And entirely too grown-up for people our age.
It looks like a house owned by someone who files their taxes early and knows how to make pasta from scratch on a Sunday, simply because they have a giant blender with the proper attachments.
My stomach does a full flip as I park the car.
This is it! I’m about to walk into a house with two men I barely know and pretend like I totally belong there.
“I can do this,” I whisper, gripping the steering wheel like it personally wronged me. “I can live in a house with strangers. I am adaptable. I am a grown woman.”
I’m halfway through giving myself a pep talk when the side door slams open and out barrels Nova, my best friend. Confidant. Ride-or-die.
My former college roommate and the woman I tell everything.
“POPPY!”
She sprints across the lawn with the energy of a retriever chasing a squirrel, arms flailing and grin wide enough to make me forget—for a half second—that I’m melting in the Texas heat.
“Oh my god,” she says, throwing her arms around me in a tackle-hug. “You’re here. You’re actually here. You didn’t change your mind and flee back to Florida.”
Plot Twist: Nova’s fiancé is my new landlord. Yep. The man who drew up the lease is the man who proposed to my best friend with a ring hidden in between cans of beans at a grocery store (long story).
“Nope.” I hug her back, burying my face in her shoulder. She smells like sunscreen. “Didn’t change my mind.”
Tired and bedraggled, but still eager to begin unpacking.
She pulls back, eyes sparkling with excitement and the exact amount of danger that has at times, led us to some poor decisions.
“Wait ‘til you see the kitchen. You’re going to lose your shit. There’s a wine fridge. A whole-ass wine fridge.”
Wine fridge?
Why had no one mentioned this sooner?!
If that had been in her original description, I would've signed the lease blindfolded, upside-down, and with my non-dominant hand. I let her tug me across the lawn, a mix of nerves and anticipation fluttering in my stomach.
Nova pulls me onto the porch.
Shoves open the door and pushes me through.
Inside, it’s just as beautiful. Spacious, clean, and surprisingly well-decorated for a place inhabited by men under thirty. There’s a navy-blue sectional couch in the living room, a massive TV mounted on the wall, and throw pillows that don't look like they were stolen from someone's grandma.
“Seriously,” I say as she shuts the door behind us. “Are we sure men live here?”
Nova snorts. “Don’t give them too much credit. There are two cleaning people that come in twice a week.”
Ah.
We move into the kitchen,and holy shit, it’s glorious.
Stainless steel appliances. A granite island. Barstools. And yes, nestled discreetly under the counter is a gleaming, built-in wine fridge, filled gloriously from top to bottom.
Not that I’m a complete wine-O, but every so often I enjoy a glass of red and love the idea of having a cute fridge handy.
So fancy.
“This is obscene,” I whisper reverently. “I feel like I need to curtsy to get the door open.”
Nova grins. “I told you. And guess what? You’re going to have the whole place to yourself for the next twenty-four hours.”
