Page 8 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

“What time do you close?” Eden asks.

I check my phone again. “I should have closed fifteen minutes ago, actually. Got surprised by a last-minute customer.”

“This place is amazing,” she sighs, turning around to take in the Copper Cup’s warm wood and stuffed bookshelves. “It’s just like in the pictures. Coming in feels like a hug. I love it.”

“Thanks.” My face gets hot and red, the way it does whenever a compliment really hits me. The truth is, I’m more proud of the Copper Cup than anything else I’ve ever done. It’s the one thing that’s entirely mine. My parents said I was crazy for opening it so young and so fresh out of college, but my grant proposal got me all the modest start-up money I needed, and who actually needs sleep, anyway?

Eden shakes her head. “One day, I’m going to make you accept a compliment without your face turning into a tomato.”

“Good luck with that.” I nod toward the register. “You take a look around while I lock up the cash. Then we can go back to my apartment.”

Luckily, my apartment is right down the street. Unluckily, each of Eden’s suitcases weighs more than she does.

“What do you have in here, cement blocks?” I grumble as I lug one suitcase up the narrow staircase.

“Yes, I figured I better bring my own in case you didn’t have any.”

We’re both sweating and panting when we trudge up the last stair.

“Are you regretting coming here now?” I wheeze as I unlock the door.

“So much,” Eden grunts. “Toronto doesn’t have enough cowboys who want to prove their fragile masculinity by carrying heavy suitcases. Hopefully, it at least has jobs.”

When Eden told me she got into school to be an event planner, it felt like a no-brainer. She’s the life of any party, and it’s like she was born knowing how to make people feel welcome. Back when we were in camp, that meant dragging me out of my teenage angst shell by asking me relentless questions about the books I read under the covers. She’s the first to pull a shy outsider from the corner, the first to suggest a round of shots, the one who always remembers to bring a plastic crown and balloons for the birthday girl. Plus, I think she likes that event planners get to call the shots and make decisions. She’s had enough of being bossed around by her brothers.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough of a market in her rancher town in Alberta. She could’ve tried Calgary, but Toronto at least has more opportunities, even if the only jobs Eden found so far are unpaid apprenticeships or part-time assistant gigs that wouldn’t cover half the rent in this city.

Enter: me, the lonely bestie with a tiny guest room to offer. After a month of hounding Eden to accept my generosity, she finally caved and agreed to give Toronto a try.

I lead her inside to my apartment. On the whole, it’s small and cluttered. The living room sofa is squishy and floral, sent to the thrift store by someone’s grandmother. The tables are littered with books and magazines, and the room is narrow enough that Eden’s suitcases barely fit through the gap between the coffee table and the wall.

The tour of the bathroom and the kitchen (the only uncluttered room in the house, thanks to Beau) only takes about thirty seconds. Then, it’s time for the underwhelming reveal.

“So…this is your room.” I gesture apologetically to the tiny space, where I managed to fit a twin bed, a two-drawer dresser, and not much else. “Sorry, it’s really more of a walk-in closet than a room. I couldn’t afford a two-bedroom otherwise.”

“Don’t apologize!” Eden assures me. “It’s free, which makes it absolutely perfect.”

“You say that now, but I think even our tent back at Camp Rush was bigger than this.”

“I had to share that tent with three other girls. This walk-in closet is all mine.” Eden flops back on the twin bed and grins. “And it’s comfy, too.”

“Compared to what? That mattress feels like a brick. I felt like a bad friend offering it to you.”

“I like a firm mattress. Good for your back.”

“Are you lying to make me feel better?”

“No, my back is really that bad after all the time I spent hunched over seating charts,” she groans. “I’d rather sleep on a wood floor than a pile of fluffy marshmallows.”

“Okay, weirdo, whatever you say. The concrete mattress is all yours.”

By the time I’m finished making us a bowl of microwave popcorn, Eden has started unpacking her bags. Somehow, she managed to fit what looks like every piece of clothing she owns into two suitcases. Dresses, jeans, and shirts spread out over the bed like a colorful tornado.

“Uh, where is all this going to go, exactly?” I ask.

“I’ll make it fit,” Eden says brightly. “I have amazing spatial awareness skills.”

“Did you put those on your resume?”