Page 170 of Dream On

Rudy squints with concern from the island. “Did you hide your phone?”

“No.” I sigh when the phone stops ringing.

“It’s intervention time. You can’t keep going on like this. Also, you smell like those coconut macarons from Michelina’s. Are you wearing Stevie’s perfume?”

Ignoring him, I rifle through one of the open cabinets and pull out a box of Lucky Charms. “Why are you still here?” Tossing a bowl and a spoon onto the counter, I snag the milk out of the fridge. “Tell me you’re sad and alone without telling me you’re sad and alone.”

“A tangled web of lies,” he says breezily. “My future bride texted me this morning. Things are looking promising.”

My eyebrows dip. “Who?”

“Stevie’s sister.”

“Right. Joplin is not interested.”

“Also a lie. She told me my socks had an impressive pattern. She’s into me.”

“Why the fuck were you sending her pictures of your feet?”

“Getty Images, Lex. Feet pictures come with time, and things are still so new.” He props his shoes up on the opposite stool, eyeing the cereal. “And the socks were gold. There were llamas.”

Little does Rudy know, Stevie told me that Joplin has been profiling him from behind the scenes and has determined that he carries at least two traits that could make him a serial killer: charisma and a penchant for eating his cereal without milk.

“Pour me a bowl,” Rudy says. “No milk.”

Glowering, I reach for another bowl and tip the cereal box sideways.

My phone falls out.

I hate everything.

Rudy would likely be spouting off unproductive, sarcastic comments right about now, but he’s too busy laughing at me to muster any words.

My phone starts ringing again, and at first, I’m grateful for the distraction—until I cringe when my mother’s name brightens the screen. Jaw clenched, I reject the call and slam the phone down on the counter.

I flinch when it vibrates with a text message.

Mom: Walking into your condo! Thanksgiving prep.??

My throat closes up, more from agony than dehydration now.

Fuck me.

“Dammit.” I rake a hand through my still-fucked hair, desperate for ten liters of water and a bottle of Ambien. “My mom is here with green beans and shit.”

“That’s my cue.” Rudy pops up from the stool, stealing another scone from the bag before he flies to the doorway.

“On second thought, you can stay.”

“You want me to stay and make green bean casserole with your mother?”

My eyes are pleading.

“I’d rather superglue a rare steak to my nuts and run naked through a pack of hungry wolves. But the desperation in your eyes is adorable.” He points at me. “Call me later if you need help disposing of the body after things go sideways.”

I shoot him a deadened stare. “Joplin would be a better candidate for that.”

“So hot.” Rudy sends me a salute and shoves the rest of his scone in his mouth before whipping open the door.