Page 123 of Puck Prince

“If by ‘narrowed down,’ you mean I’m no closer to having a place to live than I was this morning, then yeah, we’re doing wonderful! Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“It’s not my fault every apartment turned out to be a dud.” He puts the car into park and unbuckles.

“They weren’t duds! I was ready to put a deposit down on the first place we saw!”

He arches a brow. “You’d pay for that shit view? There were trees everywhere. You couldn’t see anything.”

“So?! Maybe I like trees! Maybe I want privacy. Maybe I don’t want everyone to be able to see me when I’m standing on my balcony.”

He bobs his head, conceding my point. “Considering your history with going pantless on balconies, that’s probably a good call.”

I want to hit him. Can I hit him? I might hit him.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” I grit out instead. “What was wrong with the second one?”

“The kitchen didn’t have a garbage disposal.”

“I can scrape the food off in the trash before I put my dishes in the sink. I hardly think that's a make-or-break problem.”

Owen holds his hands up. “Listen, we all get lazy and just toss plates into the sink, half-eaten pizza rolls and all. If you plan on being perfect every hour of the day, sign the papers. Also sign away all future Friday night plans, ‘cause doing the dishes by hand every day of your life is gonna take a lot of time.”

I put my head in my palms and mumble, “And the others? What was wrong with them?”

He starts to rattle off the reasons one by one, counting each on his fingers as he goes. “Too close to the freeway. Too far from work. Too many cabinets. Not enough cabinets. Too many stairs. Too?—”

“Okay! Fuck. You know what? This next place, I get to decide.” I jab a warning finger at him, eyes narrowed. “You keep your mouth shut and let me pick out my own apartment, got it?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

I undo my seatbelt, and we make our way up. The property manager greets us outside the door.

“I think you’re really going to like this place,” she gushes. “It's an open concept, fresh paint, new appliances…”

“Garbage disposal?” Owen asks, and I shoot him a look.

What?he mouths.

I run my fingers across my lips in azip itmotion.

“Garbage disposalandicemaker,” the manager boasts proudly. “Not to mention, it comes with a robot vacuum. It’s like living in an episode ofThe Jetsons.”

We follow her in, and I make a massive effort to avoid acknowledging Owen’s existence in any way, shape, or form. I will not let him talk me out of this place.

Everything the manager says sounds perfect. “There’s an extensive patio with a beautiful view of the city and the park. Updated bathroom, huge walk-in closet…” She guides us through each room.

And honestly, as I look around, it really is perfect.

Too good to be true even.

“Price?” I ask with a barely-concealed wince.

“Twenty-one hundred. That’s below the average in Houston right now, especially for a two-bedroom. And speaking of two bedrooms…”

I look at Owen with a smile. It’s on budget, too. It truly is perfect.

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