C'mon baby

LAYLA

It’s almost midnight by the time we finally make it back to our building.

Instead of getting food, Zack managed to convince me to stop at a bar on the way home, where I proceeded to take advantage of the Happy Hour two-for-one drink special. A few times over. My head is fuzzy as I stumble up the six flights of stairs to our floor, Zack’s arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

It’s not like me to drink a lot. Running my own business means I’m always on call, and my daily schedule is usually so packed that I can’t afford to take a lot of time off.

I know I’m going to hate myself in the morning, but right now, I just don’t care. I’ve had a terrible night. The humiliation over my date with Mike is a tight ball in my chest. I just want to forget about it for a while.

By the time Zack drags me up to our floor, though, I’m starting to regret the fourth round of mojitos. I stare at my locked apartment door and imagine climbing into my cold, empty bed.

Again. My happy drunk glow suddenly fades away into sadness.

120 dates. I’ve been on 120 dates in the last fourteen months. And not one of them has worked out.

There must be something wrong with me.

“I like this,” Zack rumbles over my head, thumbing at my red bralette strap.

“One of your designs?”

I shake my head. “It's Anna Bardet. She’s one of my favourite designers.”

“I like yours better,” he declares, looking up and down the long corridor.

It’s dark and silent; all of the other tenants have obviously gone to bed already. “You got any food at your place, pet?”

I think. “Like. Maybe some granola bars?”

He tuts, pivoting me on the spot. He lives in apartment 6B, directly across the hall from me. His muscled arms band around my waist. I squeeze one without thinking, admiring his huge bicep, and he laughs.

“C’mon. I’ll make you something full of cheese, and maybe you won’t feel like total shit tomorrow.”

I frown, wavering. “You don’t have to do that…”

“We have leftovers from this week’s meal kit,” he says temptingly.

I light up.

The guys get a ton of free products from sponsors that advertise on their podcast. My personal favourite is Flavoroso, a company that sells weekly meal delivery kits with pre-cut ingredients.

“Tonight was like, four-cheese mac-n-cheese,” Zack says in my ear, making me shiver.

“Brie and cheddar and gouda and shit.” I stare up at him, my mouth watering, and he snorts. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. C’mon, baby.”

“I’m not a baby.” I try to wriggle out of his grip.

He just laughs and kisses the top of my head, unlocking his front door and bundling me inside.

<><><><><><>

The guys’ flat is a larger, more manly version of mine. Instead of one bedroom, there are three, but they have the same open-plan lounge-dining-room-kitchen setup. Whereas my living space is papered in pink and filled with racks of product samples, the guys’ lounge is dark and neat.

They have black sofas set up around a glass coffee table, facing a wide-screen telly.

Above it, all their awards are lined up on a shelf: the red English Podcast Award plaque; the microphone-shaped Elias Radio Popular Choice Podcast; and my personal favourite, Top Adult Podcast. The trophy is made of hot-pink glass and is engraved with little lipstick kisses.

Tonight, the room is a little messier than usual. The coffee table is strewn with Three Single Guys posters and markers. One of Zack’s flatmates, Luke, is sitting on the sofa, scribbling his autograph methodically onto each poster.

Zack ruffles my hair and scoots past me to the kitchen, and I shrug off my leather jacket, leaning against the wall to drunkenly admire Luke. Maybe it’s the beer goggles, but he looks especially gorgeous tonight.

Luke is turning forty this year, and he’s the quintessential silver fox.

Greying and handsome in a hot professor kind of way. He’s dressed in his usual chinos, thick-rimmed glasses, and a soft-looking navy sweater. I want to lick him.

“You look fit,” I drawl.

Luke glances up at me, grey eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles.

“Layla. I didn’t know you were coming over tonight, sweetheart.” He caps his pen and looks down at himself.

“Ah, thank you. Zack made me buy these trousers.”

“They make his bum look good!” Zack calls from the kitchen.

“Do they, Mr Martins?” I hang my jacket on the coat rack. “How interesting.”

Luke’s face darkens slightly. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Sorry, sir. Force of habit.”

“I didn’t teach you long enough for it to become a damn habit,” he grumbles, and I laugh despite myself.

Luke is my old Year Ten English teacher. When I was sixteen, I went to his class three times a week to learn Shakespeare and read Of Mice and Men.

Just like all of the other girls in the school, I had a massive crush on him. I almost had a heart attack when I moved into this apartment building three years ago, and found him standing in the lobby, sifting through his mail. He didn't recognise me at first — when I told him that he was going to be living opposite one of his old students, he was openly horrified.

Which makes it extra fun to mess with him. I cross the room and slump next to him on the sofa, dumping my bag on the floor. “Good evening, sir?”

He gives me an aggravated look, and I smile, putting my feet up on the coffee table. He glances over my fishnetted legs, then clears his throat.

“I had an okay evening,” he says slowly.

“I edited a bonus episode of the podcast, then signed posters until my markers ran out of ink.” He picks up a small cream card off the coffee table.

“My ex sent me another wedding invite,” he adds drily.

“This is the fifth one. I think she’s noticed me screening her calls.”

I reach for it, squinting at the swirly embossed font.

Please join Amy Jones and Rob Tran as we tie the knot!

April 5th, The Laurel Grove I pull a face. I remember his ex-wife from high school. She was the school’s headmistress at the same time Luke was teaching me. She was a total bitch.

“Ew. Why does she even want you there?” I drop the invite into Luke’s lap and flop my head against the sofa cushions. Everything is spinning. “You should burn it.”

“I was just planning on recycling it, actually.” He frowns at me. “Are you alright? What did Zack do to you?”

“Hm?” I let my eyes fall half-shut. “Nothing.”

“You’re very flushed.” He reaches across and touches my cheek, and I turn into his palm automatically. He smells delicious. Like Earl Grey and old books. I want to nuzzle into him like an armchair.

He pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. “And… floppy. Have you been drinking?”

I stretch and yawn. “Yeah.”

His frown deepens. “Just for fun? Or is something wrong?”

Before I can answer, a door opens in the hallway. “Did I hear that right?” A low voice drawls. “Layla Thompson is drunk?”

I look up.

The last occupant of apartment 6B, Joshua Tran, is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking at me through narrowed eyes. I glare right back at him, even though tilting my head to look him in the eye hurts my neck.

The guy is tall. At about six-five, he’s taller than Zack, with thick black hair, sharp bone structure, and cool, distant eyes. He’s the quieter one of the group — unlike Zack, he doesn’t burst into rooms and loudly announce his presence; he sneaks in like a black panther and glares around at everyone with judgy eyes.

Which is exactly what he’s doing now.

He leans against the doorway. “Tonight is date night, right?” He says.

“Shouldn’t you be getting it on with some rich hedge fund manager? What is it now? Date 120?”

“Keeping track, are you?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. My hands come away black with makeup. Crap.

“Gosh, Josh. Anyone would think you want to date me.”

“I would rather bleach my face in acid,” he says conversationally, staring at me. Joshua has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re practically black, and almost scarily intense. Right now, they’re scanning over me like lasers, snagging on my short dress and high heels.

I pick up the wedding invite and throw it at him.

“Tell your brother it’s weird for him to marry Luke’s ex.”

“I tried. Sadly, he’s in love with her. You go all red when you drink.”

“Piss off.” I close my eyes again. “Leave me alone. I'm just here for cheese.”

There’s a pause as I snuggle into the sofa cushions. Then hands wrap around my ankles, and I jump, my eyes flying back open. Josh has crossed the room and is kneeling in front of me, pulling my feet into his lap.

“Take these off,” he says gruffly. “They look painful.” He runs his fingers across the buckle of my heeled boot. “I’ve never seen you have more than one drink.”

“Hate being drunk,” I mumble, wiggling my feet at him. “Don’t wanna move. You take them off.”

He finds the zip and tugs it down, freeing my foot. His thumb presses into my arch, and I practically melt into the couch. His lip quirks up. He takes off my other boot and lines them both up neatly by the sofa.

“If you don’t like drinking,” he says slowly, “then why are you drunk?”

I blink, thinking about it. “I don’t know. I guess I’m… sad?”

It’s like a wave passes through the two men. One minute, they’re at ease, and the next, they’re both staring at me, concern written over their faces.

Crap.