Someone has removed the bed I’ve been sleeping on and replaced it with a gigantic, plush, king-sized mattress on an upholstered white bedframe with the initials AR. There are two nightstands, a central sound system, a TV, every game device under the sun, and a clothes rack with robes, fancy coats, and colorful blazers.

I shoot out to the backyard, feeling like my feet are hovering over the floor. I’m not mad. No. I’m raging. I can feel my pulse everywhere, including my eyelids and toes. A feral scream lodges in my throat.

I throw the back door open, and it slaps against the wall from impact.

“How dare you?” I fling my arms at Mal. He looks up from something one of the American girls is showing him on her phone—her ass is perched on the edge of the table his feet are on—and all three are staring at me now.

He watches me with quiet amusement. “Care to be more specific? I quit my mind-reading job last week.”

The girls snicker, exchanging looks.

“My room! My things! Everything is gone.”

I’m finding it hard not to stomp my foot and throw a fit, and Mal knows it, because the more flustered I am, the calmer he looks. He yawns provocatively, leaning back in his chair.

“About that. We had a bit of a space problem with Richards moving in, so I had to put your things in my room. Hey, roomie.” He winks, his eyes light and full of mischief.

The girls sigh audibly next to him. I’m about to throw up.

“I’m not rooming with you.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Looks like you are from where I’m sitting. Then again, you’re awfully short. Sometimes you don’t see the whole picture.”

No, he didn’t.

“You sit on a throne of delusions if you think I’m sharing a bed with you.”

“No one said anything about sharing a bed, silly. I rolled you out a sleeping bag on the floor. Chivalry is not dead, Rory. I’m living proof of that.”

“You want me to sleep on the floor?”

He shrugs. “You can stay awake on the floor, if you like. What you do with your spare time—on the floor—is not my concern.”

More laughter.

He’d better be kidding me.

“Get up,” I grit out.

The women exchange bitch-is-crazy looks. They aren’t wrong. Not now, anyway.