Page 53 of My Lucky Star
She smelled different, too. I crept in closer, close enough to inhale her scent. I wasn’t really that great with ‘notes’ and had declined the offer to develop my own cologne. What if it ended up smelling like a two-dollar car fragrance? But right now, covertly sniffing Aria as she sniffed a musty bedroom, I got a vivid image of ice cream. She smelled like a fruity ice cream flavor, mango or persimmon or something, and I fought the urge to lick her. Platonic friends probably didn’t do that to each other, at least not without consent.
“Yeah, it’s a bit... hmm. But nothing a good breeze won’t fix,” she declared, opening another window.
“My mom would be horrified. She believes all that ails a human body is in some way connected to cold. Like, cold air, cold floors, cold yogurt...”
Aria cast me an odd look, sitting on the bed and bouncing up and down as if to test its softness. “Cold yogurt?”
“Yeah, basically. If it’s cold, it can and will make you ill.”
“That’s insane. Does she heat up her yogurt?”
I shrugged. “She leaves it on the table, I think.”
Aria shook her head, eyes wide. “I mean, my mom is a little weird about drafts, it’s an old-people thing. But she doesn’t go that far. Is your dad the same way?”
Her tone was casual, but her eyes held a tension that made me wonder how much she’d heard about my father. Had the press found out about his diagnosis?
“He’s... weird in other ways,” I said evasively, took out my phone and did a google search. Nothing alarming popped up and I sighed with relief.
I felt Aria’s hand on my back as she guided me out of the room, back into the corridor. “The rooms will be fine with some airing and cleaning. But I’ll warn them anyway, since it sounds like one of the crew members is asthmatic.”
“Great.” I smiled, pocketing my phone.
On the way along the corridor, Aria peeked into my bedroom. “Will you be ready to go this afternoon? The cleaners aren’t going to pack your things for you.”
My cheeks heated as I joined her at the doorway, observing the godawful mess of clothes, towels and takeaway containers I’d created in a few days. “I know. I’ll pack soon.”
Truth be told, I hadn’t done my own packing in years. I threw what I wanted on the bed, and it magically got folded, shielded in garment bags and vacuum packed into my suitcase.
“Do you need help?” she asked, and I pressed my lips together to stop myself from saying yes. She wasn’t my servant. I thought about how I’d tried to buy her phone, and a flush of shame made me ill. I didn’t want to be that guy, not with Aria. She didn’t trust me, and I couldn’t exactly blame her, but I had to do better.
A knock on the door made us both jump. “It’s probably Emir,” I said, securing the slipping towel around my waist before I traipsed downstairs.
Aria reached me at the door, grabbing my hand before I could turn the doorknob. “Listen.”
We held still, and I heard a faint sound of conversation. It wasn’t Emir, or at least he wasn’t alone.
Aria gave me a meaningful look. “I suppose this will count as one of your three public towel appearances this week?”
I flashed her a smile that was more a grimace, not sure of what to do. She pressed her ear against the door and listened for a few seconds, her eyes widening.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “The Americans.” Her eyes fell on my towel. “It’s the film crew. Are you okay with...”
“Am I okay with meeting American film producers wearing a towel? No!” I hissed.
“Fine. Hide in the kitchen. I’ll get rid of them.”
I shot her a grateful look and slipped away, just in time, as someone knocked again, and Aria turned the doorknob.
