Twenty minutes earlier
I’m starving. If I don’t eat soon, I think I might pass out.
Fasting cardio is the stupidest idea since wrestling alligators and hunting eagles using drones.
After my morning jog on the beach, I’m like a bear who’s woken up after a long winter, and I’m talking typical bears, not the garbage-rummaging troublemakers we have around these parts that don’t even need to hibernate on account of the warm weather. I have a headache, zero energy, and feel extremely irate (like said bear), especially about the stupidities of the world, of which there are many. Case in point: I was about to eat my breakfast after examining the house for the next renter, but I’ve just discovered that the sink is clogged after going over to wash my hands.
Can someone remind me why I do this? I thought it was because I like to socialize with people from different places, but now I’m starting to suspect that I have a masochistic streak.
What I didn’t anticipate is that besides the socializing, you also learn what kind of things people stick in the garbage disposal unit. Thus far, I’ve seen a blond wig, a deer’s horn, a bike tire, and enough dildos and butt plugs to stock a sex-toy shop.
Fucker. I have to see what it is. I won’t be able to enjoy my meal until I have this taken care of. Maybe I’ll start my own trend—fasting plumbing.
Taking off my shirt, I get under the sink and add a new clog-causer to my collection: a plush Pokémon, specifically Pikachu.
My first instinct is to write the family a bad review on Airbnb and charge them a fee, but I quickly change my mind. I hate bad reviews with a passion, so the Golden Rule says I shouldn’t dish them out unless I really mean it, and at the moment, it could be my hanger tempting me.
What I need is a meal, followed by some cuddles with Harry and Sally. If I’m still pissed about Pikachu tomorrow, I’ll write the review then. Though I already know I won’t because I’ve never written bad reviews about other guests whose miscellaneous items have clogged the same disposal unit.
Climbing out from under the sink, I hear something, which makes my starved-for-nourishment heart jump.
An intruder?
Unlikely in a gated community, but not impossible.
I carefully rise to my feet.
It’s a woman.
A tall, slender woman with shiny hair the color of chocolate, eyes the most delicious shade of caramel, vanilla-ice-cream skin, and a mouth as ripe as—
Fuck. I need to eat so I can stop seeing the whole world in food terms.
Then my eyes fall on my breakfast, the thing I’ve been fantasizing about.
It’s gone.
This thief ate it.
No.
Fuck, no.
“Who are you?” I jerk the headphones off my ears. “And why did you eat my fucking breakfast?”
The stranger’s hands go to her hips. “I’m renting this place. Who are you?”
So, this is Brooklyn… from Brooklyn. “You’re not renting anything yet,” I grit out. “Last I checked, New York and Palm Islet are in the same time zone, and it’s not yet eleven-thirty in either place.”
She takes a step back, but then her eyes go slitty. “So… this is what passes for customer service around here?”
My jaw ticks. “Let me reiterate. You’re not a customer. Not yet. You’re more like a trespasser, and around these parts, they often get shot.”
“Ah, so you’re full-on psycho?” She scans me without the fear that should come along with her statement. As her gaze lands on my hand, her eyes widen. “Is that a ripped-up stuffed animal?”
Shit. I’ve been clutching the late Pikachu like a stress ball. Maybe I do look like a psycho… or worse, like the stereotype of a native Floridian.
I open the trash and bury Pikachu’s remains there without a eulogy. “The little brat who left this morning stuffed that toy into the garbage disposal.”
Brooklyn lifts her pointed little chin. “So not only are you rude, you also hate children.”
Hate children? My hackles rise higher. I’ve heard that accusation before—granted, under different circumstances—and it’s as untrue as it is infuriating.
“What else?” she continues. “Do you punch old ladies in your spare time?”
Are these hypothetical old ladies part of the HOA? Either way, I’d never punch one… no matter how tempting those particular ladies sometimes make the proposition.
“I’m rude?” I gesture at my would-be meal. “I didn’t sneak in and eat your food.”
“Can’t you let that go already?” She plants her feet wider, like a boxer ready to go another round. “I thought the tapas were here as a warm welcome. Clearly, you don’t know the meaning of the term.”
“Tapas?” I wipe a bead of sweat off my brow. “That was a traditional Japanese breakfast.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Salmon for breakfast?”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Now you’re dissing a whole culture?”
“No,” she says. “Just you.”
“Don’t New Yorkers put lox on their bagels?” I say. “That’s salmon too.”
She scoffs. “Doesn’t everyone put lox on their bagels?”
Touché. Also, thinking of a bagel with lox makes my stomach rumble so loudly that she does a double take. Then, for the first time, something resembling guilt appears on her face.
“Look,” she says. “Obviously, if I had known it was your food, I wouldn’t have eaten it.”
I take a breath and force my bunched shoulders down. “Is that an apology?”
She visibly bristles. “Are you going to apologize for being a dick?”
“No, but you might as well consider yourself checked in early.”
There.
I feel like a saint as I stomp out of the kitchen, at least until I smell her perfume or whatever it is. Yuzu, sage, and cloves. Delicious.
Fuck me. My stomach is at it again.
Slamming the door behind me, I hurry to my own place—where a much crappier breakfast awaits.