I notice that Mitch keeps looking at her phone where it's lying face-down on my coffee table, but she makes no move to check it.
Then, because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the building fire alarm goes off.
"Every goddamn week," Mitchy mutters as we sigh and grab our coats.
Outside, the building's residents cluster on the sidewalk in various states of weekend disarray. Mrs. Byrd from upstairs is in a bathrobe and curlers.
The guys from 1A are clearly still wasted from last night.
And I'm in my holey Northwestern sweatpants, ratty t-shirt, hair in what can charitably be called a bun but more accurately resembles a bird's nest.
No makeup. Probably some marinade on my shirt.
So naturally, that's when Andrew jogs past.
He's not alone. There's another guy with him—shorter, stockier, with dark hair and an easy smile.
Both of them are shirtless, sweaty, and, God help me, so freaking ripped.
