728 West Addison Street,
Apartment 2B
Hannah Blue was not a morning person.
I mean, what’s good about mornings? Brain fog? Bad breath? Eye boogers?
“You know,” Cesar said as he neatly flipped an omelet in a pan, “you can get away with sleeping in your makeup at twenty-nine. But at forty-nine it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass. I bought you that skin care gift pack for a reason, darling.”
Speaking of morning people… Hannah’s best friend and roommate was the epitome of the phrase. His tan skin looked dewy. His black hair was freshly washed and neatly combed. And he hummed as he went about chopping fresh parsley on a cutting board.
Side note: it was parsley he’d grown himself in a window box.
Grrr.She hated him and his rosy cheeks and his jaunty chopping.
Okay, not really. In truth, she loved the man to pieces. But his sunshiny disposition every morning made her want to chew thumb drives.
“That skin care gift pack has nine bottles in it.” She was hunched over her steaming cup of coffee like an ogre.Or is it ogrette since I’m female? Ogress? Hmm. Something to google later.“Four bottles for first thing in the morning and five bottles that are supposed to be used before bed. Who has time for that? Plus, I looked at the labels and one of them is some kind of acid.Acid, Cesar. Why would anyone put acid on their face?”
When he pointed at his flawless complexion, she was forced to concede. “Fine. You’re right. The proof is in the pudding. But I’d rather take a bath with a toaster than spend twenty minutes rubbing goop on my mug before I can fall into my nightly coma.”
She was a nocturnal type who did her best cyberpunk junk after the sun went down. It wasn’t unusual for her to bang out her eight hours of labor for “the man” from six PM to two AM, and then come home to fall face-first into bed—her brain fried from staring at lines of code.
“What if I whittled it down to three bottles in the morning and four at night?” Cesar offered, tightening the belt on his silk kimono. “But the hyaluronic acid stays, darling. It works wonders.”
“What if instead you whittled it down to one each?” she countered.
He narrowed his eyes until his sooty lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. “Two apiece and that’s my final offer.”
“Deal.” She thrust her hand over the kitchen island before he could reconsider and try to negotiate her higher.
After they shook, he dutifully went back to humming and chopping. A handful of seconds later, the tune registered in her sluggish brain.
“‘Sign of the Times.’” She pointed to his nose. “You got lucky last night.” She glanced around their apartment, then leaned over the island and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is he still here?”
Cesar tutted and dished up the perfect omelet before sprinkling parsley on top of it.
“Harry Styles is a man foralloccasions, darling. Not just for”—he made a face of derision—“getting luckyas you so crassly put it. Also, are people still usinggetting lucky? Surely there are more modern euphemisms to choose from.”
“Sure. Which do you prefer? Adding some ranch to the hidden valley? Locking legs and swapping gravy? Glazing the doughn—”
“Just stop.” He held up his hand.
“So?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Is he still here?”
Instead of answering, he waved dismissively. “You know, instead of spending your time memorizing vulgarisms or reading that alien smut, you should think about getting dolled up and going out on the town with me to find a handsome, eligible bachelor for yourself.” He slid the omelet in front of her. “How long has it been since you had a date?”
She glanced down at the paperback romance novel beside the plate and the buff blue alien printed on the cover. “I’m well past my club rat days. And this isn’t smut.” She tapped the book. “It’s fun and sexy and incredibly well-written.”
“But it’s given you unrealistic expectations when it comes to…getting lucky,” Cesar insisted. “I mean, how is a real man supposed to compete with your romance heroes who have tentacles that can pleasure a woman in ten different spots at the same time?”
“I have never heard anyone say so many wrong things in a row,” she declared with a staunch dip of her chin. “I don’t have unrealistic expectations when it comes to sex. I have woefullyrealisticexpectations that guys will do anything to get into my pants before ghosting me. It’s like sport fishing. Men my age are all about the catch and release.”
She picked up the book and shook it at him. “Also, these guys don’t have tentacles. They have penises that vibrate and saliva that’s basically the alien equivalent of molly.”
Cesar rolled his eyes. “You’ve just made my point for me. Norealmen can compare.”
“Norealmentry,” she clapped back.
