Chapter 2 Line In The Sand

Five minutes. That was exactly how long Drake Morvane took to change, and every second felt like a countdown to an explosion.

I stood in the same spot in the kitchen, refusing to budge, as if leaving my square meter of hardwood floor meant surrendering the war. To keep my eyes from wandering back to the hallway where the towel had disappeared, I forced myself to look around the apartment.

Other than the hockey stick and the framed jersey, everything was spotless. The loft was open-concept, with exposed brick walls, industrial lights, and a huge leather sofa that probably cost more than my whole tuition. A sleek kitchen island separated us, holding a half-empty gallon of protein milk and a violently green smoothie.

Heavy footsteps thudded down the corridor.

I braced myself, pulling my shoulders back as Drake walked back in. He had swapped the towel for a pair of gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, teasing the dark that stretched tight across his chest.

His damp hair was swept back, making his sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes look even more lethal.

He didn’t say a word. He walked straight past me, ignoring my existence entirely, pulled out his phone, and put it to his ear.

"Yeah, Ronald," Drake said, his voice flat and dangerous. "Get the landlord on the phone. Right now."

He leaned his hip against the counter, his eyes finally locking onto mine. He didn't blink. He stared at me with an intense, unreadable gaze as the line rang.

"Mr. Randall isn’t picking up?" Drake muttered into the receiver, his jaw tightening. "Then find his assistant. I don't care if it's Sunday. There’s a girl in my apartment. She has a key... No, Ronald, I’m not joking. She thinks she lives here..."

He slammed the phone face down on the granite counter. The sharp clack made me flinch, but I refused to let him see it.

"Well?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Did your little hockey minion find a solution, or are you going to have to accept that you're stuck with me for the night?"

Drake took a slow, deliberate step toward the island. He placed both hands flat on the surface and leaned forward until we were barely a foot apart. Up close, I could smell his sharp, clean cologne.

It was intoxicatingly masculine, a mix of cedarwood and fresh ice, and it was doing terrible things to my ability to stay angry.

"Let's get one thing straight, Rose," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that sent an accidental shiver straight down my spine.

"I don’t do roommates. I especially don't do roommates who think they can bark orders at me in my own space. I'll fix this 'housing glitch' first thing tomorrow morning. Until then, you don't touch anything. You don't look at anything. And you stay on that side of the room."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I scoffed, leaning in just as close, matching his intensity.

"Am I breathing your precious, elite air? Should I pay a tax for standing on your rug? Listen to me, Morvane. I don't care if you're the campus god or the next NHL draft pick. To me, you’re just a guy who desperately needs a lesson in basic manners. I paid my rent. My name is on the system. If anyone is leaving tomorrow, it’s the guy who thinks a towel counts as an outfit."

Drake’s eyes darkened. A dangerous, slow smirk spread across his lips, but it wasn't friendly. It was a predator looking at prey that didn't know it was cornered.

"You've got a smart mouth, sweetheart," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back to my eyes.

"But smart mouths don't pay the bills when I have the athletic board backing my lease. I’ve lived here for two years. You're a glitch in the computer."

"Then until the computer reboots, get used to the glitch."

Before he could respond, my stomach let out a loud, traitorous, and incredibly aggressive growl. The sound echoed in the tense silence of the kitchen like a firecracker.

I closed my eyes instantly, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Of all the times to betray me...

When I opened my eyes, Drake was staring at my stomach, one dark eyebrow raised. The tension in his jaw had loosened just a fraction, replaced by pure amusement.

"Fierce," he mocked, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Are you going to bite me next, or is your stomach just doing the talking for you?"

"I haven't eaten since six AM because I was driving a U-Haul through a snowstorm," I muttered, my cheeks burning with a furious blush.

Drake let out a breathy sigh and rolled his eyes as he walked to the fridge. He yanked it open, revealing rows of meal-prep containers, sports drinks, and eggs. He grabbed a pre-made chicken salad wrap, slammed it onto the counter between us, and slid it toward me.

"Eat," he commanded shortly. "The last thing I need is a dead girl on my floor. It messes with my training schedule."

I looked at the wrap, then at him. "Is this poisoned?"

"I wish," Drake snapped, turning his back to me to pour himself a glass of water. "But unfortunately, murder charges ruin my chances of making the playoffs."

I hated that I was hungry enough to accept food from the enemy, but my survival instinct won. I snatched the wrap, tore off the plastic wrapper, and took a massive bite. It was annoying how good it tasted.

"Thank you."

Drake watched me eat, his expression slipping back into that unreadable, stoic mask. He leaned against the sink, slowly sipping his water, his intense blue eyes tracking every movement of my hands, the way I chewed, the way I wiped a crumb from my lower lip.

It was unnerving. He wasn't just looking at me; he was analyzing me, trying to figure out if I was a threat to his perfectly structured world.

"Tomorrow morning, 8:00 AM," Drake said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he set his empty glass down. "We go to the housing office together. We get this sorted. You get a new room, and I get my sanity back."

"Fine," I replied, swallowing the last bite of the wrap. "But tonight, since there’s only one bed in that second room and my mattress hasn't arrived... where am I supposed to sleep?"

Drake pointed a long, blunt finger toward the massive gray leather sofa in the living room. "Right there. And don't even think about asking for a pillow from my room."

"Chivalry is truly dead," I muttered, walking over to my duffel bag and dragging it toward the couch.

"It died the moment you walked through my door," Drake shot back, his voice fading as he walked toward his bedroom.