“I don’t really remember...”

“You should,” he said. “They’re quite stunning, beautiful enough to be quite memorable. At least, I think so.”

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up and my heart was beating erratically, but I wasn’t sure why. “Boston. The top left one is from Boston, that’s where I went to school for undergrad. The others are...” I had no fucking idea, and I’d never paid much attention to them before today. “The top right is New York, the bottom left is London, and the bottom right is Tokyo.”

“How fascinating.”

“It is...” Something was telling me to run right now, but I didn’t listen. “You don’t mind if we drink white wine, do you?”

“That’s the very least of things I mind right now.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so I pulled out the utensils drawer, looking for the corkscrew. I moved the knives and spatulas around, wondering where it was and hoping like hell I’d simply misplaced it into another drawer.

I pulled open drawer after drawer, seeing nothing—silently panicking with every second that passed.

Shit. Shit. SHIT...

“Is something wrong?” Jake asked.

“No.” I opened the final drawer and saw nothing. “I just—”

“You just what?”

“Nothing...” I pulled out more drawers. “I just can’t seem to find the corkscrew. I remember placing it right here earlier, but I can’t find it.”

“That’s probably because I moved it this morning.” He slammed it onto the counter and my head shot up, coming face to face with his glare.

My eyes widened and I felt all the color leaving my face, felt my jaw dropping out of pure shock. For several seconds, there were no words spoken between the two of us—only anger rolling off of him in waves and complete and utter embarrassment coming from me.

This was his apartment. I’d just brought him here for a one-night stand and given him a tour of his own fucking apartment...

I stepped back, my heart pounding loudly against my chest as my mouth struggled to find any words to say. I debated whether I should run past him and rush down the emergency exit stairs to end this night for good. Or if I should calmly say, “Sorry,” and simply leave, as if this had never happened.

He stood glaring at me with his eyes narrowed, so I glanced toward the door, but he stepped to the left and blocked me, as if he’d read my mind.

“How the fuck did you get a key to my apartment, Gillian?” His eyes were cold.

“I...I um...”

“Spare me the goddamn ellipses.” He hissed. “How the fuck did you get a key to my apartment?

“I didn’t actually get a key.”

“It just magically walked into your life one day with my address?”

“I’m trying to explain...”

“Try fucking harder.” He looked as if he was seconds away from blowing up on me.

“I work in housekeeping here during the week,” I said, swallowing. “And since I’m usually assigned to your place, I always get a key...But sometimes I keep it.”

“So, is part of your job description to steal my shit whenever I’m away?”

“No, and I’ve never, ever—” I stuttered. “I’ve never—”

“Never stolen?” He walked over to my side of the counter, stepping right in front of me.

“It’s true. I’ve never stolen anything from you.”

“Then you must have a very distorted definition of what that word means. You’re stealing a space you didn’t pay for, a very expensive space that belongs to someone else and is supposed to be private. Is that not what stealing is? Taking something that doesn’t belong to you?”

I stood completely still and silent, pinned to the spot by his hard gaze.

“I take it that the blue bag that is currently hidden underneath my sink belongs to you?”

I nodded.

“And the strawberry shampoo that you just fucking buried behind the glass bottles in my shower is yours as well?”

“Yes.” My cheeks were on fire.

“Exactly,” he said, clenching his jaw. “So, as surprising and gratifying as it is to finally come face to face with my unwanted and thieving-ass roommate, I would appreciate it if you got the hell out of my apartment and stayed out of it for the rest of your unfortunate employment here. He snatched the keycard from beneath my purse and pointed to the door. “Get the fuck out. Now.”

I stood there, staring at him, watching him clench his jaw even harder.

“Do I need to call security?” he asked. “Do you not understand what ‘Get the fuck out of my condo’ means?”

“I know exactly what it means.” I snapped, feeling heated and upset about the way he was talking to me, about how he’d so quickly flipped the switch. “And I will definitely leave, Jake—after you thank me.”

“What the fuck?” He crossed his arms. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I will leave, Jake.” I spoke slowly, hissing right back at him. “After you thank me.”

“You want me to thank you for playing fucking Goldilocks in my apartment?”

“No, I—”

“You want me to thank you for breaking and entering?” He stepped closer and closer to me, backing me onto the edge of the other kitchen counter. “For drinking my best wine and bringing strangers home to fuck you? Or should I be thanking you for using my shower and leaving your goddamn scent all over my sheets?” His face was red. “Please enlighten me about what part of this fucked up situation you think I should be thanking you for right now.”

“I want you to thank me for watering your goddamn plants every day. Every. Day.” I fired back. “I even make time to do it on the days I’m not assigned to your room since you bought fifty fucking perennials and you clearly don’t know how to take care of them at all. If you think they’ve managed to survive all this time because of your charm, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Gillian...” A vein in his neck swelled.

“I’m not finished talking, Jake,” I said, beyond pissed and unable to stop. “I want you to thank me for closing the windows whenever it rains since you have a terrible habit of always leaving them open, for arranging all the books in your library by color so the sunlight won’t damage the spines, and for collecting all of your mail and organizing it by date. I bring it up from the mailroom and leave it on your counter to make it ten times easier for you. You can’t possibly think it’s the mailman who goes through all that trouble.”

“Also,” I said, crossing my arms. “I want you to thank me—again and again, for refilling your Coke can supply whenever it gets low. You haven’t had to buy any Coke in months. Months. And you only buy specialty cans for some reason. They’re very hard to find in this city.”

He stared at me, not saying a single word.

“You could also thank me for filling out some of your unfinished crossword puzzles, but if you want to leave that particular ‘thank you’ out, I can deal with that.”

He was still staring at me, his eyes narrowed.