Page 15 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

Oh.Oh.

Oh, no.

My heart drops from my chest all the way down to the pit of my stomach, my cheeks heating instantly.

Because waving cheerfully in Dexter’s face, dangling from my makeshift clothesline, is a bra.

Mybra, to be specific.

My large, black-and-pink-striped,breastfeedingbra.

Lest you think this comes across as a sexy moment, let me just stop you right there. Breastfeeding bras are not sexy. They are not push-up bras. They are not perfectly shaped to lift and separate.

No, these are the kinds of bras you could use as a beanie. They’re floppy and droopy and the straps get all twisted after one wash. Their purpose is not to lift and separate—their purpose is no more or less than tocontain. To contain the milk-making monstrosities that are hanging off my chest. To give me easy access when I need it.

Thatis what’s waving in Dexter’s face, slapping him in the eye, all because my dryer is acting up.

I dart forward, snatching the bra out of its clothespin and yanking it down, hiding it behind my back. Dexter’s gaze jumps from the now-empty clothespin to my face, and he seems to snap out of whatever daze he was in—his eyes flit over me, brows raising just a hair.

I glance down, realize I’m still in my sleep shirt, and then look back up at him, my cheeks burning.

His eyes darken for just a moment, and there’s an expression on his face I can’t quite identify, since I’ve met the man exactly once. But a second later that look smooths away.

“Is this going to be a common occurrence?” he says, jerking his chin in the direction of my clothesline.

“My dryer is broken,” I say faintly.

“Mmm,” he hums with a nod. “Maybe you should do something about that. I’d prefer not to be confronted by your undergarments.”

He did not just say that.

“First off, I’ve been trying to get maintenance over here for a week,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “And second—second,” I hiss, stepping as close to him as the box he’s carrying will allow. “What are you even doing here? You live here?” I gesture to his half of the duplex. “What happened to tenant requirements, huh? Are you a retiree? Are you fifty?”

He sighs—kind of like he expected this question. “I’m the complex manager. It’s in my contract that I have to live on site.”

“Next tome?” I ask, resisting the urge to throw my hands in the air.

“That part is less than ideal,” he admits—rude—“but itiscoincidence. Although…” he says, looking thoughtful, “I wonder if my predecessor put you here because he didn’t want to put anyrealtenants next door to all the construction that was going on in my unit.”

I don’t like his emphasis on the word “real.” Like I’m a fake tenant? That’s not a thing.

“Look, Dexter, I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean—”

“Dex,” he says, cutting me off.

I blink. “What?”

“Dex. I rarely go by my full name. And now, Miss Ellis,” he goes on, “if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to get done today. I hope in the future you’ll refrain from hanging your clothing across the patio. Oh, and by the way?” He jerks his chin over his shoulder. “I noticed earlier—you’ve got a flat tire on your car. You should probably get that taken care of.” And before I can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving me fuming.

Four

Dex

After a dayof unloading and unpacking boxes, my body is exhausted. My mind, however? My mind is still operating at full capacity, and it has decided to think about my new neighbor.

Needless to say, I’ll be getting in touch with maintenance as soon as possible. I don’t know what I expected from Maya Ellis, but it wasn’t a striped bra flying in my face. I can’t deal with that every day. I just can’t. She’s irritating and frustratingly stubborn, but she’s also very attractive, and her underclothes are a distraction I definitely don’t need.

I wish maintenance could also do something about her walking around in nothing but a sleep shirt, but that feels unlikely. Luckily there’s no rule that says I ever have to see her or be around her.

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