“You have a bathroom off of your kitchen?” Evan made a face.
“Yes, Mr. Privileged Billionaire, because those of us who actually work take what we can get.”
Fergus glared at me and hissed. Evan smirked.
“And here,” I blew out a breath, “is the bedroom slash living room slash my office slash the guest room. And that’s it. That’s the tour.”
“Oh,” Evan said.
“You are free to go elsewhere,” I reminded him.
“No, this is cool,” he replied.
The double bed took up the majority of the room. A fold-down Murphy bed would have been more practical, but after the condo fees, the broker fees, and just generally trying to survive as an adult in New York City fees, I didn’t have money left for a Disney+ subscription, let alone a whole new furniture set. No, my college bed with the lumpy mattress would have to do for the next thirty years while I tried to pay off not one but two mortgages. No, don’t ask. No, really, please don’t. Remember, people pleaser here with no boundaries.
It didn’t seem as if Evan had any boundaries either. He had set Fergus on the bedspread and was in the process of removing his clothes.
“What in the world!” I yelled and clapped a hand over my eyes.
“I need a shower,” Evan retorted. “The smell of rotten fish that is all over you is now all over me.” There was the soft wumpf of his pants being dumped on my bed then a puff of air as he moved past me to the bathroom.
The door creaked shut, and I uncovered my eyes. My condo had never felt particularly large, but with Evan in the bathroom and his clothes around the small space, it felt oppressive. I wasn’t a small woman by any means, but Evan was huge. His shoes took up a chunk of the usable floor space all on their own. I hastily put them on the shelf by the door then begged Fergus to please get off of Evan’s nice suit so I could hang it up. Whatever cat magic Evan had exuded earlier had disappeared with him into the bathroom, and the large Maine Coon hissed at me as I snatched the jacket and pants off of the bed.
I refused to acknowledge how good they smelled as I hung them up. Instead, I was antsy and shaky about having not just a man but an unfairly attractive one in my home.
“You need food,” I told myself, trying to calm down.
Normally after a wedding, I went home and held my own little party with Netflix and the leftover catering—especially the cake. But Evan had ruined my plans, and now there was no cake, no shrimp cocktail, and no fresh pasta. Well, I did have some pasta. Cameli’s made the best lasagna in New York. I kept some in the tiny under-counter fridge for emergencies. There was one square left. I stared at it then flicked my eyes to the bathroom. Evan and I could share it.
The bathroom door was frosted glass. The water stopped running, and I heard the shower curtain move, because the condo had paper-thin walls. Through the frosted glass, Evan’s shadowy silhouette was visible. Even through the wavy glass, I could tell he was cut.
I was wanting a little something more than lasagna.
Down, girl. This morning, he was a soon-to-be-married man. And he is also still an asshole.
I turned on the oven and slid the lasagna in its metal tray inside to heat up. The smell of garlic and cheese filled the small space. Baking and food were my happy places. I was standing at the oven, inhaling, when the bathroom door opened.
“That smells really good,” Evan announced. “I’m starving.”
Fergus scampered toward Evan’s feet. To be honest, it was more of a lumber—that cat seriously needed to be on a diet. I cringed. I had been on the receiving end of a Fergus ankle attack. I hissed and winced, but Fergus just gently licked the water droplets on Evan’s skin.
Jealousy rose in me.
“I rescued that cat from a dumpster,” I complained, glaring at the traitor. “And he has never showed me the amount of gratitude that he’s shown you, and he doesn’t even know you!”
“What can I say?” Evan asked smugly. “Everyone loves me.”
He posed, so tall his head almost brushed the top of the ceiling. It was good that I was thinking about his height; otherwise I would be thinking about the tiny towel that Evan had around his waist.
“Not everyone loves you,” I said snidely. “Camilla sure doesn’t.”
“Ouch, Ivy,” Evan said, giving me that kicked-puppy look.
I immediately felt like a bitch. “I’m going to shower,” I muttered. “Lasagna will be done soon.”
I hid in the bathroom and texted my friends. Now that I knew things were visible through that door, I was not undressing while Evan was outside it. I sat on the toilet, texting my friends, while Evan puttered round in the kitchen, making Fergus a snack.
Ivy: Help there’s a man in my apartment!
Grace: Call the police.
Amy: Only if he’s not cute!
Grace: She shouldn’t be obligated to sleep with a strange man just because he’s handsome!
Sophie: It’s not obligation, it’s taking advantage of an opportunity that has presented itself. Besides when was the last time you got laid, Ivy?
Ivy: Too long.
Sophie: See, an opportunity has presented itself.
Ivy: I don’t think I should take advantage of it.
Ivy: It’s Evan, the groom from today.
Elsie: Evan, the obnoxious billionaire whose match made in heaven was one of the worst bridezillas in the history of wedding planning?
Brea: And he’s just in your condo?
Ivy: He’s hiding.
Grace: He’s there to get laid. Men like that think with their dick.
Ivy: I felt bad for him.
Elsie: You need to set boundaries.
Sophie: The only boundary she needs is a condom!
Ivy: I don’t have any.
Ivy: Wait what am I saying, I’m not sleeping with him. I just insulted him and he got mad.
Sophie: Men like that are intrigued by women who are domineering because they’re so used to being catered to.
Sophie: Also I hid condoms under your mattress. You’re welcome!
Grace: She cannot sleep with a client.
Sophie: Former client.
Elsie: Agreed, bad idea.
Ivy: I am not sleeping with Evan Harrington.
I can’t believe my friends, I fumed as I showered. As if I want anything to do with Evan.
I dressed in the tiny bathroom then padded out into the kitchen. The oven was off.
“You just need some food. Everything is more positive with lasagna.”
I peeked into the bedroom.
“This lasagna is good,” Evan told me, shoving another bite into his mouth. He was sprawled on my bed in nothing but a pair of the SpongeBob boxers that I used for sleepwear. They were baggy on me but a little tight on him, giving me a very nice view that I could not fully appreciate because of the almost-empty lasagna pan taking up all of my attention.
“You ate all that?” I shrieked at him.
Evan paused, the fork almost to his mouth. “You said it was for me.”
“That was for us!” I yelled, marching over to him. Actually, it was more scooting around the foot of floor space between the bed and the wall.
Evan stared at me as I shimmied, got stuck, and then tripped on one of the containers I had shoved under the bed and half flopped onto the mattress. Fergus swiped at me with a paw. I ignore the cat and snatched the lasagna away from Evan.