“California is known for its propensity toward forest fires. You have to document pre-move-in conditions to arm yourself for possible insurance claims. The smoke damage alone—”

He laughed some more in what she deemed a rather overblown display of mirth.

Clara snatched back the sheet. “Should we discuss some house rules?”

Josh’s eyes twinkled. “Like no parties on school nights?”

“You’re right. Rules sounds a bit aggressive. I’m thinking more along the lines of guidelines for harmonious cohabitation. We might as well make the best of a bad situation.”

Josh straightened up. “Of course. I’m afraid you’ll need to make the first rule, though. I’m out of practice.”

“Well, for instance, Everett mentioned a while back that the lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work. So until we can have that fixed, I suggest we employ a three-knock strategy.”

“Why three?”

“It would be easy to miss one or two knocks . . .” She spoke to the beat-up coffee table. “If you were in the shower, for example.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, certainly.”

She looked up to find his whole body changed with the tilt of his lips. Goose bumps broke out across Clara’s arms despite the balmy June afternoon. Josh had some kind of magnetism she hadn’t noticed before. Even when she went and stood behind the couch, putting a physical barrier between them, her body hummed closer, closer, closer.

“Hey, listen. You don’t need to guard your virtue from me, okay?” Josh dropped the charm like someone shrugging out of a jacket. He must have noticed that the energy between them had shifted from playful to something meatier.

“I’m taken, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m only living here until I can convince my ex-girlfriend to let me move back in. She’s a tough nut, but I’m sure I’ll be able to wear her down in a week or two, and then I’ll be out of your hair for good.” He broke the news in the practiced gentle tone of someone used to getting people’s hopes up and having to let them down easy.

“Oh,” Clara said, and then as she caught his meaning, “No.” She crossed her hands in an X. He had the wrong idea. Obviously. She wanted Everett. Had loved him almost as long as she could remember. She didn’t even know this guy with his ripped jeans and his bedhead. “Of course not. I didn’t think that you’d want to . . .” She waved a hand down her body and stuck out her tongue in disgust.

His eyes followed the path she’d tracked. “Wait a second. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t want to under different circumstances. You’re very . . .” He held his hands out in front of his chest like he was assessing the weight of a pair of overripe melons.

Clara’s eyes went wide.

“Oh God. I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I just meant that you . . . um . . . what’s a respectful way to say . . .” He put his hands back up.

Blood rushed to her face. “I got it.”

“Right. Sorry. Again.” He shook his whole body like a wet dog. “Besides, I thought for sure you and Everett were a thing. The way he talked about you, it definitely sounded like you two had history.”

At the mention of her beloved, the faded bruises on her heart bloomed anew and throbbed. She didn’t know how much to share without seeming pathetic. She and Everett certainly had history, even if the romantic part was one-sided.

Something in the earnest set of Josh’s brows gave Clara the impression he could handle more than the sugarcoated version of her past with Everett—more than the BS stories she’d given her friends and family back east, so they wouldn’t judge her or worry about her rash decision to up and move.

For some reason, she found herself spilling her guts to this unkempt stranger. “Everett and I grew up together. Despite living on different coasts for almost ten years, we’ve kept in touch with phone calls and visits. I don’t know if you got to know him at all, but he’s this amazing mix of sweet and smart and funny—”

“And he encouraged you to drop everything and move out here only to abandon you the first chance he got?” Josh arched an eyebrow.

Clara took a step back. The truth stung. “That’s not exactly what happened. I know how this looks.” She lowered her voice, embarrassed at how she’d let it climb in volume. “But when Everett called a couple of weeks ago and painted this picture of life in L.A., all sunsets and ocean air and people who don’t have to wear mouth guards at night because they can’t stop stress-grinding their teeth . . .”

A dimple appeared in Josh’s left cheek.

“I know it sounds stupid, but it seemed like a sign or something. This felt like my chance. At love, adventure, happily ever after, the whole Hallmark thing.”

“Let me get this straight. You, a woman who created a laminated move-in checklist, made a huge life-altering decision based on a hazy sign from the universe?”

Clara shrugged. “Haven’t you ever done something stupid to impress someone you liked?”

Josh plopped down on the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and crossed them at the ankles. “No. Never.”

“I think you mean ‘Not yet.’” Clara grabbed the handles of her rolling suitcases. “So which one of these bedrooms is mine?”

Chapter two

BY THE NEXT morning, Clara had managed to maroon herself among a sea of her possessions. Having covered the majority of the floor space in her new bedroom, she now stood on the wooden desk chair trying to decide where to begin.

Unpacking was supposed to make her feel better. More settled. She’d read that in a study on how humans adjust to new environments.

But she’d checked half a suitcase with mementos to share with Everett, and now, laid out in all their faded, adolescent glory, the memories took turns punching her in the stomach.

Curling photo booth strips, the sagging cardboard box from their sad attempt at making their own board game in the seventh grade, even a Ziploc of their favorite hometown bagels—formerly frozen—currently dripping all over her bathrobe.

Everything hurt. Clara dropped her chin to her chest.

A single knock sounded on the door behind her.

“Come in.” The chaos on the carpet mirrored the mess she’d made of her life. How poetic.

“How’s the unpacking going?” Josh offered her a chipped mug full of steaming coffee.

Clara created a visor with her hand and turned away, but not before she got an eyeful confirming that Josh’s happy trail matched his dark brown eyebrows rather than the blond curls on his head. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I kept hearing these sad little sighs from the hallway. I thought coffee might cheer you up.” He surveyed her perch. “Did you climb on that chair to avoid a spider?”

Clara stepped carefully down. “You’re not wearing enough clothes.” She closed her eyes, but the lean muscles of his bare chest had imprinted on her retinas.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you see the list of rules I slipped under your door last night?” She’d spent an hour and a half after dinner writing out provisions on college-ruled paper. She’d even included designated spaces for both of their signatures.

“I thought you said they were guidelines?”

“They are guidelines.” She tried to weave patience into her tone. “And the guidelines say all parties must wear at least three pieces of clothing when entering public areas of the house and/or during direct interaction with another roommate and/or guests.”

Josh stared down at his bare feet. “What about socks?”

“What do you mean, ‘What about socks’?”

“Do they count as one item of clothing or two?”

Clara placed her hands on her hips. “Socks don’t count.”

He sucked in air between his teeth. “Unfortunately, that’s unclear in the literature.”

“A sock is a nonessential clothing item.”

Mischief entered his gaze. “Only until you’re playing strip poker.”

“Thank you for bringing me coffee.” Clara accepted the mug mostly so he’d stop talking.

“No problem. I didn’t know how you take it . . . but we also don’t have any cream. Or sugar.” He grimaced. “But listen, I’ll take you to the grocery store as soon as you’re done . . .” His eyes tracked the mess she’d made of the bedroom. “. . . redecorating.”

Tired of making eye contact with his dusting of golden chest hair, Clara grabbed the first piece of clothing she could find—a huge old sweatshirt strewn across the back of the desk chair—and threw it with her free hand toward his rippling pectorals.

While he pulled it on, she went to grab his copy of the guidelines.

As soon as she entered the master bedroom, Clara had to force herself not to look at the bed. Everett’s bed. The pillow probably still smelled like him. She took a surreptitious sniff from the doorway. Yep, this whole room smelled like Everett. Irish Spring and the vinyl of hundreds of records.

She shook her head and scanned for notebook paper, finally spotting her draft on the nightstand. Josh had already managed to spill coffee on the corner of the document. If only she’d thought to pack her laminating equipment.