Page 33 of Tips and Trysts

Cora doesn’t waste a millisecond before rolling her eyes. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars to suck your own dick.”

I snicker. “If I could suck my own dick, do you think I would be here right now?”

Her jaw drops, and I let her believe I’m serious before I offer a small, smug smile.

“Did you just make a sex joke?”

“Depends.” I head to the kitchen. “Are you going to blow me?”

“I’d rather get shot in the other arm.”

“As long as your sweet little mouth stays intact and airtight, I wouldn’t stop it.”

Cora appraises me for a second time, running her gaze over the length of my body before settling back on my face. “Not bad,” she mutters under her breath, barely audible.

For the next few minutes, we clean in silence. Cora handles the mess on the stove, which was clearly an attempt at eggs, and I deal with the coffee. Once the machine is brewing, I open the fridge to get more eggs and pause. It’sempty.

“Not a word,” Cora warns. She’s leaning against the counter, holding her bottle of prescription codeine while sporting the most gorgeous don’t-fuck-with-me expression.

“Here’s a novel idea: Let me help you.”

“I pride myself on being independent.”

“Well, it can be our secret.” I hold my index finger in front of my lips. “Makes sense. If anyone found out you were actually human, your flying monkeys would revolt.”

“I’m not interested in secrets,” Cora answers, keeping her expression flat, but the tightness in her clenched jaw tells me this conversation isn’t about breakfast anymore.

“Because you hate lying?”

“Shit.” Small white pills scatter at Cora’s feet like medicinal snowflakes rolling around her kitchen floor.

“I got it,” I assure her before I grab the empty orange pill bottle she dropped. I hand it to her before I kneel and begin picking up the pills surrounding her feet.

“Why the hell are you laughing?” she questions.

When I look up, the glare she’s shooting me is powerful enough to potentially be an alternative fuel source. I didn’t realize I was laughing until she mentioned it, but sure enough, I’m chuckling. I fight the grin off my face, but it’s difficult. Seventy-two hours ago, Cora and I were barely acquaintances—had sent each other a grand total of four messagescombinedover the seven months we’d known each other—and now I’m on one knee, collecting painkillers at her feet.

“I think it’s funny,” I admit, resting my arm on my bent knee.

“We have different definitions of funny, which shouldn’t surprise me. We also have different definitions of polite conversation, evil personified, and princesses.” She holds out her palm.

One by one, I place the painkillers in her outstretched hand. She watches me, long hair haloing her face in a messy wreath illuminated by the afternoon light. Her expression couldn’t be more indifferent.

She’s fucking beautiful.

I’ve spent a long time trying to figure out why I find Cora so staggeringly gorgeous. Objectively speaking, she’s stunning, obviously—intimidatingly so. She has the type of gravitas some people are born with. Some—not many. And of those few, Cora could be their queen.

But sheer beauty has never been enough to captivate me until now. I’ve known a lot of beautiful people, some so beautiful that the mere sight of them made my pulse quicken. But when I look at Cora, my pulseskyrockets.

I finally figured it out three months ago. It was one of those snowy nights in January when the sun sets before five and theDistrict takes on this vacant, somber quality. I’d walked from U Street to Dupont to borrow a book from Lander, taking the long way to clear my head after a horrendous call with my father.

When I got to Lander’s, Cora was sitting on the couch with Valeria. Her sweatpants and t-shirt were both huge on her and her hair was wet. Even without makeup, piercings, her minuscule little outfits, or even the total lethality of herincrediblebody, the confidence still radiated off her like an aura. “You look like shit,” she had commented.

She was right; I did look like shit. I still gave her the finger, and she still pretended to bat it out of the air before it could reach her.

And as I was leaving with Lander’s copy ofThe Art of Wartucked under my arm, I wondered if I had ever met another person who was consistently herself no matter where she was, what she was wearing, or what she was doing. I came up short.

Maybe I find honesty beautiful because it’s so damn rare.

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