Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

the left. I scurry over and pull it toward the middle until it sits exactly on the rhombus-shaped pattern of my quilt’s fabric.

As I straighten from my task, my bedroom door opens.

My roommate, Cora, pops her head in. “Ellie, sugar, dinner is ready.”

Dinner? Is it that late? I started tidying up right after I got home from work. Could four hours just fly by like this?

While my glance flicks to the watch on my nightstand, Cora comes in.

Her delicate yet memorable perfume—the same she used in college when we first met—unravels in my bedroom’s tiny space.

Did Cora catch her hairdresser after work? It looks like it. Her thick, long mane, still a uniform light brown this morning, now fades from a rich chestnut into a delicate strawberry blond, creating a weightless effect.

“I like your ombre,” I say.

“Thanks, I like it, too,” she murmurs distractedly, studying my desk. “Louise said it should be a low-maintenance style, too.”

Not that this aspect should be crucial. Cora doesn’t shy away from the extra effort needed to achieve exterior flawlessness. She’s the most put-together person I know, which is either admirable or a tad intimidating, depending on your mindset.

While I wonder whether I should pay a visit to Louise and challenge her to tame my bouncy chocolate curls, Cora’s eyes drift from my bookshelves to my bed and then to my vanity.

She sighs then turns to me. “What’s wrong, sugar?”

The problem with living with your best friends is they can take one glance at your surroundings and get a sense of what’s happening to you. It’s almost freaky.

I deflect her concerned question. “Nothing, I just felt like cleaning.”

She gives me a knowing look then waves toward my books. “That’s not just cleaning, bless your heart.”

I follow her hand. “Fine, so my book covers are all grouped by color and ordered by thickness and height. So what? I still don’t think my internal turmoil is plastered on those shelves.”

“Huh, gotcha,” Cora says. She’s got a tint of small-town twang—despite her best effort to get rid of it—just enough to give her voice a charismatic husky lilt. “So you have some inner turmoil.”

I shrug. “I’m just a bit anxious. No, not really anxious. Excited, rather.” Yeah, flipping the word is a wise move.

After all, the buzzing in my chest and the sweaty palms could also be signs that I’m looking forward to confronting my boss. It all depends on what story I attach to it in my head. And I don’t want to tell myself that I’m scared, even if I might be. A bit.

“What’s ha-m-ppening-h tomorr-h-ow?” The muffled question seeping in through the open door belongs to my other roommate, Hope. Based on the chomping sounds, Hope must already be eating.

Cora rolls her eyes, confirming my hunch. “Hope couldn’t wait for my stew to be ready, so she’s stuffing herself with her usual poison.”

“I heard that!” Hope yells.

“I knew you would,” Cora shoots back then blinks at me. “Come on, sugar, tell me what’s on your mind.”

Before I open my mouth, Hope cries, “I want to hear it, too, but I need to finish my Fruit Loops. Come out here, pleasssse!”

I catch Cora’s eye. We exchange a smirk then march into our open kitchen.

We moved into our current apartment four years ago, and while all our bedrooms are shoeboxes, our kitchen is spacious and has floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s my favorite place in the house and often makes me forget the insane rent we pay. I especially love the large black-marble stone counter because it glistens soothingly after I polish it.

To be honest, I could do without the giant modern painting decorating the wall, but it was Cora’s thank you gift from a famous modern artist after a successful show she organized for him. She’s so proud of it, Hope and I had no option but to befriend the weird design. The debate about whether it shows a dragon, a forest, or just a bunch of green smudges, is still open.

Cora goes straight to the stove. “I’ll serve us first, then you can tell us what’s on your heart while we eat.”

She lifts the cover on the pot and stirs the reddish liquid. Spicy scent of Cajun seasoning spreads in the air, making me aware that part of my aching belly could be indeed due to hunger.

“Okay, I’ll get the plates,” I say, opening the cupboards.

I fetch one bowl for Cora and then run my fingers across the stacks of dishes to locate my lucky one. I always put it back where it belongs—the medium-sized, colorful pile on the upper shelf—but it’s not there.

Bummer, I could’ve used its good mojo. “Did anyone see my orange bowl?” I ask.

“I did,” Hope answers between munches.

I whip around to where Hope sits at our round dinner table. “Where?”

She gives me a triumphant smile that makes her trademark smoky eyes, enhanced with lots of mascara and eyeliner at the lash line, drift into two half-moons. She lifts her cereal and milk into the air with a brisk movement. “Right here.”

“Watch out, you’ll spill it!”

My warning arrives too late. The piebald cereal rings sway like tiny boats on an angry pinkish sea, firing a fat drop of milk onto her elegant white blouse.

“Ah, fudge berries,” Hope murmurs, lowering the bowl back to the checkered tablecloth. She rubs at the spot, which makes the milk smudge fainter but larger.

Cora throws Hope a disapproving glance. “You’re only making it worse, bless your heart.”

“Why are you still in your work clothes anyway?” I ask.

Cora and I are in our homebody outfits. Admittedly, our tastes in comfortable clothes while at home are rather different. I’m currently rocking leggings with an oversized shirt I got from my brother, Devon, while Cora sports a raspberry flare dress that could come straight from The Stepford Wives.

Still, none of us are dressed as if we’re about to head out on a usual morning.

“I need to drop by the office for a couple of files after dinner.” Hope nods, sending a