The American Roommate Experiment (Spanish Love Deception #2)(22)

A part of me realized I wasn’t telling him much. In fact, I was really telling him nothing about the real problem: me, feeling like someone was cutting off the oxygen supply every time I opened that manuscript; me, drowning in pressure, in paralyzing fear; me blocked. Stuck.

But Lucas just rolled his body, angling himself in my direction, and rested the side of his head on the cushion behind him, mirroring my posture.

His lips pressed in a stern line. “You’ll figure it out, Rosie.” His gaze burned with a confidence that I hadn’t yet earned. “You’ve gotten this far. I don’t need to know much about you to know that you’ll keep pushing. That’s what ballsy people do.”

Ballsy. I liked how it felt to be called ballsy. By him.

But I still wanted to tell him that he couldn’t know for sure. That I could be a fraud or a failure. I could have made a mistake rushing into this. But it was hard for me to be negative around Lucas when he managed to shine a bright light. “I hope you’re right.”

His voice lowered, turning solemn. “Want to bet on it?”

I chuckled. “I’d rather not.”

“Good, because it would be my easiest win.”

He smiled, and I think I did, too.

Time ticked by as we stared at each other, the show playing in the background. And at some point, seconds or minutes later, I felt my eyelids grow heavy and consciousness slowly slip away from me as an unexpected and vague thought took shape in my head.

What would have happened if Lucas had attended Lina and Aaron’s wedding? If we’d met that day? Would it have been this… easy, this effortless, to talk to him?

But before I could conjure an answer, sleep won the battle, taking me over with it.





CHAPTER SIX


Lucas


My eyes snapped open; a breath stuck in my throat.

One of my hands landed on my chest and I… couldn’t breathe.

I… Joder.

Slowly, I managed to force my fingers to rub circles over my rib cage, attempting to relieve the pressure gripping my lungs.

I’m not in the water, I reminded myself. I am breathing.

And I was sleeping.

Disoriented, I let my gaze roam, taking my surroundings in what had to be the morning light. A colorful painting hung on the wall above me. Two wineglasses rested on top of a kitchen island a few feet away. My shabby backpack lay at the feet of the couch I was lying on.

The couch.

Had I fallen asleep at Abuela’s again? No, this wasn’t her beat two-seater that had seen better times. It wasn’t her living room, either. Every piece of furniture and the décor was trendy and vibrant. It reminded me of—

It all came to me, then.

This wasn’t Spain, or my grandmother’s house. I was in New York. In Lina’s apartment. And I’d spent the night on her couch.

Passing both hands up and down my face, I rubbed my eyes, all the while repeating the mantra I had used innumerable times in the last months.

It was just a dream. I’m okay.

Although that last part might be a lie. I was as okay as I’d ever be. Because this was my new life. Not New York, but this. Waking up covered in cold sweat with muscles that had once been in prime condition now sore and tight and unreliable.

Soft snoring from a few feet to my left caught my attention. With a wince, I threw both my legs off the couch and looked for the source of the sound. It didn’t take me long to zero in on the figure lying in the middle of the master bed. Dark curls splayed on the pillow.

Rosie. Rosalyn Graham.

I wasn’t surprised that she’d fallen asleep last night. In fact, I was shocked it hadn’t happened until the fourth or fifth episode of that vampire show she knew by heart. As much as we both had fought to stay awake—her because she had every intention of leaving, and me, because, damn, that show was laced with crack—we’d dozed off. And it hadn’t been until later, after what I assumed was a couple of hours, that I’d woken up to a cramp traveling down my right leg and found her snoring next to me. So, without giving it much thought, I’d turned off the TV, picked Rosie up as best as I could, and carried her to the bed.

Our conversation from the night before came back to me—we weren’t that different, she and I, both afraid of the future. Only, Rosie had the world at her feet, and in my case, mine had opened up under me. I ripped my gaze from Rosie’s sleeping shape and headed for the bathroom. My skin felt clammy and my body tight, so I closed the door behind me and jumped into the shower.

After an indecently long time under the scalding hot water, I made myself turn off the shower, wrapped a towel around my hips, grabbed my discarded clothes, and walked out of the bathroom.

Feeling a lot more like myself, I shook my head as I stood there, inspecting again the nice albeit small apartment in Brooklyn, New York. What had Lina called it? Her… studio? Loft? I couldn’t remember. But considering it was an open space with no rooms but the bathroom, I guessed it had one of those fancy sounding descriptors to make it sound chicer. Like in those American remodeling shows Abuela loved so much, that got dubbed into Spanish back home.

“Lucas?” Rosie’s voice dragged me back to the present.

Turning, I found her sitting in the middle of the bed with the comforter curled around her legs. She looked like she had just woken up, but her eyes were wide, the green in them impossibly light.