Resisting my Roommate (Sycamore Falls #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

JUDE

“Want another?” the bartender asks as I sit at the counter of a darkened bar.

Just like I do on this day every year.

I wish it could be like any other day.

I want it to be like any other day.

It’s not. I doubt it ever will be.

I give the bartender a curt nod, and he takes my empty rocks glass, replacing it with a fresh one. Raising the amber liquid to my lips, I allow the familiar burn to course through me, trying to drown the grief that still plagues me.

Especially today.

The sound of excited voices interrupts the memories playing in my mind like a bad movie, and I glance behind me as a group of women file inside, all of them dressed for a night out on the town. The sashes and tacky necklaces they wear make it clear it’s a bachelorette party.

Great .

Facing forward, I do my best to tune them out as they order shots and toast the bride-to-be’s future happiness. I can’t help but scoff at the na?ve notion that happiness is all you need for a marriage to work. They have no idea how fleeting happiness is.

As I tip back my glass so I can down my drink and make a hasty exit, I sense someone approach beside me. Glancing to my right, I rake my gaze down the tall brunette wearing a fitted white dress, a makeshift veil askew on her head, along with a sash that reads “Bride-to-Be”. Based on the giant stone sparkling on her left hand, her future husband must do well for himself.

“Nice rock,” I say.

She darts her head toward me. “What’s that?”

I nod at her hand. “Your ring. It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” she answers with what seems like forced enthusiasm. Which intrigues me.

“When’s the big day?” I ask after the bartender takes her order for an ice water with lemon. Another surprise, since the rest of her friends seem to be on a mission to get as drunk as possible. Not her, though. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be celebrating at all.

“Saturday.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

As the owner of a brewery and taproom a short distance from here, I’ve dealt with my fair share of bachelorette parties. Usually, the bride is gushing over the idea of walking down the aisle and saying “I do”.

Not this woman.

“You don’t seem too excited,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“What makes you say that?” she challenges, facing me.

I shrug, taking another sip of my whiskey. “Most brides are practically glowing, babbling about floral arrangements or how their fiancé is the most perfect man on the planet.”

I study her for a beat, noticing how she fidgets with her engagement ring. Like it’s more of a burden than a symbol of a man’s undying love.

Or maybe I just want to see it that way.

“You seem more… reserved.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like babbling,” she replies, her tone dry. “I’m excited about getting married.”

A humorless laugh escapes my throat. “Why’s that?”

“I found someone who makes me happy. Why wouldn’t I want to marry him?”

“Society loves to tell us it’s what we’re supposed to do. Doesn’t it?” I lift my glass back to my lips. “Find someone, settle down, play house. Doesn’t mean it’s the right path.”

“Sounds like someone’s a little jaded.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m a realist. There’s this ridiculous societal pressure that, in order to live a complete life, you need to be married. If you ask me, it’s all bullshit.”

She grabs the glass the bartender leaves on the counter and brings the straw up to her full, red lips. A part of me wonders how they’d look wrapped around my dick instead of that straw.

I blame the whiskey for even thinking it.

“I’m going out on a limb here and guessing your girlfriend or wife left you.” Her voice pulls me back to the present, giving me a dose of reality.

She doesn’t realize how right she is. But I’m not about to talk about the worst time of my life with a complete stranger, even if I technically did bring her question upon myself. Instead, I do what I always do in these situations. I deflect.

“People get married because they think it’ll solve something — loneliness, insecurity, fear of missing out, or that getting married will make them whole. It doesn’t.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m not getting married for any of those reasons.”

“No?”

She squares her shoulders defiantly. “No.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I love him.”

“Love,” I scoff. “That’s an even worse reason to get married than loneliness or fear of missing out.”

“Why do you think that?”

I lean back in my seat, letting out a dry laugh. “Where do I start?”

She arches an expectant brow and fixes her eyes on me, waiting for whatever pearls of wisdom I’m about to impart on her. I take a moment, running a hand through my hair as I consider all the reasons the mere idea of love makes my skin itch.

“For one, love is temporary. It’s like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Bright, dazzling, but gone in a flash. You may think it’s going to last forever, but eventually, it burns out. And what are you left with? A stick and a lot of smoke. Nothing real. Nothing of substance.”

She tilts her head, a small frown forming on her lips, but she doesn’t interrupt. She wants to hear this, and thanks to all the whiskey I’ve had, I’m on a roll.

“Two,” I continue, holding up two fingers for emphasis, “love’s a damn liar. It makes you believe things are better than they are. It’s like a pair of rose-colored glasses that hide all the cracks and warning signs. You convince yourself the other person is perfect and you’re meant to be together. Sooner or later, the glasses come off. When they do, reality hits harder than a two-ton truck.”

“But isn’t that the beauty of love?” she asks softly, taking a sip of her water. “That despite any flaws, you still care for each other and want to be together?”

“It’s not the flaws that get you in the end,” I argue, my words slurring slightly. “It’s the expectations love builds up. You have these pre-conceived notions about what a relationship should be, how your life is supposed to look. When it doesn’t meet those expectations — because it never will — you’re left disappointed and bitter. That’s when the fights start. And let me tell you, love turns real fucking ugly when it’s backed into a corner.”

She takes another sip of water, still watching me with interest. “Love is just a fantasy. Is that it?”

“Fantasy, illusion, call it what you want,” I reply with a dismissive wave of my hand. “It’s unreliable. Fleeting. And the worst part? People use it as an excuse to ignore all the practical reasons they shouldn’t get married. Love makes people do stupid things, like tie their whole damn life to someone else when they barely know themselves.”

“So we’re just supposed to play it safe?” There’s a spark of fire in her voice I find intriguing. “Never take risks?”

I lean in closer, my tone steady but firm. “I’m saying if you’re going to gamble, at least know the odds. And love? You’d have better luck spending your night at the roulette table and letting it all ride on a single number.”

Silence hangs between us for what feels like an eternity, her expression a mixture of frustration and something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe I’ve pushed too far. Maybe I sound like an asshole.

Who am I kidding? I’m positive I sound like an ass.

But this is my truth. I’ve seen what happens when people let love dictate their decisions. I’ve been there.

In many ways, I still am.

“Maybe you’re just scared,” she offers softly. Sweetly. “Scared of hoping for something better. Something real.”

Her words hit me like a sucker punch, catching me off guard. I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t this. Didn’t expect this complete stranger to see through all the bullshit.

But I’ll never admit that. Not to her or anyone else.

“Believe what you want.”

I shift in my seat, feeling exposed under her intense stare. As if she’s slowly peeling back each of my layers one by one, revealing parts of me I’ve kept hidden for years. It unnerves me.

Yet there’s also a sense of comfort in being seen so deeply by someone again. But I quickly push the thought away, using the burn of the whiskey to distract myself from the strange sensation bubbling inside of me in response to this woman. This…stranger.

“I appreciate your concern.” She finally looks away, and I feel like I can breathe again. “But I’m going to take my chances. Thanks for the chat and the interesting…perspective.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Perspective.” I finish the rest of my drink and stand, tossing several bills onto the counter to cover my tab. “Good luck with your upcoming wedding.” I head toward the door, my steps wavering from the alcohol.

“And good luck with whatever it is you’re trying to forget,” she calls out over the sound of nineties music blaring.

I pause, glancing over my shoulder and locking my eyes with hers for several moments.

Then I face forward and continue into the night, letting it swallow me whole.