His lip curls. In case you haven’t already gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.
He lifts a boring black travel mug. “Already have my breakfast.”
“Blended up quinoa sprinkled with a few bits of spinach and pretension?” I ask.
“Whey powder protein shake.”
“Sounds immensely satisfying.”
He takes a sip of the nastiness and watches me with cold brown eyes. “The body is a temple, Georgiana.”
There it is.
Full circle to my above commentary about what sort of people are up and about at five a.m.
Me? The one just coming in from a night out, although I’m pleased to say that at twenty-six, I’m a lot better at it than I was at twenty-two, and no longer feel the need to drink myself into oblivion. A few glasses of champagne is my usual limit, and never past two a.m., so I’m perfectly sober.
Him?
Well you already know which type of five a.m. person he is.
Who is he, you ask?
Andrew Mulroney, Esq.
I know this, because we moved into the building on the exact same day, and right before we got into a horrendous fight—over whose movers should have access to the building’s loading dock first—he’d handed me his business card.
The thick, white card stock declared in bold, no-bullshit black letters that he had a fancy law degree to go along with the fancy suit he was wearing on a Saturday.
Andrew had handed it over with such superiority, I’d actually wished for a half second that I had a business card of my own that would somehow be better than his. Like, lined with gold, or something. No, platinum. With a diamond in the corner, which would be too heavy for him to hold, and he’d drop it, thus having to kneel at my feet to pick it up…
What a fantasy it was.
But then I’d realized it was just as well that I didn’t have a business card.
Because it would say, what…
Georgiana Watkins…Professional Party Girl?
Anyway, I digress. Despite the high temps of that swampy July morning, the encounter had been the start of an epic cold war.
Me, the socialite in Apartment 86A, against the uptight esquire in Apartment 79B.
I let my gaze drift over him, even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The man’s like a robot—a lesson in sameness.
It’s like we’re in some sort of uptight version of Groundhog Day. There’s always the black mug, containing some healthy gunk, in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani garment bag in his left, enveloping what I know to be a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
His coppery hair is perfectly styled, although I’d swear that there’s some natural curl in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. Hard jaw, perfectly shaven. Dark brown eyes cold and flat. Black gym bag over one shoulder.
I suppose you could say he changes up his attire, because he does alternate between black and gray gym shirts. But considering that they seem to be the exact same cut, both colors molding perfectly to his impressively sculpted upper body, we’re not giving him any points for variety there.
Same goes for the lower half. The black shorts in summer have given way to sleek black sweatpants now that October’s upon us, but they’re both black and Nike, so we’ll give him no credit for changing it up.
The shoes though…
I do a double take.
Well, well, well…