Page 13 of Zomromcom
“Just checking if you know Latin.” Still scanning their surroundings, she snickered.
“Which you evidently do, thus raising the following questions: Were you alive during the Roman Empire? Were you BFFs with Caesar? Is Maxime short for Maximus? Did you wear short leather skirts in a gladiatorial arena and fight tigers and look really hot, all while not ruining my cherished girlhood fantasies by later throwing phones at innocent hotel clerks?”
His garage door opened with a click of his remote control, and he gestured her ahead of him, toward the passenger seat, while he jogged to the driver’s side.
“Risus abundat in ore stultorum,” he murmured, sliding into his leather seat and slamming the door behind him.
He waited a few moments, but when she refused to give him the satisfaction of asking and concentrated instead on fastening her seat belt, he translated for her.
“?‘Laughter is abundant in the mouth of fools.’?”
“Hey!” she protested. “Rude!”
He laughed too then, and without answering even a single one of her questions, he started the SUV and accelerated out of his garage and into the bright, dangerous unknown.
***
As they wended their way through deserted, half-buckled streets to the Zone’s main access road, Edie studied Max’s calm, contained expression.
“I invited you to visit my workroom the first time we met.” The day after he’d moved in, she’d baked a pan of cheesecake-swirl brownies and brought them over, eager to chat with her new neighbor.
Hopeful they could become friends as well as mutual sources of help in an emergency.
“If you were interested, why didn’t you come before? ”
Because he hadn’t ever rung her doorbell.
Not once in three years. Even when she’d given him the brownies, he’d merely accepted them with a cheerful Whoa, thanks, dude , then made reference to his raging case of munchies, listened to her invitation to visit, drained his Miller Lite, and crushed the can against his forehead.
Only it wasn’t actually empty, so beer sprayed everywhere, including all over her.
After accepting his hapless apologies, she’d promptly headed home again, already knowing her neighbor wouldn’t be much help in an emergency.
He hadn’t bothered to return her pan in person. It had appeared, unwashed, on her doorstep a week later. Which was when she knew he wouldn’t be much of a friend either.
And yet…here he was. Helping her in an emergency. Fresh from her workroom, which he’d surveyed with clear fascination and appreciation. Much like a friend might.
His lips thinned, and he squinted at the road ahead. “I wasn’t interested. Not at first. And then…”
She waited, but he didn’t finish his thought. Instead, he reached into his console for a pair of stylish oversized sunglasses, which he slid onto his nose. They made it hard for her to read his expression.
“And then…” she prompted.
He shifted in his seat. “Is there such a thing as soapmaking school, or are you self-taught?”
The firm set of that tempting mouth had become increasingly familiar to her, and she knew what it meant. If he didn’t want to say more, he wouldn’t.
“Mostly the latter. After graduating from high school, I”— excitedly prepared to attend William and Mary, only to withdraw my acceptance after my parents died terribly while I hid in our attic —“took online classes for business, web design, and chemistry, then started my company.”
Flicking the turn signal, he smoothly braked and went right at the faded stop sign. “You make custom soaps rather than having a set stock, correct?”
Indeed she did, and she’d told him so. Three years ago.
“You remember that?” When he failed to answer her question, again , she sighed and addressed his.
“I sell seasonal collections and a few perennial favorites on Etsy, but most of my business in recent years comes from my custom soap work. People contact me via my website, and they can either choose from a gallery of soaps I’ve created before or work with me to create new, one-of-a-kind small-batch soap recipes and designs.
They can specify the soap’s shape, along with their preferred oil and liquid mixture, colors, fragrances, internal and external swirls and decorations, botanical toppings, et cetera. Even the packaging.”
“Mmmm.” He tapped his forefingers against the steering wheel. “Is it difficult to make new recipes?”
“Things can get complicated, depending on the customer’s choices.
” She tried to steer them toward recipes that would give them the outcome they wanted, but…
“I usually have to troubleshoot something. Specific fragrances and additives can cause discoloration or texture problems, like ricing. The design the client wants may not be possible with the oil blend they choose. There’s a certain amount of experimentation and negotiation. ”
His lip curled. “You deal with people a lot, then.”
If she’d declared slime molds to be her main customer base, he couldn’t have sounded more disgusted. “Less deal with and more interact with .”
For her, that was a feature of her work.
Not a bug. She loved working at home and working for herself, but she missed people.
She missed coworkers and neighbors and family and friends who could visit her house without needing prior permission and a special pass.
Friends who would visit her house, full stop.
And speaking of her missing family members, there it was, whooshing by on her right: Brandstrup Arts & Crafts, her parents’ former store. Once thriving and bright and cheerful, now faded and falling apart. Abandoned, like most of the Zone. Left behind, like her.
“What?” Surprisingly attentive to her shift in mood, he slowed the SUV. “What’s wrong?”
She swallowed back the familiar wave of grief and shook her head.
“Did you see something?” They came to a near stop on the deserted road. “Talk to me.”
Oh, sure. When he didn’t want to discuss something, he just changed the subject or sealed those fine lips closed. But was she allowed to keep her own thoughts private? Nope.
“It’s just my parents’ old store.” With a hitch of her thumb, she pointed back to the boarded-up storefront at the end of a sagging strip mall. “Keep moving.”
Something about the sweep of his head as he turned to face her, the graceful twist of his neck, those stylish glasses, the way the light hit the clean, elegant line of his jaw…damn, it was familiar. In fact—
“Wait.” She slapped the dashboard in triumph. “I know who you are.”
His fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. “What do you mean?”
She laughed in utter glee. “I know why you have that softbox and a ring light setup. I know why I keep picturing you strutting to a chilly European beat, why you were wearing such a bizarre outfit last night, and why you have so much pricy makeup in your bathroom.”
“Do you?” The rumble in his low voice was a threat.
Too bad she wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Maybe she should be, but nope. Once she’d cuddled up to someone and they’d rubbed her back soothingly, her prudent wariness apparently dissipated into the ether.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you before now. I mean, Brad and Tonya are good friends of mine, and I watch all their videos.”
Her head tipped to the side as she considered the matter.
Maybe she was being unfair to herself. Her neighbor Chad—rumpled, harmless, friendly, mouth-breather Chad—might have shared the same basic physical specifications as the nameless, silent founder of the cult favorite Better Than You Beauty and Fashion channel, but the two males looked entirely different in every other respect.
In the sunshine, Chad’s uncombed hair, with its trimmed sides and floppy top, had gleamed golden.
In Max’s videos, whatever product he used to slick that hair back from his face had darkened it.
His natural eye color hadn’t been clear online either, maybe because of filters or because he wore tinted contacts to cover that distinctive shade of blue.
Her neighbor had favored faded Miller Lite tees with holes in them, either one size too big or one size too small.
He’d worn baggy, ragged jeans and a vague smile.
In contrast, Better Than You Beauty and Fashion Guy had modeled the most cutting-edge fashions and makeup trends, almost all of which would look ridiculous on anyone but him.
His videos had helped popularize bleached eyebrows and thigh-high Uggs and so much more.
He either revealed his chosen outfit or demonstrated the application of his chosen makeup to the sound of that inimitable, austere electro-dance music.
He never smiled. Never spoke. Didn’t monetize his channel.
Didn’t respond to comments. All of it only added to his mystique.
On second thought, no wonder she hadn’t recognized him as her sweet, goofy neighbor.
“You…” He spoke slowly. “You’re friends with Brad and Tonya, from Brad and Tonya Try It ?”
She nodded absently. “They saw my feather-swirl soap design a few years back. It was used for a B-list celebrity’s bridal shower and went modestly viral, and they asked me for my help in re-creating it.
Since then, they’ve attempted to re-create some of my other designs too.
They’re awesome and funny and good people, so I’m a friend and a subscriber.
I’ve seen all their videos where they try things from your channel. ”
Her attention wasn’t really on the conversation, though.
A year or two back, when Brad and Tonya had been trying to convince Edie to appear on their channel, they’d sent samples of their most popular content to her—including a few videos inspired by and featuring clips from Max’s own channel.
And with only the slightest twinge of shame, Edie had downloaded several of those videos onto her phone, because wowza … and then promptly forgotten about them.
Had she ever actually looked at the downloads again? Not that she remembered.