Page 32 of Petrichor

“Milk Duds?” He frowns. “What are you, ten?”

“No, but I have a friend who acts like a spoiled child, does that count?” I retort before grabbing my bag and starting to empty it on the table.

“They say the level of organization of a person’s bag reflects their mental state.” He purses his lips at the chaos I made on the table. “What the hell is a dream catcher doing in there? Are you narcoleptic?Do you conk out in weird places?”

The truth is that I have no idea how things find their way inside my bag, but they inexplicably do. What I know is that I keep them because I like the way they feel, smell, or look.

After taking the time to flip Art off, I finally find the old, open box of melted Milk Duds and toss it at Art.

“Ugh.” He grabs it before it hits his chest. Then he slides the box under his nose as he takes a long sniff, like a junkie with a strip of coke. His eyes widen, and his torso straightens. “Use your lingerie against him.”

“What does that even mean? Did I get such lousy advice because the Milk Duds are expired?”

He flips me off with a creepy-sweet smile. “The way you move is leer-catching, Fly. Wear those borderline obscene, almost see-through white shorts you had last time we went dancing with a red G-string underneath and shake that sexy waist chain. He’ll jump you like a lion a gazelle.”

The sound of a text coming in stops me from asking more or telling him off.

Mr. Suit

Why are you at a café?

How does he know? I look around, but I don’t see him.

Me

Lunch break

Mr. Suit

Takeout from Alonso at seven tonight. Bring them home

Alonso. It must be a restaurant. This is the first time he’s asked me to stay that late. I usually leave at five-thirty.

Me

Yes, sir!

Mr. Suit

Go back to work. I don’t pay you to relax

Me

You don’t pay me at all, remember?

I can almost see him letting out that sexy, annoyed growl. Would he have wrapped his hand around my neck if I was there? It excited me to feel his touch pretty much everywhere. I know he doesn’t like the other way around. He’s grabbed my wrists too many times to stop me from placing my hand on him. I have to clasp my fingers to stop them from reaching for him most of the time.

I slide my phone back inside my bag’s inner pocket. Maybe Art is right, and it’s just a duck imprinting kind of thing—sinceI’ve never liked a straight man before—and when I wake up tomorrow, this attraction will be gone. The fact that Marco felt somehow right from the moment I saw him must be because I connect him to the last memory of my brother and the beginning of my freedom.

The fact that I could lose him too without any warning is frightening and dreadful and it could also happen at any point. How did I getthisattached to him in such a short time? I need to do what I always do. Just go with the flow wherever it might lead me.

“Art, tell me everything you know about Marco ‘the Knuckle’ Moretti. And I mean everything.”

The elevator opens on the penthouse landing with me still looking inside my bag for the note where I wrote the door code—I really need to memorize it. I reach for the electronic door lockafter I find it inside my skinny jeans’ back pocket. I tap the sequence and press my thumb on the small screen until I hear the beep. I push the door open with my hip while holding the two bags of takeout.

The apartment smells like Marco, detergent and smoke.

Sitting at the table on the balcony with a grim expression on his face is my boss. “Why did it take you so long?” I haven’t seen him since yesterday, and that’s all he says? He’s really lucky he’s got those looks.

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