“I didn’t say he was. I said he has the energy.”
I scrape onions into the pan, perhaps slightly angrily. “We signed a deal and I’m sticking to it. I’m definitely not catching feelings for someone who comes with a built-in expiration date.”
“This is textbook denial, Elly.” She’s waggling a knife at me to punctuate her points. I step out of range. She talks with her hands under normal circumstances, so safe to say I’m not a huge fan of adding sharp objects to the equation. “There’s literally an entry in the DSM that just has the word ‘denial’ and your face next to it.”
I gently redirect her wrist so that the knife is no longer pointed at my jugular. “Can we please just watch terrible reality TV and pretend my life is normal?”
“Your life has never been normal. That’s why we’re friends.”
But she lets it go. We work in comfortable silence after that. I notice that Yas keeps looking at her phone where it’s lying face-down on my coffee table, but she makes no move to check it.
Then, because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the building fire alarm goes off.
“Every goddamn week,” Yasmin mutters as we sigh and grab our coats.
Outside, the building’s residents cluster on the sidewalk in various states of weekend disarray. Mrs. Byrd from upstairs is in a bathrobe and curlers. The guys from 1A are clearly still wasted from last night. And I’m in my holey Northwestern sweatpants, ratty t-shirt, hair in what can charitably be called a bun but more accurately resembles a bird’s nest. No makeup. Probably some marinade on my shirt.
So naturally, that’s when Bastian jogs past.
He’s not alone. There’s another guy with him—shorter, stockier, with dark hair and an easy smile. Both of them are shirtless, sweaty, and, God help me,so freaking ripped.
Bastian stops when he sees me. Mid-stride, like someone hit pause on his forward momentum. His friend, noticing the sudden halt, stops, too, though he keeps jogging in place with the energy of a golden retriever.
“Eli—er, Ms. Hunter.” Bastian’s eyes sweep up and down my mortifying outfit, then up to the building behind me. “Everything okay?”
“Fire alarm,” I explain. “Someone probably burned their popcorn again.”
“Ah. Right. Well, uh…” He casts around for something else to say and ends up gesturing to his companion, who’s still bouncing in place. “This is Zeke Bautista. Head chef at Nova. Zeke, Eliana Hunter?—”
“The project manager who brought donuts to the kitchen.” Zeke’s grin is warm and knowing in a way that makes me wonder exactly what Bastian’s told him. “I’ve heard about you.”
I blush. “Nothing good, I’m sure.”
“Au contraire!” Zeke’s eyes flick between Bastian and me and his smile ticks one notch wider. “Bash here won’t shut up about you.”
Bastian shoots him a look that could freeze hell and make the devil himself apologize. “We should keep moving. We’re losing momentum.”
“Oh, we’re losing something,” Zeke mutters, but he’s looking at Yasmin now, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet. “Pardon me, miss. I don’t think we’ve met?”
“Yasmin.” She shakes his offered hand, and I notice she holds it a beat longer than necessary. “Eliana’s friend and sous chef for today’s meal prep session.”
“Meal prep, huh?” Zeke’s smile widens, and suddenly, he’s not bouncing anymore. All his energy is laser-focused on Yasmin. “What’s on the menu?”
“Stir-fry, some grain bowls, probably too much chicken because we couldn’t decide between thighs and breasts—” Yasmin stops, realizes what she just said, and goes pink from her collar to her hairline. “The chicken kind. Obviously.”
Zeke laughs. “I’m a thigh man, myself, but in my line of work, you learn to appreciate good breasts.”
Bastian and I groan in unison. I don’t even know this man and I already want to give him a noogie and tell him to shut up like he’s my little brother. Yasmin, though, is positively cackling. I can practically see heart emojis dancing in her eyes.
“We run this route most weeks,” Zeke continues, still focused on Yasmin like she’s the only person on this crowded sidewalk. “Clears the head before the week starts.”
“Same. Well, meal prep instead of running. But otherwise, same.” Yasmin waves vaguely at the building behind us.
“Ah, the magic of ritual.” Zeke nods knowingly. “Bash’s got his sadistic runs in which I am occasionally forced to partake; I’ve got my?—”
“Spreadsheet for recipe testing,” Bastian cuts in dryly.
“—incredibly normal and not-at-all-obsessive spreadsheet, yes.” Zeke’s already pulling out his phone. “Speaking of which, if you want actual edible meal prep ideas, I’ve got opinions. Too many, according to Basti.”
