Landlord Wars by Jules Barnard
Chapter One
Sophia
The tall, chiseled man at the front door eased his navy-suit-clad shoulder against the doorjamb, his hand tucked into his pants pocket. “You’re the new tenant? Sophia, is it?” He took in my frizzy hair, then glanced into my San Francisco apartment, his attention snagging on something. “Your pink panties are hanging off the couch.”
My face heated and my eyes widened. I’d blindly thrown things out of the way this morning in my haste to make it to work on time, so this wasn’t entirely surprising. Still, did he need to point it out?
I lifted my gaze from his broad chest and stared into his blue eyes, which perfectly matched his tie. “Who did you say you were?” He hadn’t, but I was being polite. I’d only just moved in, after all.
“This is my building.” He peered past me again, and I moved to block his view. Not that it helped; he was a head taller and could stare over me even while slouched. “I was told you’re an interior designer.” He studied my face in what felt like a search for cracks. “I assumed you’d be organized.” His tone carried an assholian blend of disappointment and irritation.
My lips parted as the verbal gut punch hit my most tender insecurities.
This guy didn’t know where I’d come from. He didn’t know my past. I breathed through my nose, calming myself, and tried to think through how a person without my past might react—and found I was still pissed. Anyone would be.
Was he equating the scattered panties…to my entire life? “Is there some sort of requirement in this building that demands tenants act like professionals in their own homes?”
He fixed me with a condescending look. “If it’s going to offend your roommate, then yes.”
I shared the Victorian apartment with a guy named Jack, who worked from his bedroom office and wore sweatpants and a baseball cap turned backwards most days. He wasn’t the fastidious type. Granted, he was neat. Me? Not so much, between a midweek move and work.
So maybe the landlord had a point. The panties might offend Jack—if he ever emerged from his bedroom. But since I’d moved in two days ago, Jack had said nothing about the mess. Either it didn’t bother him, or he was giving me space while I unpacked because he was kind.
Clearly, kindness was something this landlord guy struggled with.
On the other hand… Was I being rude to my roommate?
I gave my head a light shake. My tidiness was none of this man’s business. “My roommate seems happy with the living arrangement. Besides, I didn’t know landlords went through their rentals with a white glove.”
His eyes flashed with…annoyance? Intrigue? I couldn’t tell, possibly because I hadn’t had much practice reading the emotions of assholes. “I’m the owner,” he finally said.
Was there a difference? My gaze narrowed. “In other words, the landlord.”
His lips turned up on one side, and for a moment there, he looked amused. “Sure, if that’s how you prefer to think of it.”
He was dressed expensively, and his nearly black hair was combed to hot-guy perfection. The crystalline blue of his eyes reminded me of a tropical beach I’d never be able to afford to visit. But if he was the rich owner of the building, why the hell was he landlording?
Either way, he was acting like a lordly ass. Henceforth, he was Landlord Devil.
A week ago, I’d thanked my lucky stars when I found this apartment. Had it been a mistake?
I looked him up and down, my vision snagging, annoyingly, on his broad shoulders. “What did you say your name was?” A girl could never be too careful. And I hated the territorial look in his eyes, even if he did own the place.
“You can call me Max.”
As in Maxwell Burrows, Inc.? The name printed at the top of my sublease agreement?
I plastered on a stiff smile and put my hand on my hip. “Did my deposit and first month’s rent go through okay?”
Of course they had. I went to business school after getting my design degree, thinking it would give me a leg up; thus, I was anal retentive when it came to money. Mostly because I had none. Still, there had to be a reason he’d stopped by, and I’d just as soon get him out of my new space. He was ruining the vibe.
Could landlords dictate the orderliness of an apartment? Was it sexual harassment to point out pink panties? I realized my finger was tapping my hip nervously, and I flexed my hand to make it stop.
I smoothed the front of my royal-blue sheath dress, which hung on me like a sack after the weight I’d lost over the last few weeks, and offered a smile—this one less stiff than the last since I was trying to make an effort.
Landlord Devil didn’t flinch. In fact, he appeared bored and glanced at his fancy gold watch. “Just make sure you don’t cause any trouble.”
The tendons in my neck stiffened, and my jaw clamped down. Trouble? Moving away from home was the first selfish thing I’d done in years. I was responsible to the nth degree, and this man had the gall to suggest I wasn’t?
Visions of strangling him flashed before my eyes. I squeezed them shut. I was under too much stress. This guy was annoying, but not worthy of homicide. Yet.
Landlord Devil glanced up, and his lips twitched as though he sensed my inner rage.