Sutter

Paint the town?

All that jazz?

What fresh hell is this?

It takes me a second, but when I come to, I realize it’s six in the morning and my new roommate is singing show tunes in the shower that separates our rooms.

“For the love of God, woman.” I roll over, groaning and sandwiching a pillow around my head, but it does very little to block the sound.

The girl’s got some pipes. I’ll give her that. I bet she’s one of those Hollywood-manufactured “triple threats,” the ones whose parents shelled out tens of thousands of dollars over the course of their adolescence to ensure they could sing, dance, and act at a level that would land them enough audition exposure that someday, maybe someday … they might be the future Ariana Grande.

Groaning, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pop some earbuds into my ears. Within ten seconds, Steely Dan is crooning in my ear and it’s like that stupid Broadway show isn’t even happening in my bathroom.

I play to Hey Nineteen first.

Then Deacon Blues.

Bad Sneakers and Show Biz Kids.

Yanking an earbud out once the fifth song begins to start, I listen to the situation going on outside my door and determine the singing and the shower have yet to stop.

Tossing the covers off, I crawl out of bed with some unapologetically massive morning wood, trudge to the bathroom, and pound on the door.

“Who is it?” she calls in a sing-song voice that could rival a Disney princess any day of the week.

“You about done? I’ve got a job-site to get to.” Resting my hand on my hip, I exhale. I’m supposed to arrive by eight leaving a minute later than my usual time can sometimes be the difference between arriving on time and sitting in an extra fifteen minutes of traffic.

I never had this problem with Nick.

Nick would roll in around three AM most mornings, sleep all day, and do his showering sometime between lunch and dinner—at least I assume. The house always smelled like soap when I’d get home from work in the evening.

“I need to let this conditioner sit on my hair another eight minutes,” she says.

Pressing my forehead against the door, I breathe in the scent of flowery, fruity body wash and shampoo that trails beneath the door.

But a second later the lock pops and the door swings open revealing a startled Melrose standing in front of the mirror, body covered in a thick robe that leaves everything to the imagination and hair wrapped in a turban.

“You can’t just bust in here,” she says, hands clinching her fluffy lapels. “Seriously. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Been meaning to fix that lock,” I tell her once I realize what happened. It was an accident. I swear. “Why the hell is the shower still running and you’re standing here in a robe?”

“The steam is good for my pores.”

She must think I’m a bona fide idiot.

“Do you always wear a towel on your head when you condition it?” I ask, glancing at her sideways.

“Always.” She fights a smile.

A second later, the steam begins to lift and the small room cools, but the shower still runs.

“You used all the hot water,” I say, hands on my hips as I release a hard breath.

“I did? Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She turns to the shower, twists the knob, and squeezes her body between myself and the doorway. “Total accident. Won’t happen again.”

Her back is to me as she heads back to her room, but I’m sure she’s wearing a shit-eating grin the size of Texas.

Balling my hand into a fist, I press it against my forehead and take a deep breath before striding across the hall and knocking on her door.

“Yes?” she answers a second later, still wearing her giant bathrobe.

“I know what you were trying to do this morning,” I say. “Don’t do it again.”

Her perfect, white teeth rake across her full bottom lip as her mouth curls. “Don’t mess with me, Sutton, and I won’t mess with you. It’s that simple.”

My eyes narrow. “Is this because I walked out of the shower naked last night? I forgot my towel. What was I supposed to do, wrap the goddamned shower curtain around me?”

So what if she saw my ass for half a second? Half the cable shows these days show a hell of a lot more than that.

“You really expect me to believe that little story of yours when you literally walked out of the bathroom naked and winked at me?” Melrose wags her finger, scolding me. “Anyway, don’t you have to go to work or something? Should probably get in the shower. I bet you’ve got enough water now for a lukewarm three-minute shower if you hurry.”

With that, she shuts the door and I linger, infuriated—and impressed.