Undecided by Julianna Keyes
chapter one
To be fair, it’s really not my fault this time.
The ad I answered looking for a “studious, responsible roommate” promised one in return. And the location was perfect: a quiet, older building on one of the many tree-lined streets that edge the perimeter of the prestigious Burnham College, preferred living quarters of retired folks. No temptation here.
It’s the words “studious” and “responsible” that have me dressed in a pair of creased gray slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a prim black cardigan when I knock on the door of 203 Fir Street. I’ve even tied my unruly dark hair into some semblance of a respectable bun. And it is precisely this outfit that makes me cringe when the door is opened not by my socks-and-sandals, starch-collared future roommate, but Crosbie Lucas, uber-jock and renowned campus party boy.
I step back. “I think I have the wrong address.”
His brown eyes rake me over. “Definitely.”
Oh God. Only I could knock on the door of the wrong house and find Crosbie Lucas on the other side. He’s got a stocky build, just a few inches taller than me, but broad enough you can picture him having to turn sideways to fit through the door. With dark auburn hair and a smattering of freckles he’s not textbook hot, but everyone on campus knows he’s never had trouble finding a date.
Having gone to more than my share of frat parties last year, I’ve seen him in action. Hell, if you’ve been anywhere in the vicinity of Burnham College in the past twelve months, you’ve seen Crosbie Lucas. He’s the life of every party: loud and obnoxious, making out in corners, carting in keg after keg, pouring drink after drink. He’s the consummate party boy, and though I’d done my very best to be his female equivalent last year, it hadn’t exactly worked out for me. Hence the cardigan.
I’d printed out the email supplying the address, and now I tug it out of my purse and unfold it, looking up at Crosbie suspiciously when the address in the email matches the address beside the door. “This is the right place.”
He scratches his chin. “Is it? Hmm.”
My eyes narrow. “Do you actually live here?” Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure Crosbie lives in a frat house and always will.
“Technically? I—”
A voice from inside interrupts. “Cros, what are you—? Oh, shit. Ignore him. Ignore him. Please don’t leave!” Then things get a million times worse, because even as I hear the thud of socked feet running down hardwood stairs, I recognize the voice of Kellan McVey, Crosbie’s best friend, campus stud, and my one-time drunken closet hookup.
Oh fuckity fuck.
“Hey, hi, hey!” Kellan skids across the floor before coming to a halt in front of me. His wool socks are bunched around his calves beneath a pair of shiny black soccer shorts and a matching T-shirt. His dark hair curls around his ears and sticks out adorably, his blue eyes sincere and pleading as they meet mine, willing me not to run away.
“I—” I begin, feeling my face heat.
“Ignore him, please, I’m so sorry. You’re Nora, right? Nora Kincaid? I’m Kellan. We’ve been emailing.”
He extends a hand and I shake it automatically, even as his expression remains wholly pleasant, not a trace of recognition dawning on his handsome features. He has no idea who I am. Sure, I was wearing a shiny red corset and a leather mini-skirt during our…interlude at the Alpha Sigma Phi frat party last spring, but I’m wearing a cardigan now, not a mask.
He just doesn’t remember me.
I retrieve my hand, even as my fingers attempt to linger in his for as long as they can. “You said your name was Matthew in the email.” I try not to sound accusatory, even though it’s most definitely an accusation. If I’d known I’d exchanged half a dozen “I do laundry on Tuesdays—what’s your policy on recycling?” emails with Kellan McVey, I never would have shown up today. I’d never have responded to “Studious Homebody Looking for Same” in the first place.
“It’s my middle name,” he says, managing to look genuinely apologetic. Although anyone would look sweet standing next to Crosbie, who folds his beefy arms across his even beefier chest and smirks gleefully as he watches the awkward exchange. But Kellan doesn’t need to put on a puppy dog stare to look guilty and forgivable, because he’s just…so…handsome.
Gah. No. Forget about handsome. I’m looking for serious. Responsible. Didn’t-have-sex-with-and-then-forget-me. Hell, he said he was looking for most of those things. But even as I resent him for lying, I understand why he did it. If he’d put out an ad saying “Kellan McVey looking for a roommate” he’d have gotten a million replies. An ad that includes the line “strict curfew, very few guests, loves homework!” probably only enticed…me.