Room for Rent Read online

  “Right this way, please.” Mrs. Sinclair led him to her living room, looking over her shoulder at him several times. Caleb wondered if he should have foregone the jeans and flannel jacket. Was it too serial killer? He had simply wanted to avoid the hipster look. She gestured for him to have a seat on the floral-patterned couch.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’m a few minutes early for the interview,” he said.

  “Not at all! Let me get my husband.”

  She left quickly, and Caleb took in his surroundings with a jaundiced eye. He had several other properties to choose from, but this unassuming house by the seashore would allow him to focus on his art. Nothing about the place screamed distraction. He looked at the archway as a young man passing in the hall stopped and stared. Caleb lifted a hand to wave and smiled tightly. “I’m here about the room,” he repeated.

  “Hi…”

  “I’m Caleb O’Hara.”

  “Mason.”

  Caleb nodded and looked him over since he stood there saying nothing else. A shock of raven hair slanted over Mason’s almond-shaped eyes. Those eyes gave him an exotic quality. Put simply, he was one of the most beautiful men Caleb had ever seen. Fine bone structure, thin, but athletic in build, and dressed fashionably in a screen print shirt and jeans; there was nothing not to like.

  “Are you—are you here for the room, too?” Caleb asked nervously.

  Mason edged his way into the living room and leaned against the piano. “No, I have the misfortune to live here.”

  Caleb lifted a brow. “Ah! Got it. Have many people come in for an interview, then?”

  “I’m sorry for the wait, Mr. O’Hara. My husband is ready to see you now.” When Mrs. Sinclair breezed into the room, Mason slipped away as quietly as he had entered. Caleb tried not to stare after him as he rose to shake hands with the patriarch of the household.

  Mr. Sinclair followed his line of sight. “I’m Desmond Sinclair. I see you’ve met my wife, Yoo Jin, and our son, Mason.”

  “A pleasure to meet each of you, sir. Shall we discuss the room?” Caleb took his seat and forced his attention to the two people with the power to put a potentially agreeable roof over his head. “I’ve recently moved here from New York and am in need of more stable living arrangements now that I’ve decided to stay.”

  “What do you do?” Mr. Sinclair probed. Mrs. Sinclair offered up a platter of sugar cookies, and Caleb declined.

  “I’m an—” Caleb hesitated as he took in several things at once. Desmond Sinclair radiated business acumen in his tailored suit and no-nonsense demeanor. Caleb did not think he or his wife would be impressed by a starving artist. “I’m a schoolteacher,” he lied.

  Mr. Sinclair nodded approval. “What do you teach?”

  “Art history,” Caleb continued the charade with the first thought to pop in mind. “But the rate you are asking for the room is reasonable, and I assure you, I can afford it.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about the cost. I just wonder why you’d choose here. You probably consider this quiet town a bit of a cultural desert compared to New York,” Mr. Sinclair joked.

  Caleb gave a half-smile. “A little peace and quiet is exactly what I’m after.”

  The doorbell rang, and Mrs. Sinclair gracefully excused herself. Caleb glanced toward the hallway after her, and noticed that Mason was no longer there. Mr. Sinclair continued, “The attic apartment has been renovated to include a small kitchenette and bathroom. It’s a studio. I hope the lack of space won’t be a problem.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did you bring a copy of your background check and references, as requested?”

  “Of course, sir,” Caleb murmured, tugging the paperwork from an inner pocket of his flannel jacket. Mr. Sinclair looked it over while he questioned him further. Caleb answered with half an ear to the conversation. His attention was drawn to the picture window looking out into the backyard where Mason and a lovely young woman in white strolled companionably.

  Mrs. Sinclair rejoined them as her husband outlined the house rules. “You are welcome to have visitors, but please remember that this is a Catholic household,” Mr. Sinclair stated. “Who was it, dear?”

  “Mason’s girlfriend,” Mrs. Sinclair whispered.

  “Ah, I forgot Riesling was coming today. Where was I? Oh, the basement laundry room is communal, Mr. O’Hara. You are free to use it. There is one inconvenience, I’m afraid. You’ll have to access your apartment from the backdoor. You are welcome to treat the back veranda as your own personal space, but we ask that you refrain from exploring the rest of our home. We enjoy our privacy as much as, I’m sure, you enjoy yours.”

  “You’ve come to a decision already?” Mrs. Sinclair asked in surprise.

  Mr. Sinclair smiled broadly. “I think he will be suitable. Let’s face it, dear; we have not had many offers. We agreed we wanted to settle on a tenant before winter. If it’s agreeable to you, Mr. O’Hara, welcome to your new place!”

  “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair.” Caleb took his gaze away from Mason now showing Riesling how to hit a croquet ball in the backyard. “I’m prepared to move in at once. After that, you’ll forget I’m even here.” He hoped he could pretend the family did not exist in the house beneath his attic room. He could certainly do without the beautiful young male distraction.

  Chapter 2

  Mason saw the advertisement in the newspaper for watercolor classes. He scoffed and glanced at the ceiling. The man who pretended to be a schoolteacher made almost no noise. Caleb O’Hara had placed the ad. Mason had heard him on the phone on the back veranda soon after moving in. Why would Caleb lie to his parents about what he did for a living?

  Mason sighed and shook his head as he placed his fingers to the typewriter and continued his story. As he puzzled over plot twists and character arcs, he wondered some more about the man in the attic. He had not mentioned the lie to anyone, not even Riesling. She was fast becoming his best friend and confidante, along with her agreed role of fake girlfriend.

  There was a tap at the door, and Mason looked up with a smile. “Yes?”

  “I’m going shopping. Do you want to get out of the house?”

  “Thanks, Mother, but I have a project I want to finish.”

  Yoo Jin sighed and leaned deeper into his bedroom. “Did you send your resume to Mr. Peters, as your father requested?”

  “Yes, of course,” he murmured, eyes trained on the typewriter.

  “Mason, you must be more responsible than this. You sit in your room, typing away, wasting your life. How many more months before you choose a corporation? This dream is foolish. You must not waste any more time on this.”

  He stared at the sentence he would have to strike through because of errors, and his full lips turned down at the corners. He suppressed a sigh and managed to look at his mother with more humility than he felt. “I will send more resumes.”

  Yoo Jin smiled triumphantly as she crossed the room to run a hand through his shaggy black hair.

  “An-nyeonghi kyeseyo, I’ll see you when I get back. Send more resumes. Make your father proud.”

  “Yes,” he whispered as he watched his mother leave and felt the tension in his shoulders and neck ease away with her exit. Mason tugged the typing paper from his typewriter and carefully brushed white-out over the errors before realigning it on the roll. He had lost his train of thought. He could not get back into the writing.

  Mason glanced at the ceiling again. What was the stranger in the attic doing? His parents had warned him to stay away from Caleb O’Hara. The man needed his space, they said. The money he was paying in rent was going directly toward paying off Mason’s university debt. Mason supposed he should be grateful and let the man be.

  As he crept up the back stairs, he considered what excuse he would give his parents if his father arrived home from work early or his mother returned from shopping before expected. He would say he was going up to ask Caleb if it was his laundry in the dryer. His slippers mo
ved soundlessly over the hardwood as he strolled to the attic door.

  Mason stood there indecisively, telling himself it was not intrusive to knock. From the other side of the door, he heard classical music playing and tilted his head to listen closer. He tapped quietly and got no response. Mason tried the doorknob, although a voice within him screamed he was crossing a line.

  “Maybe he didn’t hear me over the music,” he murmured as he entered the attic apartment.

  Mason looked around the studio in surprise at the transformation three weeks of having a tenant had rendered. Caleb had set up the living space with chic white furniture. An abstract patterned rug gave a pop of color. Mason nodded appreciatively as he let the door slip shut behind him. An easel with an unfinished painting caught his eye, and he gravitated toward it. It was of the ocean at dawn.

  “He said he teaches art history…Is he an artist?”

  Hints of creativity piqued his curiosity—from painting materials neatly organized on a shelf to books of art on the teak coffee table. He peered at a sculpture of a very anatomically correct female sprawled on the mantel of the fireplace. He was so intrigued that he did not notice the sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom. He glanced from the sculpture to the unmade bed and saw Caleb’s trail of clothes.

  Mason bit his lip and ambled to the kitchenette where a bottle of liquor stood next to a cut-glass tumbler. He picked it up and sniffed, nodding. He thought about his father’s assumption that Caleb O’Hara was coarse because of how he dressed and carried himself. He was clearly a man of status. Everything in the studio apartment seemed transplanted from the upper echelons of society. So, why was the artist here?

  Suddenly, the door beside the kitchenette opened, and the sound of rushing water grew louder. Mason’s mouth dropped open as he locked eyes with Caleb. Both of them yelped in shock, and Caleb snatched a towel from the rack behind him to wrap around his naked waist. Mason turned his back.

  “What are you doing in here?” Caleb asked, annoyed.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You scared the living shit out of me.” Caleb blew out a breath and brushed past him.

  “I didn’t mean to. I was coming to ask if…” The things in the laundry room are yours. The words died in Mason’s throat as he stared at the water dripping down Caleb’s muscular torso, his dark hair clinging to his forehead above thick brows and deep-set eyes. His gaze dropped to Caleb’s lower body, and he squeezed his eyes shut with embarrassment. “I was coming to ask if you wanted to have a drink with me,” Mason blurted.

  When Mason opened his eyes, Caleb had a pair of jogging pants in hand and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. A strategically placed towel stayed in place throughout the process. “Well, you could have at least knocked.”

  “I did,” said Mason.

  “Do your folks know you’re up here?”

  “They’re not home.”

  Caleb met his gaze as he rose to his feet and ambled closer, barefoot and still dripping. He seemed to realize Mason was breaking the rules, but he did not seem to mind. Caleb used the towel to pat his chest dry while studying him, sizing him up. He finally nodded. “White or brown?” he asked as he moved to the kitchenette.

  Caleb tossed the towel on back of a barstool and reached in the cabinet for a bottle of gin to go with the cognac on the kitchen counter. He turned to Mason. “Pick your poison.”

  “Cognac is fine.”

  Caleb chuckled. “Excellent choice. Are you even old enough to drink?”

  “Twenty-one and counting.” Mason smiled.

  Caleb’s heart skipped a beat at how the expression transformed his face. “You should smile more often.” Mason bit his bottom lip and ducked his head as Caleb rinsed two glasses and fixed their drinks. Caleb settled on the chaise lounge and handed a glass to Mason. “So, why are you really here?” Caleb asked softly.

  Mason met his gaze. “Why are you?”

  Caleb lifted his brows and grinned. “I’m the one asking the questions. You’re the intruder who broke into my apartment don’t forget.”

  “The door was unlocked. I didn’t break in, but I shouldn’t have entered without your permission. My curiosity got the best of me. It’s kind of surreal living in a house with a person you never see.” Mason took a careful sip of his drink, his face smoothing again.

  Caleb wondered why it flattered him that the young man wanted to see him. “I’m not here to be seen.” He wondered how to get more of Mason’s rare smiles and shook his head at himself. He had to put boundaries in place. “Please don’t come up here again without my permission. You distract me from my work.”

  “How can I distract you from your work if you’re a schoolteacher, and how can you teach art history if you never leave the house?”

  Caleb chuckled ruefully as he set aside his glass and paced the length of the room. “Touché. You’ve figured me out. I’m not an art history teacher. I’m an artist. I listed a profession that I thought your parents might find suitable to secure the apartment. Can you keep it secret?”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Mason promised. “But I already knew you didn’t teach art history. I heard you on the phone with the newspaper last week. I saw your advertisement for watercolor classes.”

  “It’s a crying shame. My name used to be in the paper for much more illustrious reasons,” Caleb muttered bitterly. “Well, they say those that can’t do, teach, right?”

  “Is this your work?” Mason gestured at the canvas. “If it is, it’s amazing. You captured the sunrise perfectly.”

  Caleb looked at him. With his thick black hair and soulful eyes, his oval face and expressive mouth, Caleb wondered if Mason would be his next subject. He made himself stop pacing and sat on the sofa beside him. Mason’s eyes flitted over him.

  “What do you do?” Caleb asked, changing course.

  Mason made a sound halfway between humor and annoyance, but that disarming smile came again. “Jja-jeung na! I hate that question,” he chuckled.

  Caleb grinned and crossed his arms. “Cha-what? What does that mean? You don’t want to answer?”

  Mason smiled and shook his head. “It’s a phrase for annoyance, like ‘ugh!’ I get sick of that question. What do you do? Nothing. I do nothing. I want to travel the world and write, but I’m told it’s an irresponsible dream.” He shrugged and eyed Caleb.

  “It is an irresponsible dream. Take it from a starving artist,” Caleb joked.

  Mason growled playfully and fake-punched him in the ribs. Caleb grabbed his fists and stopped him, chuckling softly. Mason sobered but kept a half-smile. “My degree is in finance. I’ll be choosing a corporation to work for soon. My father and brother are well-connected. I’m fortunate to have many options.”

  “Must be nice. I bet your girlfriend is happy about that. The window behind my bed overlooks the backyard. I see you taking walks with her every evening.”

  “So, you spy on me?” Mason swatted his chest.

  Caleb caught his hand and grinned. “All very romantic.” Caleb rolled his eyes comically.

  “Riesling isn’t my girlfriend.”

  “Do your parents know that? ‘Cause that isn’t what your mom said.”

  “Since we’re trading secrets, she’s just a friend, but I’d rather my parents believe their matchmaking is working so that they stop trying.” Mason leaned his head on the back of the sofa with a sigh. “They want me to follow in the footsteps of my older brother who is getting married next year.”

  “What do you write?”

  Mason smiled and the sun broke through the clouds again. “Would you like to read some of it?” he asked. Caleb nodded, hardly listening. He was too busy staring. “Give me a moment to bring you the manuscript I’m working on now. I’ll be back.”

  Mason excused himself, and Caleb stepped onto the landing to watch him run down to the ground floor. They heard the front door open at the same time. Mason stilled at the foot of the stairs and looked back up at him. Caleb rema
ined for a second then stepped back into his apartment as he heard Mrs. Sinclair launch into a tirade in Korean.

  Caleb assumed it had something to do with Mason being caught coming down from the attic. Caleb slowly closed the door to the studio apartment. It might not be in his best interest to draw the young man or even to get familiar with him. Apparently, he was off limits to Mason.

  Caleb went back to his art, thinking it was for the best. He was not there to strike up friendships. He wanted to tell Mason to do as his parents said. Get a real job. Live a boring, disappointing life, rather than one of brief excitement followed by long years of bleak anticlimax.

  He had gone to the parties, met the girls, blown the money. He had traveled the world, like Mason wanted to do, and he had seen everything keep moving while he stood in one place. Now he was twenty-eight to Mason’s twenty-one, and he felt ancient and jaded. What was outside the front door did not hold the same allure. With age came experience, and with experience came a loss of the inner child and childlike curiosity.

  So, why then did the twenty-one-year-old feel like a breath of fresh air to Caleb?

  Mason slid his hands down Riesling’s arms to help her hold the croquet mallet properly, but his eyes were on the attic window. She turned her face, and her soft laughter fanned over his cheek until she followed his line of sight. Riesling bit her bottom lip and took a swing at the ball. “What’s he like?” she asked.

  “He’s an artist.”

  “Ay!” She punched the sky when she made the shot. “You helped me improve my swing!”

  “Congratulations.”

  Riesling clasped her hands together and batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Oh, Mason, you always know exactly what to say. If I sneeze, there you are with the perfect ‘God bless you,’” she said with a grin. “I just better not expect you to carry on a full conversation with me. You’ve got that whole brooding silence thing down to a tee.”