Accidentally Locked in with the Campus King

After pulling back-to-back graveyard shifts, I dragged myself to my twin brother's place to mooch his washer. One look at his biohazard of a bed, and I crashed on the clean bunk across the room instead.

Big mistake. It belonged to Jensen—the baseball team's untouchable ice king.

He lost his mind over the sweet peach scent someone left in his sheets, then discovered it was the first thing in two years that let him actually sleep. My desperate brother, hunting for free rent, conned me into playing Jensen's "replacement sleep aid" and locked the damn door behind me.

Jensen caught on instantly. But instead of throwing me out, he offered me cash to stick around as his contract girlfriend. After he handled some thugs threatening my brother, this guy who never lets anyone close pressed his face into my neck, voice raw and possessive:

"Your brother sold you to clear his debt. You're mine now. And I don't do returns."

To scrape together tuition and keep my scholarship, I'd just pulled two consecutive graveyard shifts at the fast-food joint. I was so exhausted I could barely walk straight.

To save a few bucks on the laundromat, I dragged my dirty clothes to my twin brother Stanley's off-campus apartment like the walking dead, ready to mooch his washer.

Nobody home. After stuffing my clothes in the drum, I couldn't hold out during the endless dryer cycle.

One glance at Stanley's bed—a disaster zone of pizza boxes and dirty socks—and I made a snap decision.

I collapsed onto the clean lower bunk across the room, burrowed into the covers, and passed out cold.

I didn't know how long I slept before a chill woke me. I scrambled out of that cedar-scented bed, grabbed my dried clothes, and bolted back to my place.

I'd barely crashed on my beat-up couch when a Snapchat screenshot blowing up around campus popped up on my phone.

From Jensen's Private Story.

Jensen Vaughn—the baseball team's ice-cold, arrogant ace captain, and, unfortunately, Stanley's current roommate.

The screenshot showed a rumpled down comforter with a caption that was blunt and brutal:

[I'm actually losing my mind. Stanley, that idiot, slept in MY bed. And left this whole sweet peach body spray scent everywhere. Is he crushing on me?]

A mutual frat brother replied below: [Bro, you didn't throw him out the window with the mattress?]

Jensen's response was almost instant: [No. He was all curled up in my comforter, looking... weirdly adorable.]

The real kicker came at 2 AM when he apparently had a brain malfunction or fat-fingered his story settings and posted another wildly out-of-character update:

[I'm screwed. Something's wrong with me. My heart won't stop racing. Can't smell that scent, can't sleep at all.]

The next morning, Stanley sent me an excited voice message:

"Stella! Dude, I just hit the JACKPOT! Jensen, that lunatic, suddenly lost his mind and said if I sleep in his bed again tonight, he'll cover my rent for the whole semester!"

Late that night, I was munching popcorn and texting for updates.

What I got back was a selfie of his brutally swollen face, followed by a barrage of frantic voice messages:

"Jensen is absolutely a PSYCHO! The second I laid down, before I could even close my eyes, he literally kicked me off the mattress onto the floor!"

"He was totally disgusted, said I reeked of discount Axe body spray mixed with stale beer..."

The voice message had barely ended when my apartment door got slammed open.

"Stella, what the HELL did you do in his bed earlier?!"

Stanley stormed in at midnight, sporting a black eye and pressing a bag of frozen peas to his face.

He paced my living room in helpless fury, glaring daggers at me.

I slouched on my beat-up couch, tossing popcorn into my mouth, fighting back laughter.

"What was I supposed to do? I just washed my clothes."

I rolled my eyes. "Your bed looks like a biohazard. I'd just finished a double shift, dead on my feet—should I have passed out on your pizza graveyard instead of that clean bunk?"

"Passed OUT?!"

Stanley bellowed, wincing as it pulled at his bruised lip.

"Do you have ANY idea how bad Jensen's OCD is? If I so much as sit on the edge of his bed to tie my shoes, he scrubs that spot with Clorox wipes until the fabric fades!"

"So?" I leaned forward eagerly. "What actually went down last night?"

"I did EXACTLY what he asked!"

Stanley complained like a giant kicked puppy. "To get that free rent, I showered TWICE and scrubbed myself squeaky clean before getting under the covers."

"Then the second I laid down to be his human body pillow, he freaked out like I'd burned him and kicked me across the room!"

I pictured the scene—Stanley, six-foot-two and two hundred pounds of solid muscle, rolling across Jensen's room like a giant bowling ball.

I nearly choked on my popcorn.

Stanley's face flushed crimson as he stomped around my living room.

"Oh, you think this is HILARIOUS?! He shoved me back by the shoulder, demanding I produce 'that soft peachy scent from yesterday'!"

"I'm a two-hundred-pound D-lineman who rolls in dirt for a living—where the hell would I get a peach scent?!"

Hearing that, I froze and instinctively sniffed my wrist.

Before my shift yesterday, my roommate had ambushed me with half a bottle of that godawful Sweet Peach body spray.

That sickeningly sweet smell still clung to my skin.

Looking at Stanley's battered face, the absurd logic chain clicked into place—

That arrogant, aloof captain had mistaken his roommate's twin sister sprawled in his bed for his "cologne-obsessed weirdo male roommate"!

And last night, this ice-cold god of the baseball diamond had dropped a semester's worth of rent, ears probably pink with anticipation, waiting for... a stale-beer-scented, rock-hard actual dude.

I looked at Stanley with genuine sympathy.

Sure, we've got basically the same face, but he's a hulking mass of frat-bro muscle, while I'm a five-foot-four caffeine-dependent ghost with a complexion to match.

Unless Jensen was blind, he'd never mistake us for the same person.

"So here's the million-dollar question," I said, brushing popcorn crumbs off my jeans, barely containing my laughter. "Did you get the free rent?"

Stanley's face fell like a deflated balloon. "Free rent my ass! Not only no discount—he said I DEFRAUDED him and he's jacking up my share of utilities!"

"He said last night's 'feel' was completely wrong, like a cheap knockoff, and he DEMANDED I hand over 'the real Stanley'!"

"Cough—cough!"

I nearly choked on my popcorn.

The real Stanley? This guy's brain was on another planet.

"And he had the AUDACITY to say my waist was too thick!" Stanley kept pacing, arms flailing. "Excuse me! This is CORE STRENGTH! A lineman's badge of honor—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Frozen in place, he slowly turned, peas still pressed to his face. His gaze traveled from my face—basically a carbon copy of his—down to my slender waist. Then he sniffed the air twice.

That sweet peach scent in the air.

Two seconds later, Stanley gasped:

"Stella... you don't think that psycho Jensen... actually has a thing for YOU?"