“FOR THE LOVE OF ALL things holy, put some damn clothes on!”

Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath. Ignoring the barking request from my new roomie, I move from child’s pose to downward facing dog.

“Oh, fuck me.”

“Been there, done that.” I murmur under my breath. I start every morning on my mat. I always practice yoga in skimpy underwear. It’s what I sleep in and I’m used to living alone. Had I moved in with anyone else I’d be more considerate, either wearing more clothes or moving my daily yoga routine into my temporary bedroom. I know it bothers Jon, so here I am. Probably not the best idea to poke the bear but I can’t resist.

“Whatever. I’m taking a shower.” Jon stomps down the hall, shirtless and sweaty, returned from his morning run. We’re establishing some semblance of a routine since moving my stuff to Evie’s bedroom three days ago. He works out in the mornings and I practice yoga. He usually catches the tail end of my sacred mat time and gives me shit about what I’m wearing. Or more accurately, not wearing.

I roll the sponge foam mat and carry it back to my room. Trying to concentrate on yoga with a naked Jon just one door over is impossible. Even with my years of training there’s no way I can steer my lewd thoughts from the racy images. Man, muscle, steam, water. I’ve never wanted to be a soap bubble so badly.

Dressing for work, I pull my hair into a twist at the base of my neck and apply makeup with care. I match my lip color to the same bright fuchsia that swirls through my bohemian skirt. I grab a cardigan to throw inside my large hand bag. Doesn’t matter that the high will be well over one hundred degrees today, my office will still be cold as Elsa’s castle from Frozen.

The front door opens and shuts with a bang. Evie comes over every morning to work with Jon on their case load. She primarily works the behind the scenes, a point of contact for clients as well as controlling the administration for the company. Their living room is now converted to an office workspace, couch pushed to one corner, allowing for two giant filing cabinets and a desk. They’re still running the business from this apartment, but I have to wonder how long that’ll last.

I grab my bag and open the bedroom door. A smile tugs at my lips as I watch my best friend, vigorously poking away at the keyboard between deep frustrated huffs.

“Morning, Evie!” I call out, walking the short hallway.

“Hey, Kate. How’s it going?” She glances over her shoulder to grin.

“Oh, just dandy. How are things with the boyfriend now that you are living together in sin?” A blush travels up her neck and stains her cheeks. I giggle.

“Never mind, I don’t need details now. From your face I can guess things are going well.” She nods shyly before turning her attention back to the screen.

“Well, I’ve gotta run. Maybe we can meet for breakfast on Sunday? I know I’ve seen you every day, but I feel like we haven’t had our girl time.” I fill a travel mug with coffee, sugar and creamer in the adjacent kitchen.

Evie spins her chair away from the screen and nods.

“I know what you mean. Let’s do breakfast. I want to hear all about how things are going living here with Jon.” She raises one brow and I act as though she hasn’t.

“Make sure she fills you in on the no pants party she’s been throwing every damn morning.” Jon grumbles, stomping from the hallway and plopping down in the chair next to Evie. Her eyes widen as she glances back toward me. I roll mine.

“Yes, and I’ll be sure to mention my roommate’s a real prude. Later gators!”

Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I prance out the front door before they can ask any more questions. The truth is I hate living with Jon. Not because I don’t like him, but because he’s a constant reminder of everything I can’t have.

I hop inside my sporty Acura and sing along at the top of my lungs for the short commute. I work downtown for a well-known photography and videography studio. I love my job because every day is different, depending on the current projects and clients. It’s never boring and I like that a good chunk of my day involves talking with people. It also keeps my creative juices flowing being surrounded by artists.

Pulling around the older restored office front to the near empty gravel lot in the back I find my usual space. I grab my bag and use my keys to enter the employee entrance.

“Hello!” I call into the quiet space. Two of the owners, Marc and Steph are in here somewhere because I saw their cars parked outside. Jason, the third owner, will likely roll in sometime after lunch.

I rest my bag inside my office and pull out my laptop, plugging it into the charging station on the desk. My office is not a large space, and it’s in the back of the building between one of the two portrait studios and a supply closet. It’s modern and clean, with whitewashed exposed brick walls and large photography prints. A white office desk with bright orange chair in the center of the room makes up my workspace. A small faux white leather sofa sits across for the times when I meet with clients. Three token square skylights fill the room with natural light.

Wandering down the hallway to the reception desk I ponder where everyone is. Teagan, our receptionist won’t be in for another hour, so I click on the phones and slide my finger across a tablet, pausing to select a music mix to stream throughout the office.

A movement near the front door catches my attention. Marc and Steph take one last pull from their cigarettes before squashing them into the dirt and ceremoniously picking up the butts to throw in the can just outside the doorway.

Marc is wearing jean skimmers and a buttoned down short sleeve shirt, a plaid design in hues of blue. His combed, styled brown hair is perfectly in place and matches the length of his trim beard. His outfit screams summers in the Hamptons but his tattooed neck and gages provide a glimpse of the alternative, artistic genius that lives inside. He’s attractive and looks younger than his age of forty-two. In fact, I’m probably the only one in the office that knows his actual age because I hold the company HR documents. I also know that Marc’s given name is actually spelled with a k instead of c, but in his younger years he thought Marc spelled with a c had more of an edge so he changed it.

Steph is the youngest of our studio’s owners; at only thirty she runs the videography side of the business. Her bobbed jet black hair, with thick blunt bangs border her sharp features. Today a pair of thick, black framed glasses draw attention to her ice blue eyes. Steph is short and a little heavy set and wears her typical black on black ensemble. I’m forever attempting to get the woman to add some color into her wardrobe but she insists the only color she will wear goes on her lips. Today it’s in the form of a deep red.

Marc pulls open the door and steps inside behind Steph.

“Speak of the devil,” Steph winks, a smile tugs at her painted lips. “We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah? Were you recounting how fabulous I am and then decided to give me a ten percent raise as an early birthday gift?” Marc snorts a laugh at my reply.

“Oh you’re fabulous, girl. We need our best employee to work her charm on a prospective client.” He bats his thick lashes my way and steeples his fingers over his chest.

I’m not falling for it though, last time they asked for my help I was stuck entertaining a seventy year old man for three days. He was quite the handsy fucker. I raise my eyebrows in suspicion.

“Who’s the client, Marc?” Steph cackles.

“I told you she wouldn’t forgive you for sticking her with Angus.”