Room 4 Rent: A Steamy Romantic Comedy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyrights

  BOOKS BY SHEY STAHL

  Quote

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Chapter 1 – Clear the Bases

  Chapter 2 – Bat Flip

  Chapter 3 – Warning Track

  Chapter 4 – Pine Tar

  Chapter 5 – Frozen Rope

  Chapter 6 – Fastball

  Chapter 7 – Behind the Count

  Chapter 8 – Curveball

  Chapter 9 – Going Yard

  Chapter 10 – Stolen Base

  Chapter 11 – Changeup

  Chapter 12 – Battery

  Chapter 13 – Heater

  Chapter 14 – The show

  Chapter 15 – Paint the black

  Chapter 16 – Scoring position

  Part 2

  Chapter 17 – Caught looking

  Chapter 18 – Long Strike

  Chapter 19 – Runners at the corners

  Chapter 20 – Slurve

  Chapter 21 – Line Drive

  Chapter 22 – Save situation

  Chapter 23 – Slugger

  Chapter 24 – Utility player

  Chapter 25 – Barrel it up

  Chapter 26 – Hot corner

  Part 3

  Chapter 27 – Layout

  Chapter 28 – Cannon

  Chapter 29 – Relief Pitcher

  Chapter 30 – Goose Egg

  Chapter 31 – Bases loaded

  Chapter 32 – Framing a Pitch

  Chapter 33 – Bad hop

  Chapter 34 – Gas

  Chapter 35 – Twin Killing

  Chapter 36 – Bigs

  Chapter 37 – 1-2-3 Inning

  Chapter 38 – Bottom of the inning

  Chapter 39 – No-hitter

  Sex. Love. Marriage.

  Acknowledgments

  Meet the Author

  He’s about to throw her a curveball…

  Copyright © 2020 by Shey Stahl

  Room 4 Rent

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, sponsors, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing provided by Becky Johnson, Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Image provided by © Sara Eriew

  Cover Design provided by Sommer Stein © Creative Pear Designs

  RACING ON THE EDGE

  Happy Hour

  Black Flag

  Trading Paint

  The Champion

  The Legend

  Hot Laps

  The Rookie

  Fast Time

  Open Wheel

  Pace Laps

  Dirt Driven

  Behind the Wheel – Series outtakes (TBA)

  STAND ALONES

  Waiting for You

  Everything Changes

  For the Summer

  All I Have Left

  Awakened

  Everlasting Light

  Bad Blood

  Heavy Soul

  Bad Husband

  Burn

  Love Complicated

  Untamed

  How to Deal

  Promise Not to Fall

  Blindsided

  Revel

  Sex. Love. Marriage.

  Saving Barrette

  Redemption

  Room 4 Rent

  THE FMX SERIES

  Shade

  Tiller

  Roan

  Camden (TBA)

  Red Lined (TBA)

  CROSSING THE LINE

  Delayed Penalty

  Delayed Offsides

  THE TORQUED TRILOGY

  Unsteady

  Unbearable

  Unbound

  ANCHORED LOVE

  The Sea of Light

  The Sea of Lies (TBA)

  The Sea of Forever (TBA)

  FOR NANCY.

  THANKS FOR POSTING THAT DICK THING THAT ONE MORNING.

  When a batter drives home/scores all runners on base.

  SYDNEY

  “Mommy!”

  “We’re not late, baby. I got this,” I assure my daughter, smiling in the rearview mirror, knowing that’s exactly what she’s yelling about.

  Do you have days where everything is going well, and you’re like, happy?

  The sun is shining. Nothing pisses you off. You could spill your coffee all over you and get rear-ended at a stoplight, but you don’t even care because your day is fucking wig. Uh, don’t google what wig means. I did, and you get an array of wigs you only wished your hair looked like and still don’t know why your neighbor’s fourteen-year-old daughter says it.

  I’ll save you the trouble, honey. It means amazing.

  Do you see that chick in the Mercedes with her almond milk latte with her sugar-free splash of hazelnut? The one wearing sunglasses, hair curled so perfectly that it looks effortless, and her makeup on point and contoured to make her face look slimmer?

  She’s beautiful, isn’t she?

  And I bet, if I had to guess, she’s having a wig day.

  For the sake of full discloser, I am not that girl.

  Look to the left, little more… right there at the stoplight in the minivan being honked at. That’s me. And yeah, I was staring too, which explains the honking behind me.

  Or I’m being honked at because I’m not sipping on an almond milk latte with a splash of sugar-free hazelnut. I dumped that on myself when I nearly blew through a stoplight trying to make it to preschool drop off on time. I’m not wearing sunglasses because who the fuck needs sunglasses when it’s raining? Also, my hair isn’t curled. It’s in what I like to refer to as my this-is-whatcha-get look that consists of a half-assed I-might-have-drank-a-bottle-of-wine look. And the makeup… why bother? I tried to do the contoured look once. I looked like I was preparing for a tribal ceremony. They’re called ceremonies, right? Never mind.

  I am not, in fact, having a wig day.

  Nope.

  Instead, my toddler is screaming at the top of her lungs about being late to school. I’ll tell you something about toddlers while I’m on that particular rant. They think getting in your face and screaming their request at maximum volume is an effective way to get what they want across, and to be totally honest, they’re not wrong. I hear her loud and clear, and her distaste for my tardiness.

  Remembering I was trying to make a call, I click the volume button on my steering wheel. “Hello? Are you there? Nahla?”

  Silence. Nothing but dead silence. Picking up my phone from the center console, I stare at it while it drops the call. Stupid cell phones. Every time you need them, they don’t work. Or they need an update.

  I try calling her back but it won’t even connect the call. “Shit!” Tossing my cell phone in the passenger seat, I turn left on the road the school’s on with two minutes before class starts.

  “Shit, you said, shit,” Tatum notes from the back seat, smiling at me.

  Thank you, swear police.

  She repea
ts literally everything you say, but the words you want her to. Which is why my husband and I enrolled her in a private school. I’m hoping they can break her trucker tendencies.

  I know what you’re thinking. Jesus, this lady is a nut job. Here’s a spoiler alert if you didn’t catch on. I totally am! But there’s a reason behind it, I assure you. You see, friends, I’m an artist. I strive on creativity and obsessive behavior. I don’t do schedules (can’t remember to check them), or rules (forget them most of the time), and getting up before ten in the morning isn’t my thing. Up until a few weeks ago when my nanny suddenly quit, that worked well for me. Now I’m carpooling my baby girl around while she screams at me for doing everything wrong.

  “You can’t park there!” she yells from her car seat.

  See? Told you.

  “Where do I park?”

  Tatum jabs a tiny finger in the direction of the school. Scanning the parking lot, I finally notice a sign that says Student Drop-off in big, bold letters. Okay, well, clearly I wasn’t paying attention.

  “It’s raining,” she notes, reaching for her umbrella next to her.

  Putting the van into Drive, I pull forward to the correct drop-off.

  Tatum is unbuckling herself before the van is even stopped. “I’m late,” my adorable three-year-old deadpans. She’s not amused with me.

  My feisty little blonde baby, she’s type-A personality. I’m type S. It stands for shitshow, I assure you.

  Unbuckling my seat belt, I make my way out of the van to get her out. I know I have a button that will open the door, but I want to squish her cute face before I send her off to school. Look at her. Almost three feet tall and twenty-eight pounds of adorableness.

  I lean down to her height and place my hands on her shoulders. Blonde springy curls blow lightly with the wind slapping my face. “I’m sorry Mama’s such a mess.”

  I’m granted a smile. The same one she gives me when she realizes Mommy is struggling to get it together. Her hands meet my cheeks. “I love you, honey.”

  She calls me honey. She heard Collin call me it once, and she kept saying it from then on. I love it. Adjusting her raincoat that’s way fancier than mine, I lift her up out of the van and squeeze her to my chest. “I hope you have the best day ever.”

  Wiggling out of my grasp, she slides to the sidewalk and smooths out her bohemian dress. My daughter’s wardrobe looks something similar to a seventy-year-old gypsy lady, but I love her and her eccentric style. “I have to go. Don’t forget me.”

  “Aunt Sadie is going to pick you up.”

  There’s a split second where I see relief in her eyes. Yep. My twenty-one-year-old rock-star-loving sister is more reliable than me. Fact.

  After watching my reason for existing saunter off into school, I try calling Collin, my husband.

  I’m met with those highly obnoxious tones that tell you your call failed and the words “I’m sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

  What the fuck?

  I pull my phone back and stare at it. No bars. Okay, I don’t have a signal. Had the storm this morning knocked out a cell tower? For a minute, I sit inside the van and think about what we did before we had cell phones.

  Crap. I don’t know. I can’t even think about what I do next. What do I do?

  Coffee. I can do coffee, and that will make everything better.

  ANNOYED AND RUNNING on anger and the handful of Cheerios I stuffed in my mouth, I eye everything in the display case at the coffee shop, desperately wanting a cake pop for breakfast and knowing I shouldn’t. I gained thirty-five pounds when I had Tatum three years ago. I’ve been hanging on to fifteen of it, and I can tell you exactly why I can’t lose them even though I blame it on approaching thirty and having a mom bod. It’s because I eat like garbage. Dessert for breakfast, um, yes, please.

  Overload of sugar in my coffee? Hell, yes, sister. Bring it.

  And that, my friends, explains my mom bod.

  After standing in line for a little over five minutes while the girl behind the counter flirts obsessively with the college men that seem to be infiltrating this particular Starbucks, it’s my turn. “I’ll take a bagel toasted with cream cheese, a venti cold brew with white mocha sauce, heavy cream and extra caramel drizzle on top.”

  Diabetes, here I come. Yes, I’m well aware of the fact that this drink probably contains 900 grams of sugar and just as many carbs. But I order it anyway because it makes me feel better about life.

  “Perfect.” The barista holds a clear plastic cup in her hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Sydney.” I insert my card into the chip reader as she reaches for the bagel and hands it to a woman behind her.

  Nothing is said between us until she half smiles. “I’m sorry, it says your card has been like, declined.”

  Declined? My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “What?” I blink a few times, my eyes dropping to the card reader that clearly says declined. “Really?”

  “Yes, do you have another form of payment?”

  I look down at my wallet. No cash, only my credit card and a gift card to Nordstrom. “Not unless you take a Nordstrom gift card.”

  She stares blankly at me. “Let me ask my manager.” And then she turns to the woman who handed her my toasted bagel I can literally smell now. “Do we take—”

  I save her the embarrassment. “Honey, you don’t. I was joking.”

  She smiles. “Right.” I don’t even remember where my debit card went to. Usually I buy everything on my credit card and Collin automatically pays it off each month. My husband’s a banker. Clearly we had money, right?

  Cell phone not working. Credit card denied. I have my doubts now, don’t I? Of all the fucking shit I have to deal with today, this isn’t one I intended on. My credit card denied at Starbucks. Starbucks, people. A seven dollar and thirty-six cent order and my card couldn’t handle it.

  To say I’m embarrassed wouldn’t do it justice. Do you notice the tense brow and creased forehead? I’m confused. With a heavy breath, I take one last longing look at my bagel and coffee now sitting on the counter. Literally calling my name in black Sharpie. “I’ll just… it’s okay. Cancel my order.”

  Then, like a knight and shining coffee god, a man towers behind me, his body warm as he clears his throat. “Ma’am, I’ll get that for you.”

  I stare at the cashier whose face is now red, her eyes on the man. “That’s… uh, like, so sweet of you, Cason.”

  Clearly he and the barista girl have a thing because I can tell by the glossy eyes she’s affected by him. And the like, uh, words she used. I know, I’m kind of a bitch. You don’t need to tell me that, and I also don’t need this dude buying my coffee. “You don’t—” I turn to face the man, ready to tell him he doesn’t have to, and regret it. Damn it, now I’m the one stumbling over how to form words.

  Don’t worry. I’m not going to go all standard romance novel on you and tell you he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen or that my panties are wet with one look. I’m twenty-eight, married, and a mother. I have some self-control. But… I will tell you that one of those two I noted is correct.

  A lady never tells.

  I will tell you this—dark scruff, intense jawline, blue eyes, you get the point. Bad news, also, good time. Sadly, I could probably be his mother. I’m joking. I’m not that old, but too old to be staring at him or letting him buy me coffee. Hell, it’s probably his mom’s money. I reach for the twenty he tosses on the counter. He slides around me to the barista. “I insist.” And then his voice trails off as if he’s not sure what else to say. “Add a tall Americano onto that order, please.”

  Goddamn, I love a man who takes charge of a situation. “You don’t have to do that,” I’m quick to say and pick up his money from the counter and hand it to him, our fingers brushing in the passing.

  He runs a hand through his dark hair, smiling at me, and damn it if my body doesn’t melt under the intensity of his blue eyes. “Well—” Pausing, he sighs heavi
ly, his voice incredibly sincere when he whispers, “I wasn’t asking.” I watch with rapt attention as his throat moves with a swallow, his hand resting on the counter beside me, and he’s so far in my personal space, I can smell his cologne or deodorant. Whatever it is, it smells amazing, and I want to bury my face in his armpits.

  I’m happily married, I swear, but my body melts under the passion of his blue eyes.

  He reaches for the drink on the counter and my bagel. “Enjoy.”

  Staring at his ASU hat, which confirms my theory that he’s in college, maybe even plays a sport there, I roll my teeth over my bottom lip. “Uh, thanks.” Reaching for the drink, I hold it in my hand. “That’s nice of you.”

  As I step to the side and out of the way, he takes his drink from the counter. His eyes flick to my wedding ring, and if I had to guess—or hope—there’s a flick of disappointment. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? Snort.

  We walk out at the same time, neither of us saying anything. He holds the door open for me and then offers a final smile, standing under the protection of the awning outside. But that smile, it’s one of those smiles that warm your heart. I’m not sure I’ve seen Collin smile like that since college.

  There’s another kid with him. Same ASU hat and holding a cell phone in his hand, leaned against a car parked on the street in front of the coffee shop.

  I clear my throat and return the smile the best I can. In the meantime, I drop the bag with my bagel. “I swear, I’m not always this much of a mess.” And then laugh as he picks up the bag and hands it to me. “That’s a lie. I am.”

  He adjusts his ASU hat on his head and then drops his hands. It’s then I notice his shirt. Sun Devils. ASU. Judging by his appearance, I’d say he’s a baseball player. Having a dad who used to coach college baseball, I know my baseball teams and can pick a baseball player out of any lineup. “Ah, well, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

  Righting my bag on my shoulder, my cheeks heat with the slightest pink. I have no idea why either. Maybe because he’s staring at me, or the fact that a kid bought my coffee because I couldn’t. “And that is?”