STELLA
“Don’t say it,”I warn as soon as the front door shuts behind Lark Bienvenue.
Pen doesn’t speak. She just cackles like the witch she is.
I grit my teeth. “We should have advertised that we only wanted female tenants.”
Pen’s amusement doesn’t wane at all. “Then why didn’t you say so?”
“I never even thought about it.” I shake my head. “I only ever pictured girls. College girls like Livy.”
At her name, Pen’s grin flags, and she licks her lips. “I think one Livy is going to be enough,” she says soberly.
I can’t say I disagree. “I just mean college-age girls. Not necessarily Gen Z warrior goddesses.”
I swear, Pen’s eyes glaze over. “Sh-She is that, isn’t she?”
I cock a brow at my friend. “Thirsty, Pen? Can I get you some water?”
She scowls. “You’re the one who needs water. You must be running a fever after meeting that hottie.”
My laugh is sarcastic. “What are you talking about?”
“You—” Pen points her long finger at me before aiming it at the front door, “and him. Your energies might as well have been mud wrestling.”
“Ha. That’s crazy.” I force out a few more ha-ha-has, but now that I think about it, I do sort of feel like I just climbed out of a boxing ring. Adrenaline is leaching from my limbs. I might even need to sit down.
Instead, I turn and stomp toward the kitchen before my legs start shaking.
Pen follows. “You can’t deny there was a charge between you,” she accuses, excitement in her voice. “I knew it the minute I saw him. And the reaction you had as soon as you looked at him just confirmed—”
“That was just shock at seeing a strange man in my kitchen,” I say, yanking open the fridge door. The chicken kabobs have been marinating since this morning, but I pop open the container and rotate each skewer one more time before firing up the broiler.
“More like a shock from seeing afineman in your kitchen,” Pen mutters.
That was a bit of a jolt, but I’m not about to admit it. “That kid is barely legal,” I say, layering on as much judgement as I can.
Pen snorts. “He’s younger, but he’s gotta be in his twenties.”
“Irrelevant.” I pull Nanna’s broiling pan from the cabinet next to the oven and mist it with cooking spray, not, I repeat, not trying to guess Lark Bienvenue’s age. He did say he was a senior. So, Pen is right. He has to be at least—
Stop,I scold myself.
Pen takes the plastic bag of mushrooms, sliced bell peppers, chopped zucchini, and cherry tomatoes that have also been marinating since this morning out of the fridge. She stands next to me and lowers her voice. “You ever slept with a younger guy?”
I stop lining the pan with kabobs and turn my head with menacing slowness. “You know every guy I’ve slept with,” I hiss in a whisper.
Her shrug is minute. “Don’t know their ages.”
Pen and I are both twenty-eight. I’ve slept with a total of five guys. Way less than Pen, but way more than I’d like to remember. “My only experience with anyone younger was Brody.”
Out of the five, Brody Michot is the one I’d like to forget the most, but that’s tough to do since he’s Maisy’s father.
Pen’s brows knit. “I didn’t know he was younger.”
“Two years if we’re counting actual age. Ten years if we’re talking maturity.”
“Heard from him lately?”
