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Not that the yoga lady, Skye, should’ve thought of that or anything.
As long as her artsy decor all matches, she can post pictures of these yurt interiors online and get chicks all across the country dragging their whipped boyfriends out here.
And all these dumb guys will be up at all hours, stocking stoves and making sure their girlfriends are toasty warm and well-rested for breakfast, yoga, and whatever else this nightmare includes.
My quiet bachelor-pad…
I love my apartment. Because it’smine.
It’s small, and I don’t have much in it besides my bed, dresser, and a big ol’ TV. And as far as decor goes, I don’t have any. There are no matchy-matchy white bedspreads and fluffy pillows. No macrame wall hangings, or whatever that is swinging from on the wall over there.
No turquoise vases or perfectly arranged desert-chic antiques.
No artsy, empty picture frame propped by the wall, surrounding a glass bottle full of… what are those? Feathers?
Save me.
They’re eagle feathers.
That’s probably supposed to inspire us to soar or something.
This place is cheesy to the max.
Olivia hauls her huge suitcase up on the bed and unzips it. “What do people wear to do interpretive dancing, anyway?” she asks. Then she shoots me a glare over her shoulder. “Oh, pooh. Why am I even asking you that? I know whatyou’regoing to wear.”
She waves a hand my way, up once, down once. “What you always wear. That.”
“You got a problem with how I dress?”
I know I sound gruff.
I can’t help it.
Maybe my voice dropped that deep because I’m fed up with her. Or maybe it’s because she’s going to be sleeping in that bed, and I just figured out where I’m going to sleep on the floor, and it’s not that far away from her.
It’s just going to be us in here.
With all these candles.
And yeah, I’m a hot-blooded man with a heartbeat, and I’m not immune to her bow-shaped red lips, or her bright eyes, or that soft, glossy hair.
And maybe—maybe—when she kept squeezing my arm down there in the parking lot and calling me honey, it did something to me.
Something I don’t want to think about.
I started to think… What if?
What if somehow, we got together?
What if she squeezed my arm one day because she wanted to touch me, and I let myself just… enjoy it?
Nope. I won’t think about that.
I don't want to be her honey.
I don’t have a shot with her, anyway.
I’ll never be her honey, or her baby, or the guy she gets impatient with for real.
