I’m still trying to catch my breath as the roar of the storm fades into the background. There’s a fire blazing in the hearth, and two cups of cocoa are situated on a tray next to an oversized recliner. The TV is on and a cat is stretched lengthwise on top of the couch. The whole scene screams comfort and joy.

I wheel around, lowering my scarf, and find myself face to face with an absolute stud. I openly gape at him, not quite believing what I’m seeing. I was expecting an ax murderer and instead I’m gazing at an Adonis.

“You must be Ivy,” he smiles at me. “I guess we’re going to be roommates for a while. Let me take your coat so you can warm up by the fire.”

I automatically obey him without thinking twice. I hand him my wet things robotically, as if in a trance. He looks at me with compassion, and his eyes remind me of someone, but my brain is too jumbled to make the connection.

“Do I know you?” I ask, trying to place him in my mind but failing miserably.

“I don’t think so,” he chuckles.

“But you look so familiar,” I mutter, drinking him in.

“A lot of people tell me I resemble my brother, so that’s probably why,” he remarks, shrugging his broad shoulders.

“Who’s your brother?” I ask as he offers me his arm as I start to wobble a little while removing my boots.

“Steady there,” he says, his voice deep and warm. “I don’t want a pregnant lady falling under my roof.”

“You seem to know everything there is to know about me, but you still didn’t answer my question.” I glance up at him, trying not to focus on the fact that my hand is wrapped around his bicep.

“Well, being the unemployed older brother of the star quarterback isn’t something I like to brag about,” he admits, staring down at me.

“Wait a minute. Your brother is—?” I stutter, realizing the full awkwardness of the situation Lauren has placed me in.

“Ben,” he replies, gauging my reaction. “I’m Tim, the leading man of the screenplay you’re about to write. Pleased to meet you, Ivy Thompson.”