Page 7 of Hold the Pickle
“So?”
“I don’t have boobs to flash.”
My face blooms hot. “Are you saying I’m going to flash him for a lease?”
“I would if I looked like you.”
Is that what he thinks?
He lets out a long gust of air. “So, how are we handling this?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We can’t go in like this. We could lose this one. And it’s the?—”
“Last furnished apartment for ten miles,” I finish.
He seems surprised. “Why do you need it? You look like you should be shopping on Rodeo Drive.”
“Don’t make assumptions.” Even as I say it, I wonder if I should have toned down my outfit for the apartment search.
But my cousin Max watched me leave this morning. I’m staying with him and helping him out at his pickle deli while he’s wildly busy between bodybuilding competitions and doctorappointments with his wife Camryn. They’re expecting their first baby.
If he gets the slightest hint that I’m not moving to some lovely, safe, new residence, he might tell my dad. Or worse, Uncle Sherman, who will summon me to the family business pronto.
Then I’ll never get away. And I need to. I must have this studio!
We continue to stand in a stalemate as the heat rises from the sidewalk on the blistering July day.
Finally, he takes a step back. “We have to call a truce. If we argue, we might both lose. Again.”
He’s right. I extend a hand. “Truce.”
He takes it, and despite the fact that he’s my sworn rival, my whole body revs up at the warm contact of his palm pressed to mine.
Now that we’re close, I see that his eyes are changelings, shifting from green to blue to gray. They reflect me, the sky, the building behind us. I could stare into them for hours.
I realize we’re holding hands and jerk mine away. “I suppose I should know your name.”
“Dalton,” he says as we head toward the office.
“I’m Nadia.”
“Well, Nadia,” he says. “May the best renter win.”
I sure hope it’s me.
The air conditioning hits us when Dalton opens the door. A man stands up from behind a desk. This office is much nicer than the last one, organized with bookshelves and file cabinets. There are even plants on the windowsills.
“I’m Evan,” the man says. “How can I help you?”
Dalton steps forward to shake his hand. “I’m Dalton. This is Nadia. We’re interested in the studio you have.”
Evan nods. “Good, good. We just got that one prepped for the next occupant. Have a seat.” He gestures to two chairs on our side of the desk.
I sit down uncertainly. I know Dalton meant that we were each individually interested in the apartment, but I think this man thinks we’re together.
“I’m also interested,” I say.
