–Me: Help. How do you know if somebody’s trying to poison you?
–Skye: What kind of research is this? I thought your book was rom-com?
–Lucy: Is this slow poisoning? Feeling sicker than normal? Hair falling out in clumps?
–Me: No. It’s just that my next-door drummer brought stuff to make breakfast.
–Lucy: Is he going to eat with you?
I thought back on what I’d seen. He probably knew I couldn’t eat a dozen eggs on my own.
–Me: I guess?
–Skye: Then obviously he’s not going to poison you.
–Me: He could’ve taken an antidote beforehand.
–Lucy: You sure you don’t want to write romantic suspense?
I rolled my
eyes. Lucy was convinced I’d be really good at romantic suspense because I could be a bit paranoid. But that was why I wrote rom-com. I wanted to immerse my mind in a fun, awesome fictional world because the real one sucked cow poop.
–Me: I’m sure.
–Skye: Didn’t you say he was hot?
–Me: I said he passed the minimum requirement.
–Lucy: Definitely hot. She didn’t deny it.
I quirked my eyebrows in annoyance and affection. They could be so single-minded.
–Me: How is that relevant?
–Skye: Because if a hot guy uses your shower and makes you breakfast, you should just lie back—metaphorically, of course—and enjoy it.
Et tu, Skye? She was saying what that 911 dispatcher had told me when I called to report Killian for noise pollution. Neither Skye nor Lucy seemed to understand I didn’t want to enjoy it.
Killian was too hot. And he knew it, which always meant trouble. Just ask my mom.
–Lucy: What she said. The world isn’t full of nefarious people. I don’t know why you think that when I’m the one writing about horrible serial killers and you write about nice guys who do nice, sexy things.
–Skye: If it makes you feel better, if you don’t text us in the next three hours, we’ll call the police and tell them who killed you.
I laughed because I could imagine Skye looking eager. Her main complaint about life was that it was too ordinary. Nothing exciting ever happened.
–Me: Fine. I’ll hold you to that.
The floor above me creaked, which meant Killian was out of the shower.
–Me: OK, he’s done showering. Gotta go.
Unlike yesterday, Killian had put back on the pair of dark shorts he’d worn to my house, like a decent, civilized human being. Somehow, part of me was vaguely displeased.
He looked better without the pants.
The thought just popped into my head suddenly, like all my best story ideas. Except this wasn’t a story idea…and definitely wasn’t the best idea. I wasn’t feeling mildly annoyed because of his clothes. My gaze jumped up to his torso. I was annoyed because…