Page 1 of Run, Run, Roommates
1
Marco
There’s cinnamon sprinkled on top of the eggnog.
Fuck.
Amid the flurry of decorators and florists and caterers in the penthouse apartment, I dig my phone out of my pocket. I stop next to one of the windows looking out over the Manhattan skyline and text the one person who gets exactly what the cinnamon powder means.
Marco
There’s cinnamon on the eggnog.
Brin
MOTHER FUCKERS
HOW DARE THEY
Then she sends a text that is nothing but emojis: the frowning devil, the smiling devil, a knife, an evil clown, the skull . . .
I’m lucky she texted back so quickly; she must be on a break at the restaurant. I can picture her in her black server uniform, her wild red hair tamed in a bun but her blue eyes lit up with merriment. She might even be biting her lip to keep back her laughter . . .
Someone nearby giggles, and it echoes the sound of Brin’s laughter in my head so much it startles me and I look up.
Two people from the catering team—servers based on their attire, one white with long blonde hair and the other Asian with chin-length black hair—glance at each other like they’ve got some great secret. And then their gaze returns to me over the massive granite kitchen island.
I raise an eyebrow.
Reading my face, the blonde shrugs. “You have an adorably smitten look on your face. Texting your crush? Partner?”
The other one giggles again.
Smitten? Just because Brin’s an extremely attractive woman, one of my closest friends, and one of the kindest, sweetest people I’ve ever known . . .
I am not smitten.
I turn my screen off and pocket my phone, any trace of smittenness . . . smittenity? Smite? No, that’s not right. Whatever . . . erased from my face. I pick up the tablet on the counter next to me and tap over to the catering contract, scrolling down until I find paragraph four, item three of the special requests made by my boss. Because I’m his personal assistant, one of my jobs is to make sure everything is executed per his wishes.
On my best days, I’m often told I’m too curt, too practical, too blunt.
Since I arrived at William’s place this morning to discover he’d left the balcony doors open last night and there were pigeons (and pigeon shit) everywhere, I’ve also had to deal with two vendors running late, an event planner that won’t answer my calls (not entirely sure I blame her, but still), and now, a very minor problem that’s probably not the only one.
It’s not one of my best days.
I point at the tray of coupe glasses, the creamy eggnog filled to the brim and topped with stenciled cinnamon creating a variety of patterns across the foam. “Throw those away.”
Someone gasps.
“Uhhh . . .” the blonde server says.
The chef, the catering manager, and the event planner are all called over. I point out the special request. Apologies are made and I watch as they remake the next batch, this time sprinkling the tops with cocoa powder.
Now the staff is side-eyeing me. A picky client.
Except it’s not actually me who’s picky. I’m the messenger. But they’ll never know that.
Once the eggnog is decorated correctly, I stalk off to check the rest of the special requests, because apparently you can’t trust professionals to do their jobs anymore.
