“Max, I don’t know if you realize,” I say, gesturing to myself. “But the only clothes I have with me are mydental flosslingerie, or your jumper. Not exactly appropriate.”
“Let’s try getting you home for clothes and your glasses,” he offers.
I sigh. “Fine.”
My flat is my sanctuary, filled with my favorite things—tarot cards, crystals, dead indoor plants I keep meaning to replace, smutty books, and, of course, my colorful collection of dildos.
Max Browne being in my flat is abigdeal.
He stands in my living room, hands in his pockets, head tilted while he reads through my book titles.
“Front Loader?” he says.
“It’s about a sentient washing machine,” I say.
He looks at me as if the idea is preposterous, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“How does that work?” he asks, puzzled.
“Easy. The drawer where you load the washing liquid turns into a dick.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion before he begins flipping through the pages.
While he busies himself with my books, I change. I snatch my glasses off the bedside table and almost cry from relief when I put them on. My eyes are still sore and a little fuzzy, but at least I don’t have to worry about falling face-first into anyone’s crotch for the time being.
I pull on the nearest outfit draped over the armchair—the chair that became my unofficial clothes-horse as soon as I moved in—then turn to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my door.
My eyes widen in horror as I take in my appearance. My hair looks like it could host a family of birds, my complexion resembles a patchwork blanket with half-rubbed-off makeup clinging to dry areas of skin, and my eyes are red and puffy.
David Attenborough could document this. I look like a newly discovered species.
If Max declares he never wants to sleep with me again, I’d understand.
Deciding I don’t have time to fuss about my presentation, I quickly toss my hair into a topknot. I brush my teeth and, erasing evidence of last night, gently run a washcloth over my skin, taking extra care around my eyes, which protest at even the lightest touch.
Max is sitting on my sofa reading—oh God—Fifty Shades of Gravy, a smutty book about a woman and her Sunday roast.
This is why I hate men in my flat. They poke around when I’d rather them just poke me and be done with it.
“I must admit, this has me intrigued,” he says as I approach, not lifting his gaze from the book. His lips quirk up. “Particularly chapter three where she uses the basting brush.”
“Wait until you get to the part where he uses the thermometer. That’ll really blow your mind,” I say, slinging my handbag over my shoulder. “You ready?”
Ignoring me, he points to a row of crystals lined up beneath my windowsill.
“I must admit, I didn’t take you for the spiritual type. What are they for?”
My gaze is immediately drawn to the amethyst crystal, and I cringe internally at the memory of depositing it up Anna’s yoga instructor’s butt.
“I use them to keep all the men out,” I say, stone-faced.
He smirks, dropping the book to the coffee table and walking toward me. My heart beats in Morse code with each step.
“Your place is cozy. It suits you,” he says.
I scan the room, and of course Max sticks out like a sore, ridiculously well-groomed thumb against my clutter. He looks so out of place here. His penthouse is all glass and stainless steel. My flat? It’s tiny, colorful, and dotted with mismatched knick-knacks I’m certain he quietly loathes.
“What you mean is it’s small, the view’s shit, and it lacks a stone countertop,” I say. “We can’t all have penthouse views and German appliances.”
