The Neighborly Thing to Do Book 2: Friendly

When Lara first settled into her new home, she was all praises for the building and her apartment. The rent was reasonable, the building was well-maintained and located in a decent neighborhood. She had a parking spot for her old car, and her apartment was quite nice, with fairly modern finishes.

But now, she was beginning to see the drawbacks. The biggest drawback was that the apartments from A to E in the hallway had suffered a major plumbing issue, resulting in severe flooding. And now, she had a roommate.

Or two, if she counted Pablo (which she did). Before she even opened the door, Lara knew who was waiting for her on the other side. What she didn’t anticipate, however, was the chain of events he brought along.

“No way,” Lara firmly declined.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Zavien asked, grinning mischievously. He had clearly ditched his mask just to sway her with his irresistible smile, and it was working. Damn him.

“This will put our friendship to the test. We’re not ready for this.”

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

“You’re assuming I won’t kill you,” she retorted dryly.

“I didn’t want to play this card, but as Pablo’s secret keeper, you’re obliged to help me,” he said, his tone serious and his nod solemn. Pablo seemed to nod along from within his oversized sweater.

“Pablo’s illegal residency is not my problem.”

Even as she spoke, she knew she had lost this argument. Zavien’s crooked smile never wavered. She grumbled in annoyance and stepped aside to let him in.

“Fine! But you’ll regret asking me.”

“I have no doubts about that,” he replied cheerfully. “Should I put my stuff in your room?”

“I have rules,” she said, trailing him as he scattered his few possessions around her apartment.

A few books on her bookshelf—she had to rearrange them because he had disrupted her order—some items in her fridge, Pablo’s food and water bowls by the fridge, and his bed next to the air vent by the TV.

“Do not enter my room,” she began.

“I’ve already been there,” he pointed out.

“Do not use the bathroom before I’ve prepared for work,” she continued, unfazed by his interruption.

“I’ll just pee in the kitchen sink then,” he suggested.

“You can’t criticize my TV choices, and you can’t argue about it,” she cautioned.

“I don’t watch TV,” he reminded her.

“And finally,” she said, ignoring his childish rebuttals, “if you’re going to stay here, you have to follow all sleepover traditions.”

“You mean besides peeing in the sink and sneaking into your bedroom?”

She glared at him. “All sleepover traditions. No arguments.”

She extended her hand and waited for him to accept. He looked suitably apprehensive, but when Pablo poked his head out of his sweater and licked under his chin, Zavien sighed and shook her hand.

“How bad could it be?” he asked casually. The sheer terror on his face when she grinned at him was enough to fuel her through her last shift of the week.

Coming home to someone was a strange feeling. Zavien didn’t “work” in the conventional sense. There was no nine-to-five for critics. It was just him, his laptop, and his gallon of three-in-one shampoo/conditioner/body-wash occupying a whole corner of her shower.

She was appalled when she saw that thing.

“How can it be both shampoo and conditioner?” she asked skeptically. Zavien just shrugged and continued typing on his keyboard.

“And how can it also be a body wash?”

Another shrug.

“I’m surprised you don’t have scales. Actually, lift your shirt up real quick. You probably do have scales.”

“If you want me to undress, you’ll have to buy me dinner first,” he brushed off, not even bothering to look up from his screen.

“I won’t judge you. Much.”

Still no reaction. She sighed and slumped back onto the couch.

“You know, if you did have scales—”

Zavien sighed and finally looked at her, his annoyance with her teasing clear on his face.

“You know very well what I look like under my shirt.”

Pleased at having made her blush, he flashed his smug smirk and returned to his work.

She let out a silent huff, her lips forming a pout. He knew exactly what he looked like shirtless, and it was downright impolite of him to remind her. It had been some time since she’d had the pleasure of seeing him that way, but the memory was still vivid.

The sensation of his surprisingly soft skin (despite his questionable choice of hygiene products) was still fresh in her mind. And then there was that whole moaning episode.

Why didn’t she seem to have the same effect on him? She pondered if parading around in his favorite spandex shorts might do the trick.

She quickly squashed that thought. She wasn’t supposed to be harboring lustful feelings. They were friends. Despite all the line-blurring they’d—she’d—done, that was their status.

But then again, wouldn’t she be a lousy friend if she didn’t look out for his well-being? Yes, this was strictly about his skin health. Nothing more, nothing less.

He let out a tired sigh, finally shutting his laptop and giving her his undivided attention.

“So, you’re not going to quit staring until I acknowledge you, huh?” he asked.

“I’m just being a good friend,” she retorted, her nose in the air and a dismissive sniff. Mostly, she just wanted to resume her ogling.

“Which is more than I can say for you,” she added with a pout.

Her efforts didn’t result in him undressing, but they did get him to sit patiently on her couch while she scrutinized his face a bit too intently.

According to her temporary roommate rules, Zavien was obligated to partake in all sleepover traditions, and facials happened to be one of her favorites.

“Spot any scales yet?” he inquired, his tone dry.

“Yes,” she lied, even though, thank the heavens, his skin was flawless, soft, and completely unmarred.

“What do you use to wash your face again?”

“I don’t know,” he replied with a sigh. “Whatever soap was on sale at the grocery store the week I went shopping?”

She despised him. She slapped the green, gooey face mask onto his skin a tad more forcefully than necessary, ignoring the amused glint in his eyes as she did.

“So, transforming yourself and others into ogres is a sleepover tradition?” he asked.

“Yes, now hush,” she replied.

“Is silence also a tradition?” he asked.

“No, but with you, it’s always preferred,” she retorted with a falsely sweet smile. He remained unimpressed.

She was halfway through applying the mask to his face when he sighed, slumping back on the couch and moving farther away from her.

She shot him a glare, but he didn’t budge.

“I should’ve just taken my shirt off,” he grumbled.

“Too late now,” she retorted.