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“Sorry to have offended,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Back to the matter at hand. Here’s the plan, unless this instructor miracle happens. I’ve got us registered to log in online and participate virtually, two spots at the 6:00 a.m. class. We can take some photos as we do it, post them to Instagram, knock it out before breakfast, and then I can head to practice.”
“Six a.m.?”
Ziggy gives me a withering look. “I’m sorry, Sebastian, do you have some other pressing engagement at that time? Wallowing? Waking and baking? Trying on a different color cashmere throw blanket as your outfit of the day?”
“Fine! I’ll do it, all right?”
“Excellent. We’ll log in for yoga—”
“At my place. If I have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn for this, then your perky little morning-person self can come to me.”
“Fine,” she grumbles. “Yoga at 6:00 a.m. Post some photos to Instagram. Then we go get a breakfast smoothie or something afterward, to be seen. How’s that sound?”
“Yoga with a sore foot hours before I’m normally awake? Sounds terrible.” Groaning as pain knifes through my stomach—this is why I don’t eat, because every time I do, it fucking hurts—I ease off the hood of my car. “However, since you backed us into this little corner of a fib with Köhler, I’ll do it.” I tug the milkshake cup out of her hands and shake it meaningfully. “You owe me one of these, by the way.”
8
ZIGGY
Playlist: “Angry Too,” Lola Blanc
The smug look in Sebastian’s eyes when he opens his door almost makes me turn around and walk right back out. Before I headed over, I texted him that the instructor responded after all; Yuval will be here at 6:00 a.m. sharp. I was hoping by the time I got to his house, he’d be past the point of gloating.
I was wrong.
“Told you,” he says, shutting the door behind me.
I roll my eyes and walk past him with my yoga mat under my arm, straight down the hallway toward the smell of coffee. “You’re annoying.”
A satisfied sound rumbles in his throat as he follows me, though it dies away abruptly as I yank off my tunic-length hoodie. I glance over my shoulder, confused.
As he clomps in his boot across the kitchen, Sebastian scowls at the coffee pot like it personally insulted him.
“What’s your deal?” I ask.
He grunts, pouring two cups of coffee, sliding one across the counter my way.
“Sebastian.”
“Sigrid. Drink your coffee.”
“Listen, friend.” I pour a hefty glug of milk into my cup, which he was surprisingly considerate enough to leave out. “Yuval is going to be here in five minutes, and they’re not going to buy our friendship if you’re grunting and glaring at me.”
Sebastian sips his coffee and transforms his expression into a smooth, cool glance. “I’m not glaring.”
“You were. And you were grunting.”
He pulls his cup away and flashes that sharp smirk. “Who? Me?”
“You’re impossible.”
The doorbell rings. Sebastian and I tip our heads back, shotgunning our coffees in tandem.
“Well, Ziggy dear,” he says, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. “Ladies first.”
Yuval is clearly here for one person and one person only. To Sebastian’s credit, he’s been polite to them but firmly professional, not at all flirtatious. Who knew he had it in him?
Loud, angry music blares in his workout room, and after a gentle warm-up sequence, Yuval cranks up the volume. The sound vibrates in my chest, which I’m surprised I enjoy. I’ve always struggled with complex noise, and I assumed heavy metal would similarly bother me. Who knew I’d love it?
