Which makes it extra fun to mess with him. I cross the room and slump next to him on the sofa, dumping my bag on the floor. “Good evening, sir?”
He gives me an aggravated look, and I smile, putting my feet up on the coffee table. He glances quickly over my fishnetted legs, then clears his throat. “I had an okay evening,” he says slowly. “I edited a bonus episode of the podcast, then signed posters until my markers ran out of ink.” He picks up a small cream card off the coffee table. “My ex sent me another wedding invite,” he adds drily. “This is the fifth one. I think she’s noticed me screening her calls.”
I reach for it, squinting at the swirly embossed font.
Please join Amy Jones and Rob Tran as we tie the knot!
April 5th, The Laurel Grove
I pull a face. I remember his ex-wife from high school. She was the school’s headmistress at the same time Luke was teaching me. She was a total bitch.
“Ew. Why does she even want you there?” I drop the invite into Luke’s lap and flop my head against the sofa cushions. Everything is spinning. “You should burn it.”
“I was just planning on recycling it, actually.” He frowns at me. “Are you alright? What did Zack do to you?”
“Hm?” I let my eyes fall half-shut. “Nothing.”
“You’re very flushed.” He reaches across and touches my cheek, and I turn into his palm automatically. He smells delicious. Like Earl Grey and old books. I want to nuzzle into him like an armchair.
He pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. “And… floppy. Have you been drinking?”
I stretch and yawn. “Yeah.”
His frown deepens. “Just for fun? Or is something wrong?”
Before I can answer, a door opens in the hallway. “Did I hear that right?” A low voice drawls. “Layla Thompson is drunk?”
I look up. The last occupant of apartment 6B, Joshua Tran, is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking at me through narrowed eyes. I glare right back at him, even though tilting my head to look him in the eye hurts my neck.
The guy is tall. At about six-five, he’s taller than Zack, with thick black hair, sharp bone structure, and cool, distant eyes. He’s the quieter one of the group — unlike Zack, he doesn’t burst into rooms and loudly announce his presence; he sneaks in like a black panther and glares around at everyone with judgy eyes.
Which is exactly what he’s doing now.
He leans against the doorway. “Tonight is date night, right?” He says. “Shouldn’t you be getting it on with some rich hedge fund manager? What is it now? Date 120?”
“Keeping track, are you?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. My hands come away black with makeup. Crap. “Gosh, Josh. Anyone would think you want to date me.”
“I would rather bleach my face in acid,” he says conversationally, staring at me. Joshua has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re practically black, and almost scarily intense. Right now, they’re scanning over me like lasers, snagging on my short dress and high heels.
I pick up the wedding invite and throw it at him. “Tell your brother it’s weird for him to marry Luke’s ex.”
“I tried. Sadly, he’s in love with her. You go all red when you drink.”
“Piss off.” I close my eyes again. “Leave me alone. ‘M just here for cheese.”
There’s a pause as I snuggle into the sofa cushions. Then hands wrap around my ankles, and I jump, my eyes flying back open. Josh has crossed the room and is kneeling in front of me, pulling my feet into his lap.
“Take these off,” he says gruffly. “They look painful.” He runs his fingers across the buckle of my heeled boot. “I’ve never seen you have more than one drink.”
“Hate being drunk,” I mumble, wiggling my feet at him. “Don’t wanna move. You take them off.”
He finds the zip and tugs it down, freeing my foot. His thumb presses into my arch, and I practically melt into the couch. His lip quirks up. He takes off my other boot and lines them both up neatly by the sofa. “If you don’t like drinking,” he says slowly, “then why are you drunk?”
I blink, thinking about it. “I don’t know. I guess I’m… sad?”
It’s like a wave passes through the two men. One minute, they’re at ease, and the next, they’re both staring at me, concern written over their faces.
Crap.
FOUR
ZACK
“Jesus,” Layla says loudly, when the silence stretches on too long. “I said I’m sad. Not dying of a terminal illness.”