Page 63 of Just My Type of wrong guy

I leave the bread in the hot pan, mix avocado, lime, olive oil, and salt in a little bowl, and sing out loud to the chorus of one of my favorite songs. I take the bread out of the pan seconds later, still humming, and shimmy as I spread the green paste over it.

“Jesus,” I shout and almost drop my breakfast when I turn around and run into A.J., sweaty, leaning against the kitchen entrance. “You trying to kill me?”

“Please, pretend I’m not here and keep going,” he jokes, holding back a laugh, and I give him a dirty look. “I meant singing, of course. I’d never talk about you shaking it in my kitchen…”

“I could’ve dropped my breakfast, you know?”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t pretend you’re innocent, you could’ve called me.”

“I did!Twice, but…” He twirls his finger in the air, and the loud music explains why we’re shouting.

“Alexa, turn off!” I yell and it shuts up and I feel like punching this guy. “It’s freezing outside, where were you?”

“Gym in the building. I don’t stay this hot just doing photosynthesis,” he says as I pass by him. “No coffee for me?”

“It’s nine in the morning, A.J., you disappeared and didn’t let me know where you were, so I decided to enjoy the house without you and eat something…”

“You didn’t think of me?”

“Not one bit.”

“You hurt my feelings, you know?”

“Yep, I knew that. Now go take a shower,” I say just before he threatens to sit on our sofa-bed.

The house is his, but I end up lying there more times than I can count. God forbid I see him sitting there all sweaty.

“Something arrived for you.” He ignores me and hands the cylindrical package over to the coffee table. “Open it,” he says, looking like a kid who’s just done something mischievous but is excited for their parents to see that they’ve mastered a new skill.

I put my plate down on the side table and grab the package. It’s not bigger than a ruler, and I have no idea whatcould be wrapped in it. I unroll the paper, and Drew Barrymore’s face pops into view. Then the deliciously handsome Hugh Grant, in the prime of his beauty, smiles at her, and I can’t help but smile too.

“TheMusic and Lyricsposter!” I blurt out.

“The first poster we’re going to hang together,” he grins mischievously.

“I loved that movie so much, A.J., now you’ve made me feel bad for not making you breakfast.”

He closes his eyes but can’t hold back the laugh, throwing his head back.

“You don’t exist, you know that?”

“By my calculations, there’s more than just one poster in there…” A.J. lets it slip, a confused look crossing his face as he sighs in irritation.

To make sure the person who wrapped is not going to lose their job, I try to peel off the tape as quickly as possible. He’s right – there’s another one. And as I see the red poster, I can’t hold my jaw in place.

“Samba is Hot!” I read the text from my tour shirt. A.J. doesn’t say anything, just nods, exhaling through his lips like he wasn’t sure I was going to like it. So I make sure to reassure him: “I loved it, A.J.” I throw my arms around him. “Gross, A.J. Put me down,” I yell as he lifts me by the waist and holds me in the air.

“Are you disgusted by my sweat, Miss Petulant?”

“Put me down, Anthony,” I order, curious about how he smells so good when he’s all sweaty.

“I’m happy you liked the gift. I just wanted you to feel like this house is a little bit yours too. This was my best idea,” he says, holding me with one hand and moving my hair out of my face with the other.

As if I weigh the same as paper.

“I loved it, but you’re disgusting, you know that? You didn’t have to pick me up.”

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