment. Brushing past her, I ignore the look of confused disgust on her face and take in the small, yet very tidy apartment. The snap of the door closing either means she’s accepted my arrival, or she’s planning to kill me and doesn’t want any witnesses. I can’t discern the look in her eyes, but since I see no weapons, I’m hoping it’s the former.

“My room?” I hold up my arm, indicating my heavy ass bag.

“Stay here,” she demands as she swipes her phone off the living room table and stalks down the hallway.

I follow, unable to take my eyes off her. Even in sweats, this woman is deadly. She disappears behind a door, and I take it upon myself to wander down the hall, ducking my head inside rooms until I find mine—not a difficult task with only a couple options to choose from. The room is simple. Dresser, bed, night tables—more than I’ll really need. A place to crash and not having to drag baskets full of dirty clothes across town were my only two requirements, and Emerson assured me there was a washing machine inside the apartment. Seems like the perfect setup.

“No,” I hear Ollie hiss through the wall, “I’m not saying that, Mother.”

Two things. One, what kind of name is Ollie? I need to find out, because I’ll be damned if I call that woman Ollie. Two, why are the walls so damn thin? So much for getting any action. Here, at least.

“Well, he’s not ugly, that’s for sure.” I can’t help but smile. “No. I said no. He doesn’t seem like a serial killer.”

I find myself leaning closer to the wall to hear the rest of her conversation, ignoring the slim ounce of guilt trying to sneak its way up at invading her privacy.

“You’re not one bit sneaky. I know exactly what you’re doing—and it’s not going to work.”

Having heard enough, I drop my duffle bag on the bed and head out of the room in search of the washer and dryer. I have a meeting first thing tomorrow, and being the procrastinator I am, I didn’t wash my clothes before packing everything up.

I find the small laundry room and look in awe at the pristine labels on the shelves beside the stacked washer and dryer. Turning around, I take in the rest of the kitchen. I only thought the apartment was tidy when I first walked in, but this place is beyond spotless. I was concerned before, but now I’m not sure this is even going to work.

I pull my phone from my pocket and call my sister.

“You told me I’d fit in here. You said my roommate is just as filthy as I am. You also failed to mention she’s a fucking girl!” I say as soon as she picks up, before she can utter a “hello”.

She’s silent for a long moment, and I actually wonder if she’s taking me seriously for the first time in our lives. A second later, raucous laughter comes through the line before a clatter echoes in my ear, bursting that dream. I can picture her dropping the phone on the floor and holding her hands to her chest in the same way she’s done all her life

I wait, my eyes fixed on the ceiling as I tilt my head back. It’s the only thing I can do. Emerson does what she wants, at her speed, and won’t be rushed.

“First,” she begins with a snort, “that apartment was disgusting. Well, not as bad as your old one, but it was up there.”

“This place is surgical room clean. Everything is fucking labeled.” I turn in circles, scanning every inch of the kitchen, and tug open the refrigerator door. “Even her damn food is all neat with the product labels facing the front.” I cringe at the obsessive order of this place.

My sister giggles again. “I knew she made that apartment dirty on purpose. The towels in the bathroom were perfect and the tub was sparkling clean.”

I look around the corner to make sure her bedroom door is closed before whispering, “You don’t even know, Emerson. This place is so clean, I think she may murder me if I leave clothes on the floor.”

“So quit being such a slob and don’t leave clothes on the floor.”

I huff.
Like that will ever happen.

“She’s pretty, right?” she asks with the same misplaced hopefulness she always gets when she’s talking to me about women. I groan in frustration. My sister is always in my business.

“Don’t start that shit. This girl is about to throw me out. I’ll be homeless. Once she gets off the phone with her mom, I’m out of here.”

And it’s not like I can just go home
, I mentally add, since saying it out loud is pointless. I fought to get out of La Grande for two years and finally put my foot down this summer. My mother insisted I stay close to home the first couple years to “acclimate” to college life, and I did, since she and dad were footing the bill my scholarship didn’t cover, but not anymore. There’s no way I can get anywhere in baseball stuck at Eastern—hell, they haven’t had a first round draft pick since Ron Scott skated into the minors in 1970. This is my shot, and running back isn’t an option.

“You’re so damn dramatic. How I ended up with such a sissy for a brother, I’ll never know. Sharing a womb with such an awesome girl must have increased your estrogen or something.”

I scrub my free hand over my face at my twin’s broken record on the subject.

This isn’t the first time Emerson has mentioned being the power twin.

“Besides,” she continues, “her mother knows exactly who’s moving in to the room. I was very upfront with her. She knew you wouldn’t be able to make it up there to check the place out. She told me that was fine as long as someone looked before signing the lease. Now, whether or not she relayed that information to Olivia is on her.”

Olivia.

It’s a perfect name for the tiny blonde hiding in her room—so much better than Ollie.

“She had no clue I was the one staying here. She didn’t say as much, but I think she was under the impression you were going to be her roommate. You didn’t mention it?” I leave the small kitchen and head into the living room, which is sparsely furnished and almost surgically sterile.

This situation doesn’t surprise me. Emerson pulls wild shit like this all the time.

“I don’t remember
not
mentioning you. I never said I was moving in, though. Nonetheless, you’re there. Her mom knows who you are, and she’s fine with you living there. Her mother made it very clear Olivia wasn’t going to be happy about anyone moving in, but she did say she wouldn’t be openly rude about it. So, don’t worry. Get unpacked and make sure you make it to the field house for the meeting tomorrow.” Always mothering me. Four minutes older and running my life.

“How do you know about my meeting tomorrow? You’re worse than Mom.”

“I linked up your email calendar with mine. I don’t want you missing any important stuff while you’re on your own for the first time.” Meddling ass.

Before I can berate her for sticking her nose in my business once again, I hear the door down the hall open. “Hey, sis, gotta go. She’s coming out of the room and I don’t want to seem rude.”

“Since when? You’re always ru—”

I hang up before she finishes her sentence, prop myself against the counter, and wait for the gorgeous blonde to make her entrance.

A
fter my mother
laid down the law on “her apartment”, I had no choice but to let it happen. My only other options were to move home, or figure out a way to pay rent without my trust fund—neither was viable as far as I was concerned. It seems Bryson Jr. would be staying here. I can handle this; no big deal. Other than the fact that I value my solitude and want to spend every single second alone, it’ll be just like it was yesterday.

My arms heavy and shoulders low, I trudge back into the kitchen after I get off the phone with my mother. Arguments with her always make me want comfort food, and for me, that’s
Hershey Kisses
, tiny little mouthfuls of chocolate. As I round the corner, I nearly jump and my hand flies to my chest, as if that will calm the thudding of my heart. Bryson is leaning against the counter, looking even more handsome than I allowed myself to remember…and trying to scare the ever-loving shit out of me.

My face turns up, meeting warm brown eyes and an overly cocky grin. I shake my head as he sweeps his eyes down my body, unabashed.
Nope. Not dealing with this right now.
Without a word, I turn and walk back to my room, where I’ll hide until he goes to bed. It’s not like I keep normal hours anyway.

I peruse various internet sites on my laptop, clicking without care or direction, and wait for him to go to bed. I draw my gaze away from my computer screen when I hear him walk past my door several times. I could’ve offered to help him move his things in, but with the extensive arm muscles even his t-shirt can’t hide, I was certain he could handle it.

After an hour of silence, I decide to try my luck and finally leave my room, heading back into the kitchen. I crinkle my nose at the dirty cup in the sink. I have a feeling it is only the beginning—a small annoyance I’m certain is going to get worse.

I wash the cup, then place it in the dishwasher. Reaching into the cabinet above the stove, I grab the bag of
Kisses
, pull three out, and replace it in its proper bin on the shelf. My hands still stretched over my head, I can feel his eyes on me. Although he enters the room with ridiculous stealth, the air around me changes, becoming charged.

I ignore him, hoping he’ll take note of my mood and walk away. Most men tend to willingly avoid unhappy women.

The doorbell rings and I flinch with a start, dropping one of the chocolates to the floor. He grunts when I bend over to retrieve it, and I snap my head up, my spine stiffening. To say I’m appalled is an understatement. That’s a lie, but I should be upset, all things considered.

When I turn to face him, the only thing I find is his retreating back. The person at the door has to be for him, so I don’t even bother walking in that direction. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I make my way out of the kitchen, only to be blocked in the doorway by Bryson, a large pizza box in one hand and a two-liter of soda in the other.

The smell hits me and my stomach reacts immediately, growling, begging for a slice. Embarrassed, I place a hand over my abdomen and try to skirt past him.

“Don’t run away, Olivia.” He places the box on the tiny table in the kitchenette. “Join me.”

“No thank you.” My stomach rebels against my decision, making its displeasure known.

“Look,” he says with a sigh, “I know you don’t want me here, but I’ll try my best to make this work. We looked everywhere. This was literally the last room available for forty miles.”

I turn back and pull out a chair opposite of him with a sigh. “My mother blindsided me with you. I thought the girl who came to look was moving in.”

“Emerson,” he confirms as he opens the box and spins it in my direction. “She’s my sister. Twin, actually. I couldn’t make it, so she came to check things out.”

“My mother informed me earlier she knew you were the one moving in, but she left that little detail out when we discussed everything.”
More like when she insisted.

“If it’s any consolation, I showed up today thinking ‘Ollie’ was a dude.” He takes a huge bite of pizza, but does his best to chew without opening his mouth. I force myself to look away. Handsome, personable, and clearly a caveman.

“I get that a lot.” I open my bottle of water and pick at the toppings on my pizza.

“Every other Olivia I’ve met goes by Liv,” he says around another bite.

I shrug. “My dad wanted a boy.”

He nods in understanding.

“Your sister asked about the baseball complex. Do you play?”

He has the grace to swallow his food before responding. “Yeah. I played at La Grande. Their program is subpar. Figured I’d get a better shot at making a career out of playing for a better program.”

“You must be pretty good to have the potential to go pro.”

The husk of his laugh comforts me for some reason. He shakes his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not
that
good, but a decent shot at the minors would be great.”

The baseball team at Oregon State is incredible. One of the best group of guys I’ve ever known. “My boyfriend used to play baseball.” I look down at my hand, fingering the diamond encrusted band.
Fiancé, actually.

“He played here?”

“No. In high school. He stopped playing before graduation.” I stuff my mouth with pepperoni, hoping he leaves it alone and doesn’t ask any more questions.

“You dated in high school?”

Damn it
. I nod.

“Wow, that’s a long damn time. He doesn’t live here?”

I shake my head, my eyes skirting to the sink. “I have some ground rules we really need to discuss,” I say, moving my gaze back to him. I may be using the change in topic to deflect his questions, but after remembering the cup in the sink, I know it’s a must—for my sanity and his safety.

“Ground rules?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Yes,” I say after taking a sip of water. “They’re important to me. I’ll be upfront with you, Bryson. I didn’t even want a roommate. I was fine on my own. This is my mother’s doing.”

“Okay. Ground rules then. Lay it out.”

I point over his shoulder. “If you dirty a dish, you need to wash it immediately and put it in the dishwasher.”

He grins. “Simple enough. Clean dishes in the dishwasher.”

I cringe. “No. Gross. When the dishwasher is full, you have to run it.”

“But I already washed the dish. So, you mean rinse the dish, then put it in the dishwasher?”

I almost question his GPA, but I can accept what I’m asking isn’t the norm. “No. I need you to wash the dish, then put it in the dishwasher, where it will be washed,” I say, enunciating every word to spell it out for him.

“Again?” His tone forces me to realize he’s toying with me. Either he’s amused by my need for things to be super clean, or he’s trying to force me to realize how silly my rule is.

I nod, narrowing my gaze. “Moving on. Towels have to be washed after each use.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Don’t give me some complaint about conserving energy or wasting water, I don’t want to hear it. My nerves wouldn’t be able to handle wet towels hanging in the bathroom.”

“What if I take them to my room?”

“Are you being obtuse? I’m not going to go into your room—that’s your private space—but it will drive me crazy if I know there’s a damp, mildewing towel in there. I think it’s best if you just wash it.”

“Okay,” he says with a sigh, leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped against his stomach. I force my eyes away from his trim waist. “We’ll wash a load of towels each day. I can throw my workout clothes in there as well. They do better on a sanitize cycle anyway.”

“
We’ll
? There’s no
we
here. I’m not washing your clothes, Bryson.”

He grins at me. “Okaaay. I’ll wash
your
towel then. Really, I don’t mind.”

My stomach turns as my face contorts in disgust. I try to hide my reaction, but I fail miserably. “Gross. My clothes aren’t coming in contact with yours. As a matter of fact, that brings me to rule number three. I need you to pour bleach in the machine and run it on a quick cycle after you’ve washed clothes. I’ll do the same.”

“Once the load of laundry is done, the clothes are clean, Olivia. I don’t see a point in running an empty load. I’ll agree to not reusing towels—I’m not some ‘save mother earth’ tree hugger—but that is beyond wasteful.”

I sigh and lean back in my own chair, mirroring his posture. “It’s nonnegotiable. I need things to be clean.”

He looks around my kitchen. “I noticed. Is this one of those germaphobe fetishes?”

I chuckle. “Fetish? No, definitely not a fetish. That word implies something of a sexual nature.”

He hmphs, a deviant glint in his eyes. “Isn’t it, though? Sounds like you’re getting off on your rules over there.” I glare at him. “Fine. I’ll waste a load of water and some bleach. Listen, it’s clear you could spend the next hour telling me the ground rules, and I’ll do my best to follow each of them.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Seriously. I’ll do my best, but there’s no way I’m going to remember all of this. You need to email it to me.”

“I can do that,” I state, nodding. I may even make up some labels for each rule and post them around the apartment. If the extensive rules happen to run him off, so be it.

My cell phone alarm goes off and I silence it, but stand from the table.

“It’s video chat time with Duncan,” I say as Bryson gives me a questioning glance.

Not wasting any time, I wash my hands and head out of the kitchen.

“If he knew I had a male roommate, he’d shit a brick,” I mutter to myself.

“Wait,” Bryson’s booming voice stops me in my tracks, “you’re not going to tell him I’m living here?”

I shake my head and walk out of the room.

If only it were that simple.