“Where did these come from? Are you stocking a secret aisle at the store? Because if so, I have notes.”
“They’re not mine,” I said through tears. “One’s enough for me—and I prefer battery operated, thank you very much.”
We were still gasping when the new girl from 3C strolled in. Savanna, from Georgia. Pixie haircut, nose ring, full sleeves of tattoos, and an energy that screamed sex club veteran.
“Hey, Savanna. Settling into the city life?” I said.
“I love it,” she chirped. “The clubs are fabulous. Nothing like this back home. And my job is aces.”
She made her way to the first washer.
Lily shot me a glance—should we warn her? But the elbow she jabbed into my ribs said: Nope. Let’s see what happens.
Savanna lifted the lid, peered inside, and didn’t flinch. One by one, she pulled out the dildos, shook off the excess water, and placed them neatly into the oversized tote she carried.
“No big deal,” Lily muttered beside me. “Just another Sunday night.”
Savanna zipped the bag and turned back to us with a smile. “Y’all have a nice evening.”
“You too,” I managed, biting my lip to keep from losing it.
She paused at the door. “Oh—did the entertainment I sent for the bachelorette party do the trick?”
“He definitely made an impression,” I said, voice strangled.
“Well, if you ever need anything else, I’ve got the connections.” She winked and sauntered out, dildos in tow.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Lily and I exploded into laughter. I doubled over, clutching my sides.
“I wonder what clubs she finds so fabulous,” Lily said through tears. “And what she does with all those…”
“I mean, she said she’s a hostess, but now I’m imagining her doing Tupperware-style toy parties with samples on the buffet table.”
“Do you think guests get to test drive the merchandise?”
We howled.
“I’m going to love this neighborhood,” Lily gasped.
Chapter Seven
Sebastian
Mornings were my favorite time of day. My mind was fresh, my body rested, and the promise of fresh coffee was enough to get me out of bed.
Monday morning I woke up before the alarm, as I did most days. I opened the windows to another hot, sunny morning, then padded into the kitchen. I programmed the coffee machine before I went to shower.
Ten minutes later I was clean, shaved, and ready to tackle the day. After I poured some coffee, I took eggs out of the fridge. I never skipped breakfast. It wasn’t just about making food to nourish my body. Cooking was my grounding ritual, my hobby, a passion that soothed me and challenged me. My friends joked that I only liked cooking because it made me more attractive to women. That was a bonus, yes, but not the main reason. Cooking was my art, and sometimes watching recipes and reading about cooking tips was the best therapy for me.
My sister Janine had taught me to cook soon after our parents’ death, when the world as we knew it had crashed and burned along with them in our family car. Cooking was a necessity. Her own cooking had sucked at first, but gradually we’d both learned. And as she worked long hours to support us both, one of the few things I could do for her was to wait for her with a hot, delicious dinner. Her smile of gratitude was my fuel.
I sautéed a couple of mushrooms, then cracked three eggs in a bowl and whisked them with salt, pepper and milk. When the mushrooms were done I poured the eggs, then sealed the omelet with some grated mozzarella cheese. I ate it along with a few tomato slices, spacing out the rich taste with sips of sweet,creamy coffee. After I was done, I prepared a mega turkey and avocado sandwich to take to work for lunch.
I brushed my teeth, then opened the closet door. Ironing was another thing I’d learned to do in order to help my sister. Most women were shocked to learn I could—and did—iron my own clothes. I suppose doing things like cooking and ironing made me seem like great husband material. How foolish appearances can be.
I walked out in time to see the door next to mine open and an attractive brunette step out of Sue’s apartment.
“Oh, hi.” She gave me a quick smile.
