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“I’m going to change really quick so I can wash this thing,” I say over my shoulder. “Make yourself at home, give yourself the grand tour, whatever.”
I shut the door to my bedroom, rip off my sheath dress, and rummage through my drawers until I find a pair of workout shorts and a tank top. I’m not actually planning on working out, but I like the illusion it creates.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he calls from the living room.
“Thanks! There’s water in the fridge if you need it!”
Two seconds later, I hear a crash and come running, yanking my tank top down as I go. Half of the contents of my refrigerator are on the floor. Adam is standing, frozen—no, horrified.
“Oh god, I forgot to warn you—”
“I just opened the door and everything came tumbling out.”
I have a tiny refrigerator, like half the size of a normal one. I’d complain to Mr. Hall about it, but y’know, beggars can’t be choosers. Anyway, I make do. I shove all my food inside of it and carefully stack it in a way that it doesn’t come tumbling down if I open the door slowly enough.
Adam, of course, didn’t think to do that, and now he’s bent over picking up my yogurt and apples.
“It’s a small fridge,” I offer lamely as I try to help.
“Yeah, sorry, I was trying to get some water and didn’t think to prepare myself for an avalanche.”
I look up to find him smiling.
“Are you mocking me?”
“I feel like someone has to. The amount of accidents that happen to you on a daily basis must break some kind of Guinness World Record.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I stand and start shoving food back into the fridge before I hand him the water pitcher.
“There you go, Mr. Hydration. Have as much as you want.”
He accepts the glass I hand him and then leans back against the counter. I lean back against the opposite one, and my galley kitchen feels small with him inside of it. I mean, it always feels small, but now it feels microscopic. If I reached my foot out just a little, I’d bump his shoes. I wonder what he thinks. He’s probably used to something a little more spacious, more up to date. My appliances are from the stone ages, and the dishwasher, though intact, doesn’t even work. I store my winter clothes in it because I’m resourceful like that.
“You can come running with us if you want.”
I refocus my attention on his face, having just stared at his legs for the last thirty seconds. Have I ever cared about a man’s legs before?
Adam is smiling, mocking me still.
“I’d rather get stuck on a deserted island with Lori.”
He laughs.
“Not much of a runner?”
“My brother got the running genes. I got—”
“The clumsy genes.”
I smirk. “Exactly.”
He finishes off his water and turns to open the dishwasher. This time, I react fast enough to stop him.
“Oh! No worries,” I say, retrieving the glass from his hand. “I hand wash everything.”
Mouse goes crazy once I grab his leash. Adam hooks it to his collar and then salutes me on his way out the door, promising not to be gone too long. I close the door after them, press my back to the door, and then slowly, my gaze falls on the one thing I forgot to clean: my dirty clothes hamper in the middle of the living room. It was in plain view for Adam, and sitting right on top is a sheer pale pink bra I bought ages ago and only pull out when I have no other options. It only takes a second for me to calculate the odds of Adam having seen it—100%. Perfect. Now he probably thinks I put the hamper out there on purpose, like I’m trying to seduce him with my delicates. I groan and carry the hamper into my bedroom then force myself to pull up a workout video on YouTube. It’s either that or continue to clean; I can’t watch TV while Adam is out exercising my dog. It feels wrong.
By the time he knocks on my door 45 minutes later, I’m lying in a heap on my floor, sweating and refusing to stand.
The yoga video I picked was called Intermediate Yoga, or so I thought. A quick check after I’ve finished proves that I read it wrong. Insanity Yoga is listed in the description box, which, to me, seems like an oxymoron.
Adam knocks again and I know I have to get up off the floor. I try to move my legs, but they don’t budge. I groan and try again, forcing myself to get up. Every step to the door is painful, and my forearm burns as I turn the handle.
Adam, bless him, looks like a sweaty God on my doorstep with his t-shirt clinging to his chest and arms. Mouse stands beside him, panting and happy as a clam.
