Love on air

Roommates clause

Chapter 2

## JEREMY’S POV

The fluorescent light of the floor lamp was starting to give me a headache, but the motion in my lap—three hundred pages of a medical malpractice defense—required every ounce of my focus.

Then the front door groaned open.

I didn't need to look up to know the intrusion had arrived. I could hear the rattling wheels of overpriced suitcases and the frantic, wide-eyed energy radiating off her. My aunt Emily had cornered me into this "favor" weeks ago, claiming she had an intern who was "a rising star."

What I heard was: I’m bringing a stranger into your sanctuary to disrupt your silence.

"Hi," she said. I could feel her staring at the side of my head. "Nice to meet you. I'm Sam. Short for Samantha."

Her voice was bright. Too bright. It was the sound of someone who hadn't yet realized that Chicago was a city that chewed up optimism for breakfast. She was standing there, probably expecting a tour or a welcome basket, draped in the kind of bubbly enthusiasm that made my teeth ache.

I finally looked up. She looked exactly how I expected—polished, eager, and clearly thrilled with herself for landing a subsidized spot in Streeterville.

"Congratulations," I said flatly.

I didn't mean it as a greeting. It was a reminder. She was getting a front-row seat to a life she hadn't paid for yet, and I was the one paying the tax in lost solitude.

"Right," she muttered. I could see the confusion flickering in her eyes, followed quickly by a spark of defiance. Good. Defiance I could handle. It was the "getting to know each other" part that made me want to bolt the door.

"I was hoping we could get to know each other a bit since we’re sharing the space," she tried again, her voice trailing off as she looked around the room. "This place is really nice, by the way."

"Thanks," I mumbled, dropping my eyes back to my phone.

I wasn't trying to be a villain. I just didn't have the bandwidth for "vibes" or small talk about the decor. I had a court date in forty-eight hours and a life that felt like it was held together by staples and caffeine. I needed her to be a ghost. I needed her to find her room, close the door, and stay on her side of the invisible line I’d just drawn in the air.

I heard her suitcases roll away toward the hallway, the sound of her retreat finally giving me a second of peace.

Welcome to the apartment, Samantha. Just don’t expect me to roll out the red carpet.

## SAMANTHA’S POV

I closed my bedroom door, finally letting out a breath. I didn't realize I’d been holding.

He was infuriating. But, if I was being completely honest with myself—and I hated to admit it—my new housemate was also incredibly striking. He stood at least six feet tall, with a commanding presence that seemed to shrink the room the moment he moved. His dark hair was just a bit rough, as if he’d spent the day running his hands through it in frustration, giving him a rugged, laid-back vibe that clashed with his sharp, polished jawline.

And then there were his eyes. They were a deep-set, captivating shade of green—the kind of eyes that looked like they had a story to tell, even if he was currently using them to look right through me. He had this quiet, effortless confidence that made him stand out, even while he was being a total jerk.

Focus, Sam, I told myself, shaking my head. Handsome or not, the guy has the personality of a cactus.

I turned to my boxes, determined to ignore the silence echoing from the living room. I began unpacking, pulling out the pieces of my life I’d carried across state lines. A framed photo of my family went on the nightstand first—their smiling faces, a stark contrast to the cold "congratulations" I’d just received. Then came my favorite novels, their worn spines lined up like old friends on the shelf.

Each item—my favorite mug, a few kitchen gadgets, my journals—felt like a brick I was using to build a sanctuary. This room was mine. He could have the rest of the apartment and his mountain of legal briefs, but here, I was still the girl who believed in the "joy of the everyday."

The sound of his bedroom door slamming shut echoed through the hallway. I winced, then pushed the sound aside, smoothing out my bedding. I was here to make my mark at Skyline Media, not to win a popularity contest with a man who couldn't even manage a 'hello.'

I was going to make this work. Even if I had to navigate around the human iceberg in the living room to do it.

**********************************

The first light of a Chicago dawn crept into my room, pale and sharp. It was 5:30 AM—the moment I’d been dreaming of back when I was just a girl with a vision board and a prayer. I started the day on my knees, offering a quiet prayer for strength. Chicago felt big, Jeremy felt cold, and I needed every bit of divine guidance I could get.

The morning air in the apartment was biting, a reminder that the lake was only blocks away. I shivered as I stepped into the bathroom, the cold water a shock to my system until the water heater kicked in with its low, mechanical hum.

My boxes were still a disaster, but I dug through them with a mission. I pulled out my favorite crisp white blouse from SHEIN—it was a steal, but the way it fit made me feel like a million bucks. I tucked it into my tailored navy blazer, the structured shoulders giving me a shield against the city. I finished the look with chic black trousers and berry lipstick. I looked in the mirror and saw a journalist. I didn't see a girl who’d been snubbed by her roommate the night before.

I headed to the kitchen to fuel up. I boiled water for tea, but the sight of the expensive coffee maker was too tempting. I grabbed my cup and the last slice of my mom’s banana bread, trying to savor the taste of home.

That’s when the music started.

It wasn't a loud, jarring alarm. It was the ethereal, pulsing beat of Iniko’s "Jericho" vibrating through the walls of Jeremy’s room. It was soulful and intense—not exactly what I expected from a man made of ice and law books. Does he even sleep? I wondered, wiping a stray spill of water off the dining table.

I was just reaching for my bag when the door to Jeremy’s room swung open.

I froze. My tea nearly splashed over the rim.

Jeremy stepped out, and let’s just say he was... unencumbered. He was in nothing but a pair of black boxers. In the soft morning light, he looked less like a grumpy lawyer and more like a statue carved out of granite and bad intentions. Six feet of lean muscle and "commanding presence" were suddenly very much in my personal space.

I whipped my eyes toward the ceiling, my heart doing a frantic staccato against my ribs.

"You know," I managed, trying to keep my voice from trembling, "Most civilized people wear clothes in a shared kitchen."

I heard the heavy thud of the refrigerator door. "And most polite people don't stare at their roommates before they've had coffee," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a different kind of shiver down my spine. "What’s it to you, Samantha?"

I narrowed my eyes at a spot on the wall. "It’s a matter of modesty. I didn’t realize I’d signed up for a locker room experience with my breakfast."

"Modesty?" He scoffed, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. I risked a glance—he was leaning against the counter, glass of water in hand, looking at me with those green eyes like I was a particularly annoying headline. You moved in yesterday, and you’re already trying to legislate my apartment? That’s rich!

My jaw dropped. "It’s called respect, Jeremy. And for your information, it’s a classic look."

"Respect is earned," he said, stepping closer to putting his glass in the sink. The scent of him—something like cedar and expensive coffee—swirled around me. "Right now, you’re just a stranger Emily dumped in my guest room. If the view is too much for you, the door is right there."

"Fine," I shot back, grabbing my bag off the ottoman with a jerk. "Be as brash and rude as you want. I’m here for my career, not to find 'charm' in a man who thinks the world is his personal runway."

"Good," he muttered, turning back toward his room as the music shifted to a deeper beat. "Just keep your 'finding joy' laughter to a minimum when you get back. Some of us actually have cases to win."

"Good luck with your sanity, Jeremy. You're going to need it."

I didn't wait for a rebuttal. I turned on my heel and marched out, the heavy click of the door echoing behind me. My face was flushed, and my mind was a mess.

One thing was for sure: Between the high-stakes newsroom and the half-naked lawyer, this internship was going to be a lot more than just a whirlwind. It was going to be a war.