Head Over Feels

7

Tealey

“Did I interrupt?” Rad asks, his voice as smooth as jazz, as is his smile that leaves me weak in the knees. It’s probably just the glass of wine I had earlier.

“No. No. Not at all.” What’s a little lie? I wasn’t prepared for Rad Wellington to be standing outside my door, much less showing up out of nowhere on a random Tuesday night. I can’t say I’m bothered by his presence, but a little notice would have been nice.

I take a deep breath and steady myself when he steps inside.

“So, yeah, this is my apartment.” I rush to toss the mask in the garbage. Bending down, I use the side of the toaster to check my appearance. Oh crap! I wipe the food from my face, but when it doesn’t disappear, I lean in for a closer look, only to discover it’s a crumb stuck to the toaster.

I shake my head and quickly swipe over my face again, rub in the serum, and then start plucking the rollers out of my hair. Of all the times I decide to use my spa supplies before the move, naturally, it had to be the night he stops by.

Not that this will do much to make me feel better about how I look right now, but I still try. I toss the rollers in a basket beside the bed and then sit down at the end, trying to act like I’m not freaking out inside. “What brings you by?”

He’s sporting a charcoal-gray suit and white shirt, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck. His dark hair is disheveled, and there’s a distinctive dusting of scruff covering his jaw from a long day’s work. As if he couldn’t get more handsome, he proves me wrong. “I always considered you more of a Monica,” he replies, his gaze skimming over me.

I shift awkwardly, resting one fuzzy house shoe–covered foot on top of the other. “It’s a sleep shirt. Wait, really?”

“Really is it a sleep shirt?”

“No. You think I’m more of a Monica than a Phoebe?”

“Sure,” he replies casually.

Glancing down at the shirt, I’m reminded of when we found these from a street vendor in Times Square. I love my I’m-a-Phoebe Friends shirt despite its thin fabric and threadbare hem . . . I just don’t love that I chose to wear it tonight. It’s not my fault, really, considering Cammie was wearing something equally comfortable. How was I supposed to know Mr. Eligible Bachelor of the Year, or whatever that award is, would show up on my doorstep. “Marlow bought these for us.”

“Let me guess. She got Rachel, Cammie got Monica, and you were left with Phoebe?”

“You’re very good, Counselor.”

“Thanks. It’s really just that Marlow is predictable.”

I’ve always considered that part of her charm. She’s . . . reliable that way, which allows me to manage my reactions to some of her outlandish ideas. Like the time she talked us into pretending we worked for the hotel where Chris Hemsworth was staying so we could try to meet him. If our street clothes didn’t give us away, the lack of key cards and ability to explain what we were doing to the manager did.

When Chris saw us being berated by the manager, he came over and said we were with him. We scored a meeting, a photo, and he had his driver take us back to our dorm. “I’d say she’s predictably unpredictable.”

Narrowing his eyes above a slight grin, he asks, “Marlow or Phoebe?”

“You’re probably right on both.” I hold up a finger. “Also, I like Phoebe. She’s great—funny and artistic. I’m okay with being a Phoebe in my trio. But whatever.” I wave away the nonsense filling my brain.

As if he’s afraid to take another step, he remains standing near the door.

“The futon is covered, but you can sit here?” I pop up and offer him the end of the bed. “Or I have a chair over there if you’d like?”

“I’m good.” After he takes in my tiny apartment, his brown eyes land back on mine.

I don’t make apologies for what I can’t afford, but a tinge of embarrassment winds its way through my veins. He lives in the lap of luxury, and here I am, not even making ends meet in my one-room apartment. I shift under his curious gaze and look down.

“What brings you by?”

Bending, he catches my eyes. “You okay, Bell?”

There’s been no judgment on his behalf. There never has been, so I’m not sure why I would feel even a hint of shame. I raise my chin and nod. “I’m fine.”

“I wanted to see how the packing was going.” He can easily see over my head to scope out the place because he’s tall like that.

Tall and dark.

Handsome.

Intelligent.

I digress . . . “I’m almost done.” I move to the kitchenette to busy myself. “Make yourself at home. It’s a mess in here, so you’re welcome to sit wherever you find space.”