Xander takes the hint and doesn’t talk. The robot lawyer is learning.
The inviting smell of coffee has me flinging my eyes open like my life depends on it. Because it does. I must have fallen asleep. And this hangover headache is throbbing.
I look at Xander, who’s holding out a takeaway cup of coffee. And it’s warm. Not iced.
“Cappuccino,” Xander says, handing it to me. How’d he know? I finally look up to see we’re in front of Roasting Warehouse. The caféthat’s half a mile from my house.
You can’t fault lawyer logic.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thunder booms, rattling the windows as lighting streaks attempt to stand out in broad daylight. This storm wants to be dramatic, but even dark clouds can’t create an ominous atmosphere in sunny Los Angeles.
I roll my eyes knowing Xander is home, getting off on being right. And then I scold myself for thinking about Xander. Who cares about whether or not he’s getting off.
Not me.
I am not now thinking about his own hand wrapped around his—
Another thought-shattering boom.Thank you, thunder.
I haven’t moved from the couch since I arrived home with a double-shot cappuccino in hand. Actually, I lie. I got up for the DoorDash delivery. Because I didn’t think it was appropriate to give a complete stranger explicit directions on how to access my apartment without a key. Even though the hangover warrants it.
I glance at the clock. It’s five thirty. Fuck. How did that happen?
I look down at Mom’s book on the coffee table. Did I really sit here and read through the book again, looking for an explanation as to why I can’t get Xander and his hands, Xander and his curls, Xander and his fucking mouth out of my mind?
When I got to the part in chapter three about the Madonna Whore Complex & Why Your Brain Categorizes People Into “Love” or “Lust,” I felt better. Because the horny little whore in me recognizes the horny little whore in Xander.
It’s pure lust, baby. And that, I can live with for now.
I sigh.
I should already be on Ventura Boulevard. I’m going to be late. I wince as I haul ass into my room to pack my sleepover bag. Which will absolutely not include wine. My head throbs even though I feel like I’m walking in slow motion. The hangover still hasn’t passed.
I mentally make a list of what I need for tonight, like this is my first rodeo, and not at all like a seasoned veteran who’s been doing the same thing every single night for the past week.
Pajamas. Toothbrush. I sniff my armpit. And clean clothes.
I catch a glimpse of my open wardrobe from the door and notice it’s bare. Where the fuck are all my clothes? The answer is underneath me as I trip over the laundry pile—once a dormant volcano now exploding dirty clothes everywhere.
Turns out spending every evening at the sleep study has set me back on domestic duties.
Shit. What am I going to wear to bed tonight? I refuse to wear Xander’s sleepwear for another night in a row. Not after I practically rode him in them. Not after that heart rate monitor advertised exactly how he gets me going. And especially notafter waking up with my limbs snaked around him, snuggling. Nowthatwas embarrassing.
And yet, it’s slim pickings. I stare at my empty wardrobe hoping something will materialize when a pastel pink set of folded sweats catches my eye. I haven’t seen those in forever.
I stretch on my tippy toes to pull them down.
Printed on them is:To mate, date, or masturbate. That is the question.
I completely forgot about the free merch Mom sent me after she recorded her exclusive interview with Oprah. I suppress a gag at the cringe creeping up, threatening to reject the bacon eggroll I DoorDashed earlier.
Oh, Mom, who signed off on this merch slogan? And then I recall an earlier conversation where my mom demanded full creative control for the Netflix series and there is no doubt in my mind that she didn’t just sign off on this. She created it.
And while I fully support her, I refuse to wear that shit in public. I’m about to fold it right back up and find a bikini that could double as a tank top when right on cue, thunder booms followed by the pelting of rain on the window, reminding me that Los Angeles just dropped thirty degrees in the span of three minutes and a bikini top won’t cut it.
Looks like I’m changing into Barbie-pink sweats that advertise wanking as a valid alternative to dating and mating.
