“Do you know that if you walked out your door like that right now, six women in a four-block radius would spontaneously ovulate off-cycle because you’re unfortunately that attractive?”
“Yes.”
Yes.
The absoluteegoin that one word actually cracks me up.
“Why the fuck do you think I wear it?” he adds on a grumble.
“It never would’ve crossed my mind that it was your shield against women throwing their panties at you. Never. Wow. This is—this is crazy.”
“Are you done?”
“No.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“I ate at the wine bar with my besties. Are you okay? Honestly? I thought maybe some of it could be shaved—saved.Saved.”
His condo is nice. Gray tones in the carpet. White furniture that looks large and fluffy enough to support his tall, solid frame. Colorful abstract original paintings beneath spotlights, plus one of Sweet Pea in sunglasses and a pearl necklace that I can’t stare at too long or I’ll start giggling. Kitchen tucked around a corner with black steel appliances, white marble countertops, and black cabinets. Open to the living room and its wall of windows overlooking the city, and equally accessible to the dining room with its modern chandelier over the shiny black dining table. Out the floor-to-ceiling windows, daylight is fading. I still spot Reynolds Park and Duggan Field, where the Fireballs play, off in the distance, and the Blue Ridge Mountains farther beyond.
There’s snow all around the city from yesterday’s weather too.
It’s lovely.
Also, I could fit three of my apartments in his kitchen, living room, and dining room, which also overlooks the city.
He slides his phone onto the countertop, open to a picture, and I belatedly realize I’ve been staring so much at his face that I missed that he’s carrying Sweet Pea in the sling again.
At home.
He carries his dog in her sling at home.
She’s sniffing at me, but she’s also rolling her eyes back in utter bliss every time he scratches her head.
I glance down at the picture on his phone, and I shriek again.
Then apologize. “Sorry. That was?—”
“The same noise I made.”
Fletcher with a mustache is noteworthy.
Fletcher clean-shaven is a gloriously gorgeous threat to people trying to safely cross streets. Good thing he wasn’t clean-shaven when everyone was handling knives at cooking class the other night.
I swipe right a few pictures and stifle more gasps and shrieks.
Fletcher with anything between the full-on overgrown witch’s broom ’stache and no facial hair at all is terrifying.
I swallow theyou should not do the pencil ’stache or the Charlie Chaplin ’stache or the I-don’t-even-know-what-that-other-one-was ’stache, and I just look at him.
“I couldn’t make it even,” he says. “So it had to go.”
I swallow one more time and wish I’d had another glass of wine before coming here. “I truly am sorry. I know it was a—a part of who you are.”
“It’ll grow back.”
“Have you thought about the full beard?”
