“Then why are you so mad?” Mabel asks, ignoring the bag question.
I huff, lowering the bag. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“The principle of not wanting your dog to be banged by a rando on the street corner?” Trevyn doesn’t play devil’s advocate.He isthe devil’s advocate. “Look, if someone’s Yorkie tried to get it on with Barbara-dor, I would cut them with my sharp wit.”
“And his wit has a razor’s edge,” Mabel remarks, patting Trevyn’s strong arm.
“Thanks, doll,” he says, flashing her a bright smile.
Ugh, I hate that they’re right. “Fine, maybe Simon was…” I roll a hand, then concede, “Uncouth.”
“You think?” Trevyn says with a snort-laugh.
“Just a little,” I mutter, then sigh again. “It’s just that Mister Porch Yoga was so…put together.”
“And that bothers you?” Mabel asks.
“Of course it bothers me. His dog walked in perfect heel, his clothes were neat—they were gym clothes, and yet it looked like he’d ironed them.Ironed them.”
“Give me his number,” Trevyn says with an appreciative purr.
“So you object as someone who detests ironing?” Mabel presses.
That’s not what’s really irritating me, of course. Mabel stares at me, tapping her Converse-clad toe, and I can tell my friends see right through me.
“Fine,” I say, tossing up my hands in surrender. “He’sirritatinglyhot. He’s infuriatingly sexy. The furrow in his brow. The ruler-straight line of his lips. And the way his blue eyes are so…icy hot. But he’s a dick, so now I can’t enjoystaring at him every morning. He’s ruined my routine.”
“Your routine of checking out the hot neighbor you just discovered today?” Mabel asks, deadpan.
“Yes! And I only moved in six weeks ago, so I think I’m well within my hot-neighbor discovery window.”
Trevyn cracks up, then drapes an arm around me. “You and Simon are a perfect match.”
“Like this bag and you,” Mabel says, holding out a faux leather tote with a little more structure to it. “This bag saysI don’t have a frisky frankfurter, and I definitely didn’t walk around the block in a robe while meeting my hot neighbor who hates me because of my dog.”
I snatch it from her grasp. “Then I’d better get it.”
Trevyn sighs dramatically in relief. “Thank god.”
“Please, youlovethrifting,” I say. “I’ve seen you get lost in thrift shops.”
“Not the way you do,” Mabel points out.
“Well, itismy job,” I reply. Well, specifically, my job is scouring consignment shops. As an eco-friendly interior designer, my mission is to help clients find sustainable furniture and decor. That makes me a huntress of sorts.
And this bag? It’s clearly made to last a hundred years, so it represents my brand well. I don’t skimp on quality when I hunt for deals.
“And since it’s your job,” Mabel says, “we decided you also need this blazer.” She pulls a pastel sky-blue one from a nearby rack—the exact shade I love. “It’s a vintage power blazer. Pair it with a T-shirt?—”
“Plus nice slacks and this bag,” I continue, my excitement building. “It saysI have range.It saysI can achieve a lasting style that won’t hurt the planet.It saysI can track things down.”
Yep. A few new accessories, and I’ll be ready to nail this meeting and win a new client. I slide my arms into the blazer, and it fits perfectly. I spin around, modeling it.
“Like a glove, baby,” Trevyn coos.
I beam, stroking the soft fabric. “It was made for me.”
Mabel nods. “I approve.”
