WANTED: ROOMMATE. Must be tidy, polite, and absolutely not my brother’s hot-as-sin best friend. I have no idea why I said yes. Maybe I’d had one too many wines. Maybe I’d done it accidentally. Maybe I’d been sleep-texting. One thing I know for sure is this: I absolutely do not want Ethan Hawkins in my apartment, up in my business, taking over my space. Yet he’s here, moving his stuff into my spare bedroom, sending a wave of panty-melting, musky man-scent my way every time he walks past me. Here’s the thing. We don’t get along—at all. We never have, and I don’t think we’re going to start now that we’re under one roof. There’s also that little issue where I’m kinda, sorta, totally in love with him…Uh-oh.