"Great," I say, surprised by how pleased I feel. "Do you need to get your stuff tonight?"
"I have a few things in my car." She pauses. "The rest... I don't know. Maybe I can go when I know Brad won't be there."
"Or I could go with you," I offer. "Moral support. Heavy lifting."
"Thank you," she says, and the genuine gratitude in her voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "For all of this."
"Hey, revenge plotters have to stick together," I reply lightly, but I mean it. There's something comforting about having someone else who understands exactly what I'm going through.
As we gather our things and head for the exit, I wonder what I've just gotten myself into: a roommate situation with a woman I barely know, a revenge scheme against our cheating exes without input from Brian, and a complicated web of personal and professional connections.
But as I glance at Lena walking beside me, her head held high despite everything that's happened, I can't bring myself to regret it. For the first time since seeing that kiss cam footage, I feel something other than humiliation or rage.
I feel like I might have found an ally.
CHAPTER 8
LENA
I glancearound the sunny townhouse complex, gripping my hastily packed suitcase with white knuckles. This is madness. Complete madness. Twenty-four hours ago, I was treating a hockey player's broken tooth on live television. Now, I'm moving in with his twin brother as part of an elaborate revenge scheme against our cheating exes.
My mother would be thrilled— or horrified; probably both.
A neighbor waves at me as I park in the space Alder texted me to use–a Black woman in a sundress watering the plants in her small plot of lawn. “You must be Lena. Alder said he was getting a roommate.” She smiles and waggles her eyebrows.
Of course, he did—so, much for slipping into his home unnoticed. I force a smile and wave back, glancing around again. The townhouse community is situated right along the Allegheny River, with a paved bike and jog path along the water. Each unit has a small lawn and patio, and the whole complex is fenced in, featuring a gate that leads out to the river. This is a huge step up from the kind of place where a dental school graduate with crushing student loan debt gets to live.
“I’m Kim,” she says, waving with her non-hose hand. “You’re aiming for that one with the big wreath on the door.” She gestures toward a unit adorned with a gaudy gold wreath covered in black stag silhouettes.
I swallow hard, stepping toward the door. For a brief moment, I consider turning around and running away. Go where, though? Back to the apartment where Brad is probably lounging on furniture I paid for? To a hotel I can't afford?
No, I've made my choice. However bizarre this arrangement is, it's my best option right now. Plus, Alder mentioned he has STI testing kits for us to use.
I raise my hand to knock on the blue door, but before I can, it swings open, revealing not Alder but another enormous blond man.
"Hey, doc," Gunnar Stag booms, grinning widely. "Welcome home."
"You live here, too?"
He steps back, waving me inside with a theatrical flourish. "Nah. But there’s a lot of us in this family, and we love each other."
I step into an open-concept living space that's somehow both luxurious and lived-in. Huge windows offer a stunning view of the river and the city across from it, while the kitchen island is cluttered with takeout containers and beer bottles. Three massive men—all versions of Alder with slight variations—are sprawled across couches and armchairs, arguing loudly about something on the television.
Gunnar calls from the arm of the sofa, "Alder! Your dentist is here!"
"She's notmydentist," Alder's voice calls from somewhere. "And you know her name is Lena."
The men turn to look at me, and I resist the urge to shrink under their collective gaze. I notice that Tucker’s mouth is still slightly swollen. The fourth man—darker blond than the others—stands and approaches with his hand extended.
"Odin Stag," he says. "Oldest and wisest. Despite what Gunnar claims."
"Lena Sinclair," I reply, shaking his enormous hand. "Newest and most confused."
This earns a laugh from all of them, and some tension in my shoulders eases. Before I can say anything else, a blur of fur and stubby limbs comes skittering across the hardwood floor, sliding to a stop at my feet.
I look down at the most charmingly hideous face I've ever seen on a dog. One eye points slightly outward, while its underbite reveals a row of tiny bottom teeth. Its fur—a mix of wiry patches and fluffy tufts—sticks out in unpredictable directions.
"You must be Gordie," I say, crouching down.
