But it wasn’t that kind of look.
Though her perfectly made-up eyes were appraising me, it wasn’t sharp or mean like the way a lot of women did. Not that I had much time to deduce this, since she was somewhat of a Chanel No. 5-laden hurricane.
“Mhhm, yeah, babe, I’ll pass on any and all goss, plus your little talking to. Okay, kiss your cop for me, and give him a BJ too.” She winked at me as she hung up the phone.
In a motion that she managed to not make rude, she pushed past me and started up my stairs, almost gliding up them in six-inch Valentinos.
The Rock Star Studs.
I nearly drooled.
Shoes were my weakness. Designer ones especially.
Not that I owned any. Of course not. They were a completely irresponsible purchase, and I didn’t have anywhere to wear them. I merely admired them from afar. And here was an unknown glamazon woman, entering my apartment at eight on a Sunday morning wearing heels that cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
I followed her up in a dream, my ballet flat–clad feet seemingly unworthy to step where those magnificent shoes had graced my floors.
“I need coffee, like yesterday. My baby decided it was okay to keep me up all night,” she called from the top of the stairs.
The click of her heels on the hardwood followed her words.
She glanced over her shoulder on the way into my kitchen, grinning.
“Before I pushed that beautiful but fucking annoying human out, the only time I was up all night was when I was partying or my husband was giving me multiple orgasms.”
Another wink as she started opening cupboards at random. I had stopped at my kitchen island, rather unsure of what to do.
She wasn’t robbing me. It didn’t seem like she was going to hurt me. But I was pretty sure I should’ve objected to a woman, no matter how friendly and well-dressed she seemed, walking into my apartment without introducing herself.
Though she did seem a little familiar.
“That was Lucy on the phone, by the way,” she said, pausing at the third cupboard. “She heard about you crashing your car. I have no idea how, but her husband does own a security business, so I guess it would be weirder if she didn’t know. Those badass motherfuckers have, like, I don’t know, sensors or something.” She shrugged. “And anyway, she was pissed. Because she tried your cell and it was disconnected—I’m guessing it broke in the crash—and then you weren’t at work. She was going to drive up here, but of course, she has babies, like me. Well, hers is currently cooking in her stomach, but it’s the same principle. They kind of stop you from doing anything spontaneous, like road-tripping to Coachella, or going to Paris to get drunk on champagne and shop at Dior.” She sighed, her eyes dreamy, obviously not talking about Lucy. “Of course, we love our children dearly and all that.” She waved her hand dismissively, but there was a warmth in her eye. “But they do tend to take a little more effort to rope into spontaneous road trips. And I mean rope. Have you seen those car seats they make?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Honestly, you have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out. My husband isn’t a rocket scientist, but he’s got those badass powers, so he’s in charge of all baby contraptions.” She resumed her rummaging.
I was slightly relieved at the mention of Lucy, and I was beginning to connect the dots. There was only one redheaded, foulmouthed, beautiful and stylish woman in Amber who was married to a badass with “badass powers.”
“You’re Amy?” I said.
She looked over her shoulder. “Well, duh, of course I am. Who else would I be?” She looked back to my cupboards before sighing and stepping back. “Now, is there like some kind of map to get to your coffee?”
I smiled. “Um, I don’t have coffee. I ran out.”
She gaped at me like I’d just said I had bodies stuffed in the fridge.
“What do you mean, you ‘don’t have coffee’?” she asked slowly, as if she’d just stepped on a land mine and was hesitant to move too much, let alone speak quickly, in case the whole place went up.
I shrugged. “I don’t drink it.”
That time she braced herself on my island as if the very words struck her down. “You. Don’t. Drink. Coffee.” Again it was spoken like I’d offered her to become one of the severed heads in my freezer. “But how do you”—she waved her hands at me—“look like that and not have coffee in your life?” She pointed to her chest, covered in a green silk shirt, which was tucked into white drainpipe jeans. “I’ve had four coffees to make my whole situation happen and be fabulous.” She narrowed her expertly manicured brows. “And you look like a damn vision of girl next door mixed with… hmm.” She looked me up and down again, brows furrowed. “Something different but kickass. Something unique. And you’ve done this without coffee. I’m going to need the name of the demon you brokered the deal with to sell your soul. Because homeboy hooked you up.”