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“Martinique’ll love it—she’s crazy for vintage clothes.”
“What else is she into? I tried stalking her Instagram, but it’s private.”
Answering is easy—my BFF is nothing if not vocal about her preferences. I could probably write a fifty-page guidebook for Reese on the Republic of Martinique.
“She loves fashion and baking. She makes the cutest birthday cakes for everybody she knows in their favorite flavors—reason enough to be friends with her. And she’s a water baby, can’t get enough of swimming and surfing…”
“Hold on, hold on!” Reese pulls out his phone and starts taking notes.
“You haven’t even met her yet,” Sully says.
“I want to be prepared! You never know when a blind date might turn into ‘The One.’”
“Better tell him what shedoesn’tlike,” Sully says. “Or he’ll show up with a bouquet of edible underwear.”
I laugh. “That might be right up her alley.”
“Really?” Reese beams. “Because I do have some fuzzy handcuffs?—“
“See?“ Sully shakes his head.
“Things Martinique hates…” I list them off on my fingers. “People who interrupt, people who ask what’s happening during movies, people who don’t shut your door on the way out, small yappy dogs, big stinky dogs, expensive avocados that are already brown inside…”
“Well, that last one should be illegal,” Sully says.
Reese types frantically. “I think we might be soulmates.”
“You interrupt all the time,” Sully points out.
“When have I ever interrupted you?”
His twin gives him a beady look. “Do you want that list alphabetical, or?—“
“See, never!” Reese shouts.
Sully gives a slow shake of his head. “Don’t use that joke on the date.”
I can’t decide if Martinique is going to love Reese or hate him. On the one hand, Reese is an adorable goofball. On the other hand, Martinique has never dated anyone for longer than a month. Reasons she has broken up with men include talking to their mom too little, talking to their mom too much, snoring, and ordering her appetizer for her.
Reese should be safe from most of those, but I’d need a month to list off the rest of Martinique’s pet peeves and the drive to Angus’ house is only twenty minutes.
Sully takes the wheel, Reese squished into the tiny backseat.
“Holy shitballs!” Reese says when we pull up to Angus’ place. “That’s a proper villain’s lair. His house looks like it would beat the shit out of our house and take its lunch money.”
“Somebody already beat the shit out of our house,” Sully says.
“You don’t want to live here,” I tell Reese. “It’s like wandering around inside a sculpture.”
Angus’ house is cold and impersonal. He didn’t decorate any of the rooms, and that’s exactly what it feels like—like a staged set always waiting for some glossy magazine shoot.
But Reese scoffs at the idea that this level of luxury could be in any way unpleasant. “Think of the parties I could throw here!”
Sully gazes around at the rager already in full swing. “Yeah, all you need is a gold-digging girlfriend…”
“Can I apply?” Martinique says, popping into view.
Martinique looks like a tiny firecracker in her tight red dress and heels with her glossy cap of black hair.
