The Roommate Equation

  The Roommate Equation

  Jillian Quinn

  Contents

  Also by Jillian Quinn

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  The Fame Game

  Dear Future Ex-wife

  Also by Jillian Quinn

  About the Author

  Also by Jillian Quinn

  Standalone Romantic Comedies

  Dear Future Ex-wife

  The Roommate Equation

  The Fame Game

  Date Crashers

  Face-Off Series

  Parker

  Kane

  Donovan

  Jameson

  Ethan

  Dean

  Face-Off Legacy Series

  Pucking Parker

  Keeping Kane

  Teaching Tucker

  Jocking Jameson

  Kissing Killian

  Defending Donovan

  Standalone Sports Novels

  Prince Pucking Charming

  Most Desirable Player

  Hate the Player

  Love the Game

  For a complete list of books, updates, and new releases, visit JillianQuinnBooks.com.

  Copyright © 2020 by Jillian Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at JillianQuinnBooks.com

  Cover by Najla Qamber Designs

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, both living or deceased, establishments, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Ash

  He’s home.

  The sound of Dylan’s engine forces my eyes open, and I slide off the bed, my skin tingling as if it’s on fire. After years of ignoring me, Dylan stuffed a note into my pocket last night before leaving my house.

  Lake.

  Tomorrow.

  Midnight.

  I have been a giant ball of nerves, on edge and unable to think of anything other than Dylan. He’s home fifteen minutes early, but that’s not much of a surprise.

  Dylan is a control-freak.

  He’s never late for anything.

  I sit on the bench in front of my window that faces Dylan’s bedroom. All of my life I have had the pleasure of seeing right into his room, wishing I could become part of his world, dreaming we were together.

  Dylan kills the engine of his father’s Camaro and gets out of the car. I watch him stumble up the driveway, and when he looks up at my window, I can’t breathe. He raises his hand and waves.

  Shit.

  Now, I can’t pretend that I’m not a total loser, waiting around for him on a Saturday night. I should have gone out with my friends. No good can come from sneaking around with my brother’s best friend.

  Not like he wants to date you, Ash.

  He probably needs my help with something. Dylan would never go for a girl like me. I’m too curvy, too average, and so not his type. Plus, he would never betray Sloan. He’s been friends with my brother for as long as I can remember. Most of my childhood memories of my brother include Dylan.

  I give Dylan a quick wave.

  He stares up at me, holding my gaze for a few seconds, and then tips his head to the side. There’s a lake behind our houses. My brother and his friends drank there when they were in high school. But with the ground frozen from winter, we will have the lake all to ourselves.

  Dylan pockets his keys and walks toward the edge of his property. Like an idiot, I sit here, thinking, panicking, trying to keep my heart from escaping my chest.

  Dylan wants me to follow him.

  He wants to talk to me alone.

  Without my brother around.

  What the fuck should I do?

  I lift my beat-up copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare from the bench beside me and flip to Romeo and Juliet. Last night, I shoved Dylan’s note between the pages to remind myself that Dylan can never be mine, no matter how much I want him.

  After a few minutes of debating, I take one last look at the page with Dylan’s perfect handwriting and close the book. I have to know what he wants, even if this is the biggest mistake I will ever make.

  The house is dark, quiet at this time of night. My parents are sleeping, and my brother is still at the party Dylan left to meet me. I throw on a chunky sweater and a scarf before I leave the house. It’s early January, too cold to meet Dylan outside.

  After I slip between the hedges, I use the moonlight to help guide my way. I’m no stranger to these woods, but knowing the trails doesn’t make it any less creepy this late at night. An owl hoots from a distance, followed by other animals and sticks that make crunching sounds.

  A chill runs down my arms as I approach the lake, where I find Dylan standing with his back to me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his North Face jacket.

  “Where’s Sloan?”

  Dylan turns around. His dark curly hair is cut shorter than usual, gelled to keep it off his forehead. He lets out a deep breath, his focus on his shoes as I stop in front of him.

  “He’s at the party, probably staying the night with a girl.”

  My heart hammers in my chest, making it impossible for me to catch my breath. We’re alone tonight, which terrifies me. I have never spent more than a few minutes alone with Dylan. A long, awkward silence passes between us.

  “I hate myself,” Dylan says in a hushed tone that’s filled with pain.

  “Why?”

  His eyes lift to meet mine. “Because I’m an asshole for sneaking around behind Sloan’s back.”

  “I can turn around and forget you asked me to meet you here. I won’t say anything to my brother.”

  Dylan clasps my wrist and a wave of fire dances along my skin from the simple connection between us. I inch closer, taking in the scent of the cloves on his breath and his spicy cologne that I have committed to memory over the years. His light blue eyes look glassy when the moonlight hits them.

  He lowers his head. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Where should you be?”

  He releases my hand and shrugs. “Not here, that’s for sure.”

  “Go back to the party, then.”

  I turn to walk away, and his fingers touch mine. “Stay,” he pleads. “Please.”

  Unlike my older brother, Dylan never treats me like a kid. We’re only two years apart, but Sloan acts as if I’m still twelve years old. My brother is way too protective of me. If any of his friends steal a glance in my direction, he disarms them with a look that says I will kill you if you touch her.
<
br />   And he would.

  The first and only time Sloan caught Dylan staring at me with interest, he went ballistic. I’d just gotten out of the pool and was drying myself off with a towel when Dylan rolled his tongue across his bottom lip like he wanted to devour me. Like I was the popsicle he wanted to lick on that hot, sunny day.

  It was the summer after I had a significant growth spurt, and my boobs were practically spilling out from my top. I never wore a bikini again, always one-piece suits from that day forward. And because of my brother, Dylan never looked at me like that again.

  I should walk away and put Dylan in my rearview. He leaves for college again in two days, home from MIT only for the winter break. I stay because Dylan asked me—because I would do almost anything for him.

  He looks at me with a blank expression, completely unreachable.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “You,” he says without hesitation.

  How can he say that without any emotion?

  I’m dying on the inside, my heart ready to explode.

  Dylan stares up at the starless sky. “Have you ever thought about something so much that your head hurts?”

  I have no idea where he’s going with this question, but I play along. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You make my head hurt, Ash.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes now fixed on me. “You drive me fucking crazy. Ever since I got back, you’re all I can think about.”

  “I never did anything to you.”

  He shakes his head. “No, that’s where you’re wrong. You make me feel things I shouldn’t…” Dylan pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and groans. “Your birthday was last night.” He slides his hand onto my waist. “You’re eighteen now.”

  Last night, my parents threw me a surprise party at my house. They invited all of my friends and neighbors. But Dylan was the only person I noticed among the crowd when they yelled surprise.

  “I didn’t get you a present,” he says.

  “It’s okay. You came to my party. That’s good enough for me.”

  He smirks. “I want to give you something.”

  I narrow my eyes. “And what is that?”

  He wets his lips with his tongue. “A kiss.”

  “You want to kiss me?”

  He nods and then pulls me closer, digging his fingers into my hip.

  “What about Sloan? He’ll kill you if he finds out.”

  Dylan gives me one of his boyish grins that cause my heart to skip a beat. “Can you keep a secret, Ash?”

  I nod, and then his lips crash into mine.

  Chapter Two

  Ash

  Seven years later…

  I run up four flights of stairs, winded by the time I reach the top landing. You would think after climbing these stairs for the last two years, I would have gotten my ass into shape. Maybe the extra rice I added to my burrito at lunch wasn’t such a great idea.

  Yeah, probably not.

  I lean forward, hands on my thighs as I struggle to catch my breath. With only thirty minutes to change into something respectable, I need to get my butt into gear. I doubt the casting director will excuse my lateness because I almost died running up the stairs.

  I need the quick money from this television commercial. Working for the top talent agency in the country gives me a slight advantage when it comes to casting calls. For the last few months, I’ve been working for Vinnie Sax, whose name alone opens tons of doors in Hollywood. The pay isn’t great, and I mostly run errands, schedule appointments, and make coffee. So, that’s why I can’t miss even the smallest opportunities, like a commercial for a no-name energy drink.

  As I inch toward my apartment at the end of the hall, I blink a few times to clear my vision. The Three-Day Notice taped to my door must be a figment of my imagination.

  At least I wish it were fake.

  Because this sure looks real.

  I rip the paper off the door, reading it several times before reality sinks in, and I have to stop myself from crying. Six weeks ago, my car broke down and ate up most of my paycheck. I didn’t have much money before that happened, and now, I’m two months behind on the rent. My landlord agreed to let me pay him in installments, but apparently, he’s going back on our deal.

  This is my life.

  I’m the Murphy’s Law girl.

  Anything that can go wrong will.

  I stick my key into the lock and cheer when the doorknob turns. At least my landlord didn’t lock me out, not yet, anyway. Stumbling toward the kitchen, I kick off my heels, starved and ready to devour the leftover pizza I saved for dinner.

  I stare into the mostly empty fridge, save for last night’s pizza, and a few cans of Coca-Cola. Until a minute ago, I thought I could stretch a few more dollars to make my limited funds last until the end of the week without having to bum some cash from Sloan.

  But now, I have no choice. If I don’t pay within three days, I will be homeless. And I have sixteen dollars in my checking account.

  I hate asking my brother for help, even though he offers it all the time. I can’t handle another conversation about my financial situation. My older brother tried to warn me about the cost of living in Los Angeles before I followed him here. Of course, I didn’t listen to him. I wanted to pursue my dreams without Sloan telling me what to do.

  Sloan lives in a mansion in Malibu with seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and an Olympic size swimming pool, complete with a view of the Pacific Ocean. I live in a one-bedroom slice of hell in Studio City with a landlord who offers to reduce my rent in exchange for sexual favors.

  My brother has asked me to live with him dozens of times. Except there’s one problem—Dylan Banks owns half of the house along with Date Crashers, the anti-dating app that has made both of them millionaires overnight. Dylan used his brilliant brain and my brother’s people skills to pitch the idea to venture capitalists in Silicon Valley while at MIT.

  His app is also what ruined our secret relationship. Five years ago, online daters across the country fell in love with the app, and even more in love with the sexy tag team who invented the service. They have become the hottest guys in tech while I’m, still struggling to move up the ladder at Brenton-Lake.

  As I set the pizza box on the kitchen counter, an unwelcome banging causes me to jump. I ignore it and flip open the lid, stuffing a cold slice into my mouth. I chew a few more bites before another loud sound penetrates the air.

  Who’s knocking on my door?

  It’s not like I have any friends in this neighborhood. I bet it’s another Jehovah’s Witness trying to convert me, or someone begging for money and support for a political campaign.

  I’m not interested, and I don’t have any.

  I ignore the knocking and shove the remainder of the pizza into my mouth, moaning as the spicy sauce hits my tongue.

  “Ash, I know you’re in there,” Mannie yells so loud his voice shakes. “Open up, sweetheart.”

  Chills roll down my arms at the sound of my landlord’s deep, creepy voice. I hate dealing with him. I would prefer to mail my mostly late rent checks to the main office, but he insists on giving his tenants the personal touch.

  I swing the door open and frown when I take in the sight of him. Mannie’s dark hair is greasy, as usual, slicked back off his forehead in waves.

  “I got the notice,” I snap. “I thought we had a deal.”

  “Yeah, about that," Mannie says. “You need to pay your rent or move out. The owner isn’t down with the rent layaway program.”

  “But I’m paying what I can. You said we could do this on the down-low.”

  He shakes his head. “No can do, sweetheart. The owner put this in motion. My hands are tied.”

  “There has to be some way.”

  He leans against the door frame, and the scent of stale cigarettes and beer hit me in the face. “Not unless you want to work for it.”

  Mannie has offered to pay my rent for sex dozens of times. I’
m almost always late and have been since I moved into this building. But I would never hook up with this disgusting idiot to save a few bucks.

  My nose scrunches in disgust. “No, thank you.”

  He rolls his shoulders. “You can stay with me until you get things situated.”

  “Absolutely not,” I spit back.

  “Your choice, sweetheart. The offer is good at any time.”

  “I would whore myself out on Hollywood Boulevard before I had sex with you.”

  “Then, you better get packing.”

  He takes a few steps backward, giving me enough room to slam the door in his stupid face.

  What an asshole.

  Is every man in my life a complete jerk? I spent all day dealing with my overbearing boss, who does nothing but scream and curse and bark one order after another. Then, I come home to an eviction notice, complete with Mannie and his usual bullshit. I guess I’m skipping the audition. I begged my boss to let me leave work early, and now, what’s the point in going? There’s no way I will make it on time.

  A friend told me about a small role in a commercial. She knew I needed some quick cash and figured I could give it a shot. So far, my attempts to get acting gigs in Los Angeles have been unsuccessful. Everyone says I’m too thick in the thighs, too wide in the hips. My breasts are too big, and so is my ass. By Hollywood standards, I’m fat. I never thought of myself that way until I moved to this damn city.