Look at those jugs good grief. I’d pay to get my face in them
SIXTEEN
LAYLA
One week after my second episode of Three Single Guys airs, I drag myself back up the stairs of my building, utterly exhausted.
It’s nine PM, and I’ve been up working since five this morning. I’ve spent all day at the warehouse unit I use to store all of my products, doing product quality checks and packing orders. My back is burning from hunching over the label address machine. My eyes are blurry from triple-checking every receipt. My fingers are sore and smudged with pink, where the colouring came off the pink tissue paper I use to wrap smaller items.
But I am very, very happy.
My sales numbers have absolutely skyrocketed since the last episode of Three Single Guys came out. It’s amazing. I haven’t seen numbers this high since Christmas. Just yesterday, I had over two hundred orders come in, and I’ve had to mark several items as out-of-stock on the website until I can get another shipment from the suppliers. I knew that being on the podcast would be good advertising. Still, I really didn’t expect there to be such a massive response. As I climb the last flight of stairs up to my floor, I’m practically walking on air, humming under my breath.
Tonight is our second official ‘lesson’。 Josh invited me over for a dinner date. Originally, he asked me to meet the guys at a restaurant, but I don’t exactly want to be seen canoodling with two men in a fancy dinner spot. Plus, I’m kind of hoping that we’ll be able to lure Luke out of his room to hang out with us tonight. Ever since he walked in on me and Josh kissing, I feel like he’s been avoiding me. I’ve barely seen him all week. When we recorded the episode on Sunday, he arrived at the studio five minutes late and left five minutes early. I think he exchanged a total of ten words with me before disappearing again.
Honestly, it’s starting to piss me off. I get it. He doesn’t approve of the experiment. But I don’t know why he’s avoiding me completely. We’re supposed to be friends. Before all of this happened, he had no problems watching movies or eating dinner with us. It’s starting to hurt my feelings.
Right as I step out onto the landing of my floor, the lift on the other end of the hall opens its doors. As if he’s been summoned by my thoughts, Luke steps out, looking ridiculously hot in a long black coat, his silvery hair ruffled. He doesn’t see me as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and heads to his flat door.
Trying to ignore my heart suddenly thumping in my throat, I go to join him. “Hey.”
He jumps so hard he almost drops his keys, spinning to face me. “Layla,” he blurts out. “What are you doing here?”
“I… live here? That’s disappointing, I thought you’d noticed.”
He blinks owlishly. “I mean. I thought you were going out for dinner.”
“Change of plan. Josh cooked instead.”
“Oh. So… you’re coming in?” He points at his flat door. I nod. He considers for a few seconds, then slips his key back into his coat pocket. “I, ah. Think I need to do some shopping.” He steps away from the door and walks past me, heading to the stairs. I stare after him.
Seriously?
“So I’m not imagining it,” I say loudly. “You are actually avoiding me, then?”
He looks flustered. “Of course not. No, I just remembered that I… I need to go shopping.”
“Right. At 9PM at night?”
“Just need some essentials. Have a good evening.” He starts to walk down the stairs. As I watch his retreating back, irritation simmering inside me, a memory sparks in the back of my head. I suddenly remember the first time I met Luke.
I was fourteen at the time. A shy, perfectionist high school student. It was a lunch break, and I’d just been brought to the headmistress’s office after one of the prefects saw that the sleeve of my blazer was fraying. At most schools, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but at a private school as posh as Emery High, I may as well have committed a crime.
Our headmistress, Mrs Martins, was an evil woman. She acted as sweet as a lamb in front of our parents, but she treated the students awfully. I hated her. After I was brought up to her office, she shouted at me for almost ten minutes straight. I was on the brink of tears when the door to her office swung open and a man stepped inside. The memory blooms in front of my eyes.
“Amy, do you want to pick up some lunch — oh.” He looks between us.
Mrs Martins straightens. “This is Layla Thompson,” she sighs. “She’s in Year Nine, and she’s apparently still incapable of dressing herself.”