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I hear amusement in his voice as Danny says, “You both lie the same.”
“And how’s that, Danny Aiken?” She says it as if she’s scolding him, but in a flirtatious way.
“In the prettiest way, of course,” he uses just the same playful tone.
They’re adorable.
“Send me your flight information, and I’ll?—”
“No worries. Danny rented a vehicle.”
* * *
As soon as I hang up, I throw on a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved shirt then run downstairs. On my way to the cleaning cupboard to grab my supplies, I tap Roberto, my robo vac, so he can get things started, making my life a little easier.
Prepping the mop bucket, I look out the window and see Rome pulling out of the driveway in his Chevy pickup.
Kissing Gym Bro at the concert was supposed to be a step forward from simply fantasizing about Hot Neighbor. The fact that they are one and the same is unbelievable. And after I kind of freaked out on him, he knocked on my door?
I should call him now and tear off the metaphorical Band-Aid, I think, but then I remind myself that I don’t have his number.
How the hell am I going to tell Rome that Tuesday is off? How the hell did I forget they were coming?
I quickly decide to use all this energy to stress-clean and, yes, daydream about what it is I will be missing out on because he’s freaking hot, and deep, and well spoken. Even his dirty talk had depth to it. Is that even a thing?
So, yeah, I’m missing out on Tuesday, and if last night was any indication, it will be a sizable loss.
Wiping down the island, I feel my cheeks flush, thinking about last night and how I let myself lean into it—well, thrust into it might be more accurate. Regardless, I won’t be telling Chloe that I took her advice. Instead, I thank her now.
Thank you, Chloe.
I didn’t feel the need to protect myself against him or question his intentions. Everything he said was delivered in such a way that it gave me the reins. He wasn’t here in hopes of getting laid. In fact, he all but begged me to shut the door. I just couldn’t.
By noon, the bedding’s changed, the house is dust-free, the floor is gleaming, and the entire place pretty much smells like Clorox. Me? I smell like bleach, sweat, and naughty thoughts.
After I shower, I throw on leggings, a hoodie, and my UGGs. Then I head out the door to pick up my huge groceries order, curbside.
Once on the road, I press the steering wheel control and say, “Call Fawna.”
The response comes immediately through my speakers. “Calling Fawna lower case o.”
My grip on the wheel instinctively tightens as I remind myself not to waste the energy trying to correct AI by replying, “It’s an upper-case O in my contact list.” It’s not easy to try to correct something so wrongfully named it pisses me off, but not as much as the robot calls. I’ve overcome the need to scream, “Speak to a fucking representative!” every time it pisses me off, so I’m sure this will eventually stop triggering me, too.
I settle on, “Thanks, car.”
Fawna answers immediately. “Good morning!”
“I swear, you’re hoarding all the energy the rest of the world is missing, like all those people who emptied the toilet paper shelves, thinking they’d have to resort to cleaning their butts with leaves during?—”
“Shh. Don’t say the C-word, especially since you have finally come out of your C-word coma, like Sleeping Beauty after Prince Phillip kissed her.”
I cringe. “I will never read my niece a story about a necrophiliac.”
“She wasn’t dead. She was sleeping.”
I huff, “Fine, I’ll never read Aggie books, romanticizing somnophilia.”
“You’ve clearly never been woken up by a face between your thighs.” She sighs, and I inwardly recoil. “It’s like that coffee commercial. The best part of waking up is?—”
