I look him over in the silence as I swallow. His blond hair is slicked to the side, and while he isn’t wearing a suit, his jeans are so crisp I’m positive he has his laundry professionally cleaned and pressed. I lean back, glancing toward my bedroom door, making sure it’s shut. He would most definitely have something to say if he saw the state of my room, where wrinkles are an everyday accessory because my clothes are chaotically sorted on the floor.
“Wait…dropby?” I say. “Exactly how far out of your way is my apartment?”
“Far enough that you should probably invite me in,” he answers.
“Come in,” I say reluctantly, leaving the door open behind me, turning around to send Mal a look that says please-help-me-but-don’t-help-yourself, or at least, that’s what itshouldsay. But Mal is already smiling at Evan, matching his perfect teeth.
“Who is this handsome friend of yours, Rach?” she questions in her flirty voice.
Mal’s flirty voice is one of her signatures. I’ve heard it multiple times. On the phone. On her Instagram stories. On her YouTube channel. When I made the horrible decision to take one of Mal’s Pilates classes. Horrible, not because Mal teaches them, but because I loathe exercise. I may be wearing a tracksuit from participating in a sport, but I threw things. Spears. Heavy balls. Discs.Fits.
Most exercises and I mix like peanut butter and hot sauce.
“Mal, meet Evan. Evan, this is my roommate, Mal,” I say through a forced smile, frustrated that this introductionis even happening.
I plop back down in my chair and pull the quilt back up around me to cover up my ragged clothes.
“The famous Evan Michaels?!” Mal coos. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Rachel and I are supposed to get to know each other a little better before the book tour,” Evan answers, taking a seat on the other thrifted chair beside me that doesn’t match the one I’m curled up on.
He looks out of place among all our mismatched things. Like fine china in a cabinet full of plastic dishes.
“I wasn’t aware that getting to know each other meant barging into my home without notice,” I say.
“I brought coffee,” he reminds me, pointing at the cup that is almost already completely consumed.
I shake it. “Should have brought two.”
“Why? So, we could have played a battle of the wits between poisoned cups?” he asks, and is hemaking a joke?!
I tilt my head. “Princess Bride.”
“I think it’s on your favorite movies list,” he says.
My body goes rigid, and my eyes widen. “My what?”
“I did some research. It’s not hard when you have the resources I do,” he says.
“The internet?” I mock.
He sinks back a little farther into the chair, making himself comfortable in my space, which is making me all sorts of uncomfortable. “Lily, actually.”
My eyebrows raise. “Lily?”
“She is my assistant and a lot better with social media than I am,” he says.
“I noticed you don’t have social media,” I reply while slurping down the rest of the latte.
“Yeah, I prefer to keep a healthy distance between myself and other people’s opinions,” he says smoothly, then adds with apointed glance toward my closed laptop on the table between us, “Unlike some.”
I feel my shoulders stiffen, the sweetness of the vanilla souring on my tongue. “I don’t post for other people’s opinions. I post because I like it.”
“And the likes and comments are just what? Bonus serotonin?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes on him. “What is this? A therapy session?”
“No. This is just me—getting to know you, remember? Melanie wants us to appear friendly on stage,” he says, leaning forward like he’s genuinely interested.
