My fork dropped to my plate. “So what? I’m indebted to you now? I owe you?”
“Most people don’t expect everything and give nothing in return. Most people would realize if I cook, you clean.” Soren was talking and chewing at the same time. He really did have the manners of a caveman. “It’s called a partnership. Not a dictatorship.”
Every word that came from him made me madder and madder until I couldn’t stay in my seat another moment. Bursting out of my seat, my fists curled at my sides. “No, this is a misogynist regime. I know why you really wanted a woman as a roommate. So you could have her clean up after you. So she’d be happy to scrub your crusty dishes and nasty pans because you threw a meal together and shared some of the extras with her.” I found myself glaring at what was left on my plate, wishing I hadn’t taken a single bite. “You’re two centuries behind. Time to catch up and clean up your own damn mess.”
For as upset as I was getting, Soren stayed totally chill. Eating his dinner, his expression indicated he was having a normal conversation. “If I was two centuries behind, I’d expect you to do the cooking and the cleaning. Instead, I’m asking if you’d consider doing the cleaning since I did the cooking.” His eyes moved from his dinner to mine. “Any questions?”
One by one, my arms folded over my stomach. “I’m not cleaning the kitchen.”
He made a face that indicated he didn’t care. “Fine. Then I guess that’s the way it’s going to remain until somebody does because after I finish demoing my dinner, I have to finish a lab and study for a test.”
My shoulders lifted. “Fine by me.”
Soren’s head tipped. “Then why did you bring up the messy state of the apartment in the first place if it’s ‘fine by you’ that the kitchen stays looking like a crime scene?”
When he smiled in gloaty victory, I let out a frustrated groan I hadn’t wanted him to hear. I didn’t want him to know he was getting to me or irritating me or making me want to create my own crime scene.
“I take it back. You are a child.”
As I marched toward my partition, he chuckled. “And who’s the one marching away after throwing a tantrum?”
My teeth ground together to keep the next scream of frustration to myself. The moment I got behind my partition, I adjusted it so it concealed more of my area than before. It wasn’t even eight yet, but I didn’t know what else to do besides go to bed. I didn’t want to hang around where I could see him or he could see me. I sure as hell didn’t want to clean the kitchen. What I wanted was a real door I could slam and lock, a room of my own I could escape to when I needed to cry it all out. What I wanted was a different apartment and a different roommate. One that didn’t make me jealous of a splatter of sauce that had touched his abs one minute, and emotionally unstable the next. I was used to being the low-key, even-tempered one, but Soren had a way of bringing out emotions I hadn’t known I was capable of expressing.
I had to make it big. I had to make it happen soon. The sooner I could get away from Soren Decker, the better off I’d be.
My head was still throbbing the next morning. I’d fallen asleep to a headache and waken up to one. I beat my alarm this morning, so after turning it off so it didn’t disturb my “roommate,” I grabbed my outfit for the day and moved toward the shower. It was dark outside, but there was still one light on in the apartment—the torchiere beside the dining table. Soren was in the same chair he’d been in last night, books and notebooks scattered around. He’d fallen asleep studying.
His head was on an open book, a pencil still clutched in his hand. He was doing his typical heavy mouth breathing. Every time he exhaled, he made the sheet of paper he’d been working on rattle. Still shirtless, his cap was sitting backward on his head, that light fringe of hair still curling beneath the brim.
Seeing him like this, I almost had the urge to drape a blanket around him or something. He was cute when he was sleeping, sweet when his mouth was shut. Too bad he couldn’t stay like that for the next six months, I thought as I noticed the kitchen. It was in the same condition it had been in last night. The milk that had been left in the gallon had now turned from white to some shade of greenish-gray.
Gross. It was a miracle the place wasn’t crawling in rats yet.
Moving extra fast today so I could escape before he woke up, I was out the front door a little before seven. I had another meeting this morning with Mr. Lawson to go over how my go-sees had gone, and hopefully he’d actually be there for this one.
By day three, I felt like I’d already mastered the art of the subway and felt like I almost blended in with the rest of the hardy New Yorkers ready to tackle another day. The wide-eyed Nebraska girl was becoming a city girl. I still had twelve dollars left over from the twenty Soren had left me yesterday, and when I took it out to pay for my subway ticket, another one of those guilty pangs hit me hard in the gut.
He might have been a barbarian, but he was a decent enough one where it counted. So he left the toilet seat up and dried his jocks from the ceiling fan—he also cooked me dinner (when I couldn’t have afforded a package of ramen on my own) and left me a twenty-dollar bill taped to the front door. And helped me navigate the subway. And . . .
I didn’t want to think about it. I needed to focus on getting through the day, doing my best, and booking some jobs. I could work out all things Soren later.
The K&M Models office was buzzing at seven thirty in the morning. A cluster of models was lining the chairs in the waiting area, and the same young woman who’d helped me a few days ago was there to greet me when I strolled up to the front desk.
“Hello again,” I greeted. “I’m—”
“Right this way, Miss Hayes.” The girl slid out of her chair and came around the side of her desk. “Mr. Lawson is ready for you.”
She knew my name. No one had referred to me by name yet in this business. It was more of a “you” or a pointed finger. “My appointment isn’t until eight.”
“It’s okay. Mr. Lawson asked that I bring you back whenever you arrived.”
The girl moved down the long hallway like she was working an actual catwalk, with four-inch heels and everything. Five more inches, and she would have been one of those models on the covers. Genetics had so much to do with the people we became, the positions we were put—or forced—into.
We didn’t stop until we’d reached the end of the hall. The smoked glass door was closed, E Lawson etched in large, bold lettering. For some reason, I suddenly felt more nervous to meet my agent than I had at any go-see I’d been to.
“Mr. Lawson?” The woman rapped on the door a few times. “Miss Hayes is here to see you.”
“Send her in.” The voice on the other side of that door had an air of authority, the kind I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard rivaled.