If the Sun Never Sets (If Love 2)

Farrah glared at her. She hadn’t had sex in a year, and they both knew it. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. She’d just been so busy with work, and dating in New York was freakin’ hard. It had been a long time since she’d found a guy attractive and non-douchey enough to want to sleep with him.

If she were being honest, the last guy she’d really been attracted to had been—

No. Don’t go there.

Farrah swallowed the lump in her throat and twisted her necklace around her finger, shoving aside thoughts of blond hair and devilish blue eyes. The pain in her chest wasn’t as great as it used to be, but it was still there, a lingering reminder of the boy she’d never been able to forget.

Perhaps that was why Farrah had such high standards. She’d experienced what explosive chemistry felt like, and everything else paled in comparison.

“Oh, that’s right. A year.” Olivia snapped her fingers. “Twelve months of no action, and no, your battery-operated friend doesn’t count. If you don’t break your dry spell soon, you’ll explode into a million pieces of lost orgasms, which is not okay. I just deep-cleaned the apartment.”

“You deep clean the apartment every week.”

They had a clear breakdown of house duties—Olivia cleaned and handled the bills (two of her greatest joys in life were the scent of Lysol and a zero-dollar payment balance), while Farrah handled home supplies and grocery shopping.

“Exactly.”

A sigh escaped Farrah’s lips. “Fine. Set me up.”

She was going to regret this, but once Olivia got an idea in her head, she was like a pit bull with a bone.

Besides, maybe it was time for her to be more proactive. She couldn’t experience explosive chemistry if she didn’t look for it, right?

“Yay!” Olivia tossed her empty container of boba in the trash and clapped in excitement. “I can’t wait. It’s about time your vagina got some love.”

Farrah’s drink went down the wrong pipe, and she coughed for a full minute before gasping, “Leave my vagina alone.”

“Honey, everyone has left your vagina alone for the past year. Your fault, by the way.”

“You’re fired as my best friend.”

“Not accepted,” Olivia said cheerfully. “I’ve never been fired in my life, and today is not the day to break that trend.”

This is what I get for living with my best friend.

She and Olivia had share

d the same tiny apartment in Chelsea since they’d moved to New York after college. It was ridiculously expensive considering how small it was, but you couldn’t beat the location. Plus, it had one feature any New Yorker would kill for: an in-unit washer and dryer.

Olivia, who was a year older than Farrah, had lived here for ten months with a rocker chick she’d detested before said chick fled to Brooklyn and Farrah moved in. They’d been close in Shanghai, but they’d developed an unbreakable friendship over the past few years. Most of Farrah’s college friends stayed in California, and though she’d kept in touch with them, they weren’t as close anymore. Olivia was her ride or die, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Except in certain situations when she was tempted to speed up the “die” part, like now.

Farrah’s phone rang, interrupting her daydreams of strangling her roommate, even though everything Olivia said was true (hence why it was so annoying).

She didn’t recognize the number. It was probably a telemarketer, but even a cold call was better than discussing her lonely vagina. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Farrah?”

Her brows knit in confusion. “Yes. Who’s this?” The deep baritone sounded somewhat familiar.

“This is Landon Zinterhofer.”

The answer almost sent Farrah into another coughing fit.

“Who is it?” Olivia mouthed.

Farrah shook her head, her mind racing with a thousand possibilities. What the hell was Landon Zinterhofer doing calling her personal cell? Was there a problem with the hotel? But they’d already finished the project, and Jane said he’d been thrilled with the results.