“His name is Gizmo, and he is not a terror.” I make a mental note to oil his wheel and immediately erase it. I need every advantage I can scrape together to win this bet. If Miles bows out over a little thing like sleep deprivation, that’s on him. “Now get moving. We’re already behind schedule.”
Miles mumbles something that sounds like “God forbid” and starts rummaging through the drawers beneath his bed for clean clothes. Then he shuffles toward the bathroom, stopping just before the flimsy folding door.
“What the hell is this?”
I turn from Gizmo and find Miles staring in wide-eyed horror at the clothesline I’ve strung between the wardrobes.
“My clean laundry.” There’s a note of pride in my voice, and why not? I’m killing it today. It’s not even eight, and I’m showered, dressed, and I’ve hand-washed my dirty clothes like a pro. Day three of tiny living, and I’m already hitting my stride.
Eat your heart out, Miles.
I’m so winning this bet.
“Why are therepantieshanging up in the kitchen?”
There’s a note of incredulity in his words, and I give it right back. “Because my pants are in the shower.”
I swear, he looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm.
Over freaking panties.
“I told you,” I say, drawing out the words, “I’m doing a capsule wardrobe.”
His brows knit together in confusion, and he scrubs a hand over his face like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation. That makes two of us. “What does that even mean?”
Now it’s my turn to sound annoyed. The man never listens.
“It means I’m simplifying my life and ridding myself of excess.”
He just stares at me, face entirely blank.
“So, when you do a capsule wardrobe, you’re supposed to trim your closet to just thirty items you can mix and match,” I explain. “They’re all supposed to be interchangeable, giving you lots of options. But I figured if thirty is the standard, fifteen would be even better for tiny living.”
His mouth drops open, and I get a whiff of dragon breath.
Which is almost a relief because Miles is always so perfect. Soon. But here, at least, is proof he’s just like the rest of us with skunky morning breath, and, now that I’m looking more closely, an adorable case of bedhead to complement the blond scruff lining his chiseled jaw.
It might be a welcome sight if my squishy, foolish heart wasn’t tangled up in this stupid bet. A bet I have to win to protect said squishy, foolish heart.
“Are you telling me you only kept fifteen articles of clothing?”
“Impressive, right?” I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to include your underwear or workout clothes, stuff like that, but the more items the blogger said to exclude, the more it felt like cheating.
So I just went all in.
Go big or go home and waste two more years pining over your sexy, unattainable boss.
Hard pass. Besides, it was gratifying to just let go of all that stuff.
Stuff I didn’t need. Stuff I didn’t love. Stuff I acquired without thought or intention.
“It’s…something,” Miles finally says, sounding utterly mystified.
“I’m done with boring, uncomfortable dress clothes. I even did a theme. I’m calling it Route 66 chic.” Which doesn’t seem to impress him at all. No surprise there. Miles is all about designer labels and the women who wear them. “Anyway, the only downside of owning three pairs of underwear and two bras is that you have to wash them often. So I guess you’d better get used to the sight.”
His eye twitches, and I’m about to suggest he get it looked at when another thought strikes me.
“What’s the big deal? It’s not like you’re a stranger to women’s underwear.”
