If Christina Rose is half as enthusiastic about me as April and Fay are, this’ll be easy.
She raps on a door in the small apartment. I look around.
The apartment is simple, cheap furnishings, decent stereo, and nice art on the walls. It has personality, though. It looks like two 20-something broke girls live here, but they’ve done a decent job with the space.
The Tragically Hip’s Bobcaygeon is blaring from the room with the closed door. If this is Christina’s taste in music, we’re off to a good start. The door flies open and there’s the girl of my dreams.
She’s a mess. And yet, my slacks still grow tighter in the crotch.
She’s got a lot of dark curly hair and it’s piled on top of her head in a knot with pieces falling out, framing her pretty face. She wears thick black-framed glasses, a slouchy grey sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder with paint stains on it, and a frayed jean skirt. She’s got bare legs, bare feet with metallic blue nail polish on her toes. Her blue eyes bounce from her roommate to me and for a split second she looks oblivious. And then I watch realization dawn.
She remembers me.
“Okay, well, I’m off. See you later,” April says, a Cheshire cat smile on her face.
“Wait April, please? This’ll just take a minute.”
“I gotta bounce, girlfriend,” April says.
Christina’s eyes shoot daggers at her friend as she grabs her roommate by the wrist. “Wait.”
I’m just standing outside her bedroom door, smiling while Christina glares and April smirks.
I get that she didn’t know who the flowers were from and though I’m surprised she didn’t do a walk-by to at least see who was waiting for her at the swanky restaurant. And now that she’s seen me, I would’ve expected something else.
For her to make an excuse about not showing up.
For her to make an excuse about her appearance.
For her to look like she cares that she isn’t dressed to the nines.
I’m dressed nice. I’m standing here looking good, smelling good, and showing her what she would’ve missed tonight if I hadn’t come here after she stood me up.
That’s why I’m surprised she’s not showing me a different reaction.
She looks annoyed.
“Remember me?” I prompt.
“I do. Glad you’re upright with all your major organs inside your body.”
I smile. “All but one major organ.”
She flinches. Laughter bursts from April’s mouth.
“Why are you here?” Christina demands.
“I’m here because you didn’t show up at Bistro Bleu.”
“I’d think that my not showing up would signal I’m not available for dinner. Quite honestly, I’m not available at all.”
“You’re not in a relationship,” I tell her.
Her head jerks back. “How do you know whether I am, or am not in a relationship?”
I shrug sheepishly.
She gives a quick shake of her head.
“I gotta go,” April whispers. “Fay’s waiting.”
“Fay can wait a few more minutes,” Christina says through gritted teeth.
Fuck me, but she’s adorable.
“Thanks for the effort, Hunter, but I’m not interested.”
“No?”
“No. Especially not in you.”
Whoa. “What?”
“Forgive the bluntness here, but I’m not interested in someone splashing money around recklessly, and—”
“Recklessly? Explain.”
“Overpriced flowers three days in a row, expensive restaurants, and being all—” She waves her hand, “You.”
She says you as if she is thinking, Ew.
“I’m just not interested. Thanks anyway.” She gracelessly trudges to the front door and swings it open. “Glad you’re feeling better.” She points toward the hallway.
I’m thrown. In fact, I’m so thrown, I go out into the hall. By the time I realize she’s walked me out and turn around, her apartment door is closed.
I stare at the door, dumbfounded.
Christina
I’m up to my eyebrows in potato peels when I see him through the window in the swinging door. He strolls in and I can’t believe my eyes, so I hard-blink. Yep, definitely Hunter Collins, the playboy, the womanizer, the guy who nearly got killed on the highway a little over a month ago, whose hand I held as he was extricated from his pretzel of a sportscar. That Hunter Collins is standing in the middle of the rec centre, looking around. He’s got messy blond hair that perpetually looks like he’s just had a girl run her fingers through it. He’s also wearing that ever-present cocky smirk. He’s in what I would imagine are casual clothes for him: jeans and a button-down. But they’re $300 jeans and his shoes probably cost more than my car.
He speaks to Frannie, the program director, who points at the kitchen door. Her face is beaming. It takes a lot to charm Frannie, and this guy is succeeding at it. Sheesh.
I’m wearing $29 jeans, the hoodie he saw me in last night, $12 knockoff Chucks, and my eyeglasses. No makeup. And to add to the whole non-glam package that is me, a hairnet.
I don’t care, though. I don’t care that he won’t look at me like he wants to have me for lunch, because I’m not interested in being lunch. I wasn’t interested in being his meal last night, and I’m not interested today.
In fact, I’m annoyed that he’s got the nerve to show up here after that bullshit last night.
I turn my back to the door and my attention to the potatoes.
A minute later, he’s directly behind me.
“Hey,” he says in a sexy voice.
How dare he have a sexy voice!
I keep peeling potatoes.
“Want some help?” he offers.
I gesture toward the massive pile of spuds waiting to be peeled and then pass him my peeler and walk away.
I wash my hands and get started on the next task. And yes, I’m wearing my just-sucked-a-lemon expression, but I can’t help it.
“Hey,” he says again.
He’s behind me at the counter, where I’m grating cheese.
I spin around to give him my dirtiest look, but he’s closer than I expected so we collide.
“Whoa!” He grabs me by the waist. “Easy there.”
I begin ranting. “I’m not remotely easy. What on earth are you even doing here? If you think this is funny or cute, you’d be wrong.”
“It’s kinda funny you wavin’ a brick of cheese in my face.”
I put the cheese down and sigh. “What do you want?”
“I wanna help. Thought we could talk, get to know one another while I help.”
“The fact that you’re here at all leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I think it’s better if you leave. But really, I’ve got a lot of hungry people today who’ve been promised my famous loaded baked potato soup, so since you’re here, go ahead and peel all those potatoes, but just sayin’, when you’re done, you can leave. This isn’t happening.”
“What isn’t happening?”
“Me and you.” I gesture between us. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I’m not even tired. It’s only, what, two thirty?”