Love Rents A Room
Chapter 48: The First To Know

Chapter 48: The First To Know

Joanne’s first instinct was to slam the door shut.

Her interactions with Fiona over the past two years had been minimal, and the few encounters they’d had were dripping with hostility.

Joanne might be sharp in business, but she was completely out of her depth when it came to the verbal gymnastics of housewives. She lacked the finesse, the calculated sweetness laced with poison. She had no female role models growing up, no one to teach her the art of polite warfare. She was direct, blunt—while women like Fiona thrived in the shadows of passive aggression.

She shot a glare through the crack in the door at Patrick, silently demanding why the hell did you let her in?

Patrick sighed in silent apology, but before she could shut the door in Fiona’s face, the woman pressed a hand against it.

"I’m pregnant."

Joanne froze.

Her first thought? Is she lying?

Her second? Even if she is, I can’t be the one to test it.

Joanne let go of the door, stepping back, her pulse quickening—not from adrenaline, but from something else. Something tangled in the past, in Liam, in all the things she thought she had buried.

Fiona sighed dramatically as she stepped inside. "Woof! I don’t even know why I’m here..."

Joanne turned to look at her, eyes narrowing. Then leave.

The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them down. Fiona was the queen bee of the town’s housewives, the type who could turn a single remark into a week-long gossip fest. Joanne didn’t need that kind of drama. Her heart was too fragile for that kind of war.

Instead, she took the diplomatic route. "I have an appointment I need to get to."

Fiona’s sharp eyes swept over her from head to toe, judgment clear in her gaze.

"It’s not a funeral," she mused. "And no one would invite you to a wedding. So, what’s the appointment? Can’t you postpone it?"

Joanne rolled her eyes, biting down the flicker of anger rising in her chest. "What do you want, Mrs. Sullivan?"

Fiona smirked, settling herself onto the couch like she owned the place.

Joanne exhaled slowly, suppressing the very real urge to grab her by the hair and toss her out.

"Make me lemonade. Freshly squeezed." Fiona crossed her legs, her smirk deepening. "I’ve heard a lot about it."

Joanne’s stomach twisted.

Liam told her?

She didn’t know why that made her feel guilty. Had Liam really talked to his wife about her lemonade? Were men really that stupid?

She wasn’t naive. Fiona was here to mark her territory, to remind Joanne exactly where she stood. She probably got wind of Liam showing up at her house the other day and needed to make a statement.

Joanne’s lips curled into a smirk of her own.

Bring it on, bitch.

Joanne barely kept herself from rolling her eyes as Fiona strolled into the kitchen, uninvited, like she owned the place.

"You’ve left it just as it is... Still using gas, too," Fiona mused, her voice dripping with false admiration as she ran her manicured fingers over the countertop. "You’re impressive. If it works fine, why change it? I heard about that mindset, but I could never bring myself to actually live like that."

Joanne’s gaze flickered to Fiona’s hand—the massive diamond engagement ring was the same, but now an eternity band sat snugly beside it.

Right. Their three-year anniversary had been this spring.

Joanne clenched her jaw. The ring itself didn’t bother her—it was expected. But this? This little dig in her kitchen? This subtle, passive-aggressive jab at her lack of upgrades?

That was unacceptable.

"Well," Joanne said smoothly, picking up a lemon and rolling it between her fingers. "It’s a 60-inch O’Keefe & Merritt Antique Gas Stove—chrome top, six burners with simmers, warming oven, upper left-side oven, left-side broiler, center oven, Grillevator broiler, clock/timer, built-in power outlet, fluorescent backsplash light with a chrome shelf, and two pots and pan storage compartments on the bottom left and right." She glanced at Fiona, tilting her head. "Not just a gas stove."

She might not have been fluent in housewife warfare, but she knew how to flex when necessary.

Fiona said nothing, watching her in silence, and Joanne knew she had hit her mark.

That was when JD walked in, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his usual morning dishevelment. As always, he gravitated toward the kitchen at the sound of Joanne’s voice—only this time, he stopped short at the doorway when he noticed Fiona.

Joanne took the plate from his hand before he could say anything. "Was breakfast okay?" she asked with a small smile.

She had sent food up to his room earlier, expecting to be gone by now. If not for this annoying woman, she would have been.

JD, ever perceptive, noticed the tension immediately.

"It was great as usual," he said, flashing his usual easy grin. But his sharp gaze flicked back to Fiona. "Didn’t you have an important meeting? Who is this? Should I call the cops?"

His tone was playful, but Joanne knew he was dead serious.

Fiona let out a breathy laugh, her eyes lingering a little too long on JD’s face before she gave his arm a light punch.

"You’re so funny," she cooed.

JD rubbed his arm, unimpressed.

Then he turned to Joanne, expression flat.

Who the hell is this?

Joanne rolled her eyes and focused on finishing the lemonade. JD, watching her closely, could tell she wasn’t actually tense—if anything, she seemed amused. Whatever this was, she had it under control.

"Want some?" Joanne asked after pouring a glass for Fiona.

JD glanced between the two women, quickly assessing the situation. "No, thanks." This was a woman’s fight, and he had no business getting involved.

He gave Fiona a look that was somewhere between good luck and God help you, then turned on his heel and left the kitchen. Women were better left alone when they were waging silent wars.

Fiona, glass in hand, strolled into the living room with an air of superiority, and Joanne followed, watching her like a hawk. The woman had claimed she was pregnant, after all.

Fiona took a slow sip of the lemonade, smacking her lips slightly as if tasting wine.

"It’s good..." she said at last, placing the glass down. "Not that special."

Joanne let out a quiet exhale. Of course.

She expected that.

Fiona, however, hesitated. Her fingers traced the rim of the glass, her expression tightening as if battling some invisible thought.

"Maybe his was special because of the hands that made it..." she murmured under her breath.

Joanne heard it. And she caught the flicker of pain in Fiona’s eyes as she said it.

Her brows furrowed slightly.

Then Fiona lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Joanne.

"As I told you, I’m pregnant," she said, voice softer now. "I took the test this morning. Even he doesn’t know yet—I haven’t told him. And I..." She let out a shaky breath. "You’re the first one to know."

Joanne’s brows furrowed deeper.

Why the hell would she tell me first?