Wrong Bed, Right Man

for Balaka

Chapter One

The key turned smoothly in the lock, and the door swung open like an invitation. Owen Crowley couldn’t believe what he saw.

The door didn’t have three locks and a deadbolt like the one in Owen’s woodworking shop. Or creak and complain like the door to the apartment above it that he shared with his dad.

It just opened, easy. Probably because people who owned giant condos in trendy buildings in Manhattan didn’t have to worry about break-ins—that’s what the doorman was for.

And inside.

Damn.

It was a major win to have seen the Craigslist ad as soon as it popped up so he could be the first to answer and scoop up the deal. Too bad he could already tell most of the furniture was CUBE. The stuff wasn’t even designed to look like anything other than painted particle board. He got why most people bought it, but someone this loaded?

Then he spotted the table at the end of the hall. Now that was a beauty, light wood with flared feet and a decorative trim. It was completely different from the flimsy CUBE style. With a little refinishing and the right buyer, that table would cover the bills for the month, his dad’s medications, and still leave him something left over.

It made him feel like a scavenger, picking over someone else’s bones. But it was also the best chance he had. A new feeling warmed his chest: something like hope. This might just work after all.

He headed down the hallway, looking for the bedroom. It was the largest apartment he’d ever been in, with high ceilings and sliding glass doors leading to a balcony with views of Central Park. But even though the rooms were tastefully decorated, some parts were oddly bare. There were gaps on the bookshelf. A clean-ish spot surrounded by a fine layer of dust, like a picture frame had stood there not long ago.

It sounded from the emails like the guy had left lightning fast to move in with a new girlfriend. He must have taken just a few things with him. Then he left the key with the doorman so Owen could leave him a check and grab what he wanted from the remains.

What was her apartment like to make him give up this one like it was nothing? For a moment, Owen just wanted to stand there, close his eyes, and pretend all this space and light was his.

As if on cue, his phone rang.

Dad, the caller ID said. Like Hank Crowley could sense his son’s betrayal all the way from Queens.

But he knew who he was and where he’d come from. He didn’t want a life like this. Fuck, no. One swanky building couldn’t make him forget.

Hey, Dad. I’m here.

How does it look?

Hank’s voice sounded scratchy and far away. Had he taken his pills with lunch? Owen bit back the question. His dad would get annoyed if he asked.

There’s a console table that needs some wood filler. A few end tables with scuffs I can fix. I can take the bookcase, too, if he doesn’t mind me stacking the books on the floor.

How about the bed? Isn’t that the big piece?

I’m looking for it now, he said, pushing open a door that turned out to lead to a closet then another to an office. Damn, this place was huge.

He braced himself to be disappointed by the bed. It might not look like the pictures. It might be in need of more repair than he could do. Or so dated, he’d never find a buyer.

But when he finally found the bedroom, he stopped dead in his tracks.

You there? His dad coughed.

Yeah. He swallowed. I just—

Don’t take it if it’s no good.

It’s— He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Busted? his dad grumbled.

Beautiful.

He exhaled the word like he hardly dared to say it. Like the bed might up and disappear if he dared to show how much he longed for it.

It’s beautiful, he whispered again, touching the wood along the base.

Sturdy.

Elegant.

Perfect.

Can you bring it back to the shop? his dad asked.

Yeah, he said. Fuck. Yeah.

You were always good at spotting the winners, his dad said with a chuckle.

Owen smiled. I’ll call you back when I’m out of here. This is—wow. One of those finds.

He examined the headboard for scratches, pressing his weight to the mattress to see how it held. There was a sag in one of the corners but nothing he couldn’t reinforce. That this had wound up for sale on Craigslist felt like a crime. But it was everything he needed.

Already his chest felt looser, the blood freer in his veins. It made him realize how exhausted he was, holding in that tension for so long.

He shouldn’t linger.

But the bed was piled high with a creamy white duvet and a slew of pillows. It looked so inviting. And no one was there. From the sound of it, no one would be.

He only lay down to test the lean on the side of the bed where the support wasn’t level. He only meant to stretch out for a second.

But his muscles ached. His eyelids felt heavy, every inch of him weighed down.

Get up. Get up NOW, Crowley.

Go to work.

But Owen sank deeper into the pillows. He took a deep breath—his last resistance.

And then he closed his eyes.

…

Rose put her key in the lock and held her breath. Her hands shook.

Stop it, she muttered under her breath. She couldn’t go falling apart in here. She just could not.

Some part of her was surprised the key still worked.

It seemed like something should have changed, to mark the fact that what had once been her home, her life, was no longer hers. Some sign from the world that everything was different now.

But, unfortunately for her, a giant sinkhole hadn’t opened up under her former apartment to swallow it whole. Preferably with Jason and what’s-her-name inside.

Of course, if a sinkhole did swallow the apartment, she’d lose all her belongings that were still there. The books she hadn’t packed yet. The dresses still hanging in the closet.

Not to mention the best items: her grandmother’s furniture she’d inherited. The end table with its polished, curved feet. The bookshelf she’d fought Jason to keep when he wanted everything to be from CUBE. Like their home was a catalogue for the company his father had built into an empire.

And the bed. Rose could live without her books and dresses. She could even survive without her shoes. Maybe. But she couldn’t give up her grandmother’s bed.

So no sinkhole. She sighed. Jason and that horrible what’s-her-name would live another day.

Not that she was actually surprised he hadn’t changed the locks on her as soon as she’d grabbed what she could of her things and screamed that she was leaving. It probably never occurred to him that she’d have the ovaries to come back. Especially not without calling in advance, being painfully polite the whole time.

Even her so-called screaming wasn’t really screaming. She only wished she’d raised her voice. Wished she’d done something besides freeze at the sight of her fiancé—ex-fiancé, she reminded herself sternly—buried between another woman’s thighs.

She’d wanted to scream, throw things, break every piece of goddamn china she could find.

But no.

Because she was Rose Campbell, and she didn’t scream. She didn’t break things. She just pressed her lips together and barely even cried.

Until now, apparently.

Just stepping inside and seeing the familiar light through the curtains was making all those unshed tears threaten to spill.

Not now, she willed herself. Not here. She had work to do. Jason was stuck in a three-hour meeting with the CUBE VIPs. This was the time to reclaim her things.

She touched the empty spot on her finger where a heavy, sparkling diamond had once been and pulled out her phone.

I don’t know if I can do this, she texted her friend Amanda.

You CAN, Amanda wrote back. You’re already doing it. Just measure the bed. I’ll find the movers who can get it to your apartment. Everyone will chip in. Okay?

Rose took a deep breath and typed, Okay. One thing at a time. At least, after all this was over, she’d never have to lay eyes on that hideous CUBE rug again.

Amanda sent her a bunch of flame emojis. Then we’ll set the rest of that loser’s shit on fire.

Rose covered her mouth, as though she didn’t dare laugh even though she was alone.

I can’t afford the lawyer’s fees for arson on top of breaking and entering, she wrote.

Live a little! :)

I’m working on it, she wrote back.

Even if she was still so stuck, it didn’t feel like living at all.

It’s just sex, honey, Jason had said after Rose had left work early and walked in to find another woman lying naked, legs spread, in her bed, surrounded by her things. "It’s not like what I have with you. You’re the one I want to be my wife, Rosie. My beautiful wife. Annabeth’s nothing, sweetheart. It happens all the time. It doesn’t mean a thing."

"I don’t want to be the wife," Rose had whispered. Not screamed. So quiet, she’d barely heard herself.

She didn’t say, "I don’t want to be your wife." Which was true. The thought of walking down the aisle with Jason made her want to throw up.

But, "I don’t want to be the wife. The honey. The sweetheart." The one who made the bed and stacked the pillows and made everything look effortless and perfect, who cared what was burning within.

She pushed open the door to the bedroom. She was not here to dwell on all that. She was doing the right thing.

She hadn’t known how tense she was until the exhale rushed out of her, emptying her center from somewhere deeper than her lungs, buried down below her heart. So when she stepped inside and saw the man’s legs hanging over the edge of the bed, she couldn’t quite scream, because she didn’t have any air left inside her.

What was Jason doing home from work in the middle of the day, let alone napping? He never napped. Ever.

She’d watched him walk into that meeting with her own two eyes. She wasn’t naive enough to take his word for his whereabouts anymore. How had she been so wrong?

And then she realized.

There was no way the person lying on the bed was Jason. Or Annabeth, for that matter—an even worse thought.

Because the legs wore faded, paint-spattered jeans and worn leather boots. Definitely nothing that had come from Jason’s closet, with its immaculate, color-coded rows.

Was he getting the place remodeled? But there were no signs of construction.

What the heck?

She wasn’t sure whether she should work up to that scream again. Wake the man up. Demand to know who he was. Or back away slowly, like she’d never been there.

This wasn’t her home anymore. It wasn’t her business.

But she took a step forward, curiosity propelling her on. She didn’t know why she was being so careful. As opposed to, say, shouting at the top of her lungs.

But nothing in this room could shock her. She could have walked into a full-blown circus rehearsal and she wouldn’t have blinked. Not after seeing Annabeth writhing in ecstasy. And learning there were things Jason Harris’s tongue could do to a woman that he’d never done to her. That no one had done to her.

She took a step closer.

The man was on his back, one arm flung over his forehead. The gesture had lifted his T-shirt, exposing a line of skin between the shirt and his jeans.

Well, hello.

The plane of his abs was smooth and taut. His hips dipped, and the skin hugged them tight as a drum. The edge of Calvin Klein was visible above his belt. And just below the line, where his hips dropped—

Holy shit.

Do NOT look at his crotch.

But looking up wasn’t any better. She could see the outline of his chest through his T-shirt and the curve of his biceps where the sleeve rolled up. He had facial hair, not too long but enough to make her rethink her previous stance against beards.

This guy pulled it off.

It was a shade darker than his hair, which was streaked by sunlight and fell into his eyes. She wondered what color those eyes were. And then wondered what was wrong with her right now, checking out a stranger draped across her bed.

Maybe she’d had more than her heart broken when she’d walked in on her cheating dirtbag ex. Maybe it had damaged her whole brain.

She cleared her throat tentatively, but the man didn’t stir. Even when she tried to be louder, he didn’t open his eyes.

Time to be more decisive about it. She took a deep breath. Be brave.

She stepped forward, clapped her hands over him, and said, as loud as she could muster, Excuse me?

The man sprang up, clearly startled. Oops. Maybe she’d overcompensated.

Then gravity kicked in and he fell down, hitting the mattress. It didn’t seem like he’d fallen that hard. But the next thing she knew, there was a deafening crack.

The man looked up, mouth open.

And the whole bed crashed to the ground.

Chapter Two

Owen leaped up as fast as he could. He had no idea what had just happened. But it wasn’t good.

The last thing he remembered, he’d been lying on the most comfortable bed in the world. Only now, he was scrambling off a mattress that was tilted on the floor and checking that his limbs were attached.

And a woman was shouting, both hands flying to her mouth.

A gorgeous woman, for what it was worth. Maybe that shouldn’t have been the first thing he noticed after breaking a priceless antique.

But he couldn’t help it. She was stunning, in a perfectly put-together, pantsuit and heels sort of way. Except, of course, for the shout—which at least helped remind him he was in the middle of a situation here.

So he’d better stop thinking about how this woman’s blazer hugged her curves…or how long it had been since he’d last had time for a date. He needed to deal with the literal mess he’d just made.

I’m so sorry, he said, yanking his T-shirt back into place.

The woman folded her arms, composing herself quickly. Auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders. He was surrounded by splintered wood, and his small fix-it job had just turned into a major time-suck. Yet there he was, noticing things like her touchable