Renting with the Rival (Awkward Arrangements Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Tanya Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations within critical reviews and otherwise as permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  ISBN: 1-7339541-4-3

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7339541-4-3

  Visit:

  tanyagallagherbooks.com

  For the ones who wake up and chase their dreams.

  Free books!

  I LOVE giving away free books! Sign up for my newsletter HERE to get all my current freebies, including RENEGADE GAMES.

  Enter the indulgent world of the Renegade Hotels…

  When single dad Dylan can’t ignore the chemistry between himself and his friend-turned-nanny, Kaitlyn, he must choose between guarding his heart—and his daughter's—or losing the woman he's come to love.

  Single dad hero with an adorable daughter

  Billionaire meets everygirl

  Friends to lovers

  Los Angeles backdrop

  Maple syrup fiascos

  Naughty sleepovers

  Ready to start reading?

  Grab your free copy of Renegade Games and more!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author’s note

  Also by Tanya Gallagher

  About the Author

  1

  Molly

  There’s no time to waste.

  My coffee pot belches out a happy little gurgle as I set to work at my kitchen table, but no matter how mouth-watering and motivating the smell, the truth blinks at me from my laptop screen in the form of a calendar reminder.

  I’m already one day behind.

  “It’s not fair,” says my roommate, padding into the room and slumping into the chair next to mine. “How can you possibly look so refreshed after you hiked a literal mountain yesterday?”

  I look up from my laptop and scan Greer’s face. Her long, blond hair falls around her shoulders in a tangle, her normally perfect waves disheveled, and she’s still wearing her candy cane-printed pajamas. She does look a little destroyed from our excursion yesterday, but in my defense, it was a small mountain I dragged her to.

  I offer Greer a grin. “Well, coffee, for starters.”

  “There’s coffee?” Her eyes widen hopefully.

  “Of course there is. You know I’ve got you covered.”

  The gratitude in Greer’s voice is so earnest it hurts. “What would I do without you?”

  I feel a small tug of guilt low in my belly but force it away with a smile. “You’d make your own damn coffee.” I shoot her a pointed look. “Or have Locke make it for you.”

  A blush creeps across Greer’s cheeks, and she bites her lower lip. “Hmm,” she murmurs in agreement.

  A week ago, I spent Christmas visiting my family in Hawaii, and I came back to find that after a year of pining after each other, Greer had finally, finally gotten together with her best-friend-slash-coworker, Locke. I totally ship them as a couple—especially since Locke was sweet enough to bring the holiday spirit to our tiny apartment and make my girl light up like a Christmas tree—but the relationship’s in that tender, new stage where Greer’s keeping things close to the vest and I’m still feeling out where our friendship boundaries have changed.

  Greer lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay. Coffee. This is me standing now.” She climbs to her feet with a groan, and I wince at her obvious discomfort.

  She pours herself a cup of coffee and glances over the lip of the mug at me. “Remind me again why we climbed a mountain yesterday?”

  “It’s tradition.” I’ve never actually asked my mom why she dragged me and my dad hiking every New Year’s Day—even when I was in high school and grumbled the entire time—but it’s something we just did. Usually Diamond Head, where we’d stand at the peak and take in the whole of Oahu, the way the ocean cradled the island like a stone in its palm. Without a reason to offer Greer, I make up my own. “Anyway, if you do something hard on New Year’s Day, maybe everything else is easier from there.”

  She considers. “I hear you. But now January second feels like hangovers and sore legs. Couldn’t it have been one or the other?”

  I grin. “Sure, if you didn’t stay up with Locke drinking champagne.”

  She shakes her head and blushes harder. “Whatever,” she mutters. She takes a long sip of her coffee and then narrows her eyes at me as if the caffeine’s instantly hit her bloodstream. “Why are you dressed like that, anyway?”

  I finger the edge of my skirt and take a deep breath. It’s way too cold out for the thin material, but I need to look professional and my normal yoga pants aren’t going to cut it. “I’m going to see a building today.”

  “What?” Greer’s excited shriek causes a laugh to bubble out of me. “A building, as in a potential space for you to finally open your yoga studio?”

  I nod. “That’s the plan.” I’m not much of a New Year’s resolutions kind of girl, but I do like to set intentions. This year there are only two on the list, and finding the perfect space to launch Open-Hearted Yoga holds the top spot.

  Yesterday, when Greer and I stood on top of Mount Si, I sent the idea out into the universe. I’ve spent the last few years saving up cash to invest in my business, and this is the year it’s going to happen. I feel it in my heart, in my bones. Now I just need a space.

  “Do you want company?” Greer asks. “I’m not a real estate expert, but I have lots of opinions.”

  My chest tightens the tiniest bit because the lease on the building I’m seeing today also comes with a second-floor one-bedroom apartment over the studio, and that part’s harder to talk about.

  Intention number two, to round out my list? Find my own apartment.

  I love living with Greer, but we found each other as roommates five years ago, back when I was just going through my yoga teacher training and she was writing product descriptions for a crappy online clothing company. We were both in need of a roommate to split the rent, but now Greer’s killing it as a writer in the tech industry. I’m sure she can afford her own place, and with things with Locke heating up, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll want to move in together.

  There’s no way I’m going to be the one holding them back, and anyway, twenty-eight’s creeping up on me, and that’s too damn old for a roommate.

  I feel like a traitor as I clutch my mug to my chest. “Nah, that’s okay. I appreciate the offer, but the sho
wing agent told me there’s going to be another potential renter there as well. It’ll probably be a bit crowded.”

  “Okay,” Greer says, but her forehead wrinkles the tiniest bit. “As long as you promise to call me if you need backup.”

  “Deal.” I stand up and place my mug in the sink, giving her a one-armed squeeze as I pass by. “Wish me luck,” I say.

  She grins. “I’m pretty sure, you, Molly Torres, make your own luck.”

  The pressure in my chest eases ever so slightly. Making my own luck. I like the sound of that.

  Let’s just hope the real estate agent sees it the same way, too.

  Bare legs on January second were definitely a questionable idea. I brace myself against the cold as I stride the four blocks toward the studio space I’ve found, wishing for a moment that I was back in the heat of Hawaii. I’ve never regretted moving to Seattle after college, but the damp chill of the Pacific Northwest couldn’t be a bigger contrast from sunshine where I grew up.

  Still, the cool air can’t keep the smile off my face as I thread past my neighborhood’s tiny shops and cafes, holiday decorations still cluttered in the window displays. The two-bedroom apartment I share with Greer sits just off the main drag in Greenwood, and the studio is perfectly positioned on the main strip—opportune for foot traffic and close enough to my current apartment that I don’t have to leave my entire life behind.

  It’s all of a fifteen-minute walk to get from door to door, and a thrill shoots through my chest as I approach the building. I patronized the place when it was a flower shop, and even then I’d loved stepping through the doors. The fact that it could be my studio makes my heart race.

  Don’t get too attached, Molly, I school myself. There’s another possible renter.

  Still, nothing can shake my excitement as a thin-lipped woman with a no-nonsense bob examines me from her spot beside the front door. “Ms. Torres?”

  “Yes.” I offer her my hand, hoping I’m not just another silly Filipino woman in her eyes. In Hawaii, women of color starting businesses is old news, but no matter how progressive Washington is, sometimes things are different on the mainland. “That’s me.”

  “Marie Culder.” She returns my handshake and gestures at the front door. “I’d planned to show the place to you and the other interested party, but since they’re not here, there’s no sense waiting around in the cold. What do you say we head inside?”

  “Yes,” I blurt out too quickly. “I’d love that.”

  Marie unlocks the door and holds it open for me.

  I step inside and fall in love.

  It’s that simple. It’s that fast.

  It’s not so much the way the light falls through the huge, plate-glass windows or the way the crown molding rimming the white-walled space adds extra warmth and character. It’s not even the high ceilings, the wide, open room, or the honey-colored wooden floors. It’s the way I feel when the door closes behind me—peaceful and at home.

  I can imagine the way my studio will look, with a wide counter by the front and a row of cubbies on the far left wall. I can picture it with such precise clarity that it doesn’t even matter what the apartment upstairs looks like, but when Marie waves me ahead of her and tells me to go on while she waits for the other candidate, I fall in love with the apartment, too.

  The space is tiny but cozy, with more fresh, white walls and wooden floors. Tiny, white hexagon tiles line the bathroom floor, and there’s a claw-foot tub for soaking my muscles after a long day of teaching.

  This place was made for me.

  I want it.

  I slip back down the narrow staircase, ready to tell Marie to reserve the place for me. Screw the other potential renter—they’re not here and I am, and I’m pretty sure the universe aligned just right to bring me here.

  But Marie’s not in the downstairs studio, and my heart quickens at the sound of voices on the other side of the front door.

  I draw a deep breath. It’ll be fine.

  But then the door pushes open and I catch a flash of tan skin, a flop of tousled golden hair falling into devastating blue eyes.

  My stomach plummets and my skin prickles, and I feel helpless and paralyzed.

  I was so, so wrong.

  Because I know that charming smile, those familiar eyes.

  The universe isn’t aligned for me, it’s conspiring against me.

  2

  Parker

  No one teaches you how to be a middle-tier musician. A bona fide rock star? Sure. A starving artist? Look anywhere for an example. But a middle-of-the-road, successful-but-not-too-successful, makes-good-money-but-not-enough-to-retire-on-tomorrow musician? Has a handful of true fans but not enough to sustain worldwide fame? No one teaches you how to do that. And without an example, all I can do is make shit up as I go.

  “Parker Atwood?”

  The name hits me between my shoulder blades like someone’s thrown a shoe at my back.

  Parker Atwood.

  To my friends, I’m Asshole or Parker or Atwood, but never Parker Atwood.

  The only people who call me by my full name are fans.

  I wince and smooth on a smile, then turn to face the pretty blonde who’s clutching a to-go coffee cup against her thick, wool coat. “Hey,” I say as she drags her eyes up my body, staring so blatantly I have no doubt she’s undressing me with her eyes.

  I know I should feel grateful for my fans—after all, they’re the ones who keep buying Matter More’s albums and showing up on our tours—but even in the seven years that my band’s been a viable business instead of a late-night pastime, I’ve never quite gotten used to being recognized. Again, the downfall of being big enough to occasionally do a round on the late-night talk shows but not big enough to have it be a regular thing.

  “Any chance I can get a picture with you?” the woman breathes.

  I incline my head. “Yeah, no problem.”

  Actually, it could be a problem. I’m just outside a studio that I plan to use as a band rehearsal space, and running late’s not going to win me any favors with the real estate agent. But I can’t afford to say no. My paycheck depends on it.

  The woman holds out her phone, and I take it and pose next to her to snap a selfie.

  When I start to hand the phone back, she blinks up at me hopefully. “Can you sign my cell phone case?”

  Inwardly, I groan.

  “Sure.”

  She combs through her purse before blushing. “No pen.”

  “It’s okay.”

  It’s not okay. If I get stopped by someone and can’t sign whatever artifact they’re thrusting in my face, they take it as my failure rather than a byproduct of them ambushing me.

  “I’ve got you covered,” I continue. I pat my pockets and produce a Sharpie marker.

  I carry a Sharpie just to sign things.

  I am that asshole.

  “Any word on a new album?” she asks as I scrawl my name on her glittery pink phone case.

  “Working on it.” If working on it means staring at my wall, strumming the same few chords over and over again. I’m sure all I need is a fresh space to clear my brain, a place clear of the clutter of my bullshit. Exactly why I want this studio. Another reason I shouldn’t be late.

  The door to the studio pushes open, and a thin brunette with a severe haircut peers out at me. “Mr. Atwood?”

  At least I got a “Mr.”

  I nod, grateful for the interruption, and the fan begrudgingly walks away.

  “Marie Culder.” The agent sticks her hand out, and I shake it. “I’ve got to warn you, you’re not the only one looking at this space today.”

  “Oh.” I try not to let myself look rattled. “I thought this was an exclusive showing.”

  She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Two birds, one stone. In this market, we need to maximize our time. You understand.”

  “Sure,” I say. “So, can I see the place?”

  “Of course.” Marie holds open the door, and I stroll insid
e. The space has been heated—not quite enough for me to want to take off my coat, but warm enough that after the chill of the outdoors, the air inside feels like an embrace. Mid-morning light filters through the giant windows, and I execute a long, slow spin to take in the place while Marie chatters in my ear. Downstairs studio, upstairs apartment.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. All good.

  But then, as I glance at the far corner of the room, my eyes snag on the other candidate, a pretty Filipino woman wearing a white dress that skims her petite curves and exposes her long, toned legs. She has warm, golden skin and dark hair waving halfway down her slender back. And she’s staring at me like she’s looking at a ghost.

  Awareness tingles down my spine.

  She looks so damn familiar.

  It’s entirely possible everyone looks familiar these days, all the strangers blending together in a kind of sameness, but I don’t think that’s it. Especially not with the way she looks like she wants to puke.

  I fold my hands behind my back and step forward, pretending to inspect the room while really needing to know why I feel like I know this woman.

  It’s not until I get closer that I notice the sprinkle of freckles scattered on her high cheekbones, and that’s what does it for me.

  Molly Torres.