“Nope! Felt! I have a craft side hustle. I make, uh,felted taxidermy.”
I winced. EvenIwouldn’t have gone with that one.
“Youdoknow you’re not allowed to harbor animals? I’m extremely allergic to animal fur.”
“Really?” There was a dangerous curiosity in Maggie’s voice. “What happens when you’re around fur?”
Doris hesitated. “Well, it depends on the animal. But typically”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“I get horrible UTIs.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“Wait. Are you… are you rubbing the fur on your nether regions? Or how exactly does that happen?”
Even from my hiding place, I felt Doris combust. She straightened her clipboard like she was going to smack someone with it. “I prefer not to discuss myprivate areaswith new tenants. You understand, don’t you, dear?”
Maggie slapped a hand to her ear. “Oh no! Sorry, that’s my boss calling. Zoom time! She has twelve cats and no soul. Gotta go!”
Doris narrowed her eyes and tapped her binoculars like a Bond villain polishing her scope. “Well. I’ll be watching.”
“Oh, Idefinitelythink of you as twenty-four-hour security.”
The door shut. I sagged to the floor, the fern rolling away like it, too, had been traumatized.
“I owe you my life,” I said solemnly. “Also, a new fern.”
“You’re the weirdest man I’ve ever met.”
“And yet…” I gestured around the apartment.
“I haven’t moved out,” she finished for me. “I’mstronglyconsidering it.”
“But you won’t,” I said smugly.
She sighed and took the vacuum out of the closet.
“If Doris findsonehair,” she muttered, “we’re both getting evicted. And I amnotexplaining your weird ass to my sister when we have to move in with her.”
I reached across the counter and grabbed one of the muffins she’d baked this morning. Blueberry, still soft.
I took a bite and grinned around a mouthful. “Worth it.”
Chapter 6
Maggie
The bakery logoI was working on looked like an angry toddler had taken out their feelings on the computer screen. I’d spent two hours tweaking typography and debating between peach and mauve, all while sipping a lukewarm oat milk latte and reminding myself this was the life I’d chosen.
Freelance freedom. Designer dreams. Branding artisanal sourdough empires from the comfort of my laptop. Woo.
I was scrolling through a folder of croissant illustrations when Roman burst into the room. “Let’s go be disgustingly domestic in public.”
“I have work.”
“You also have one outfit that screamstake me to a farmers market,” he said, flopping down on the end of my bed like gravity didn’t apply to him. “I saw it when you were unpacking. The overall skirt get-up. Put it on.”
“I have deadlines.”
“Breakfast tacos,” he sang. “And focaccia. Fresh, flaky. Slightly erotic.”
