Just Friends by Robyn Sisman Page B

career-woman suit.
    Jack brandished his razor in the air as if he were about to lasso a steer. “Have you been using this to shave your legs?”
    “I might have. Oh, all right, I did. Sorry. I left mine at Michael’s.”
    “Then buy yourself a new one. Look at my face! I’m going to have to go around all day with Kleenex polka dots, like a nerdy teenager.”
    “Sorry,” she said again, but she didn’t sound properly penitent.
    “And you locked the bathroom door. I practically broke my wrist on it.”
    “Bollocks.”
    “You could have stopped me working for weeks. I need my hands. A writer is like a concert pianist.”
    She folded her arms and gave him a smile he didn’t altogether like. “Which one, O Toscanini?”
    “Huh?”
    “Which wrist sustained the near-fatal injury? The one you’re waving your razor around with, or the one you’re using to prop up the wall?”
    Jack glowered. “Kiss my ass,” he said nastily, and turned to go back into the bathroom.
    “Looks like somebody already did,” she called after him. “Love the shorts.”
    Jack slammed the door, readjusted the showerhead to its harshest setting, and stood under the drumming water. It was only a temporary arrangement, he reminded himself, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Two weeks,” he’d said, “two weeks max .” If today was Tuesday, that meant only nine more days of cohabitation. Only nine days? Only nine (9) days? Only nine days ? He closed his eyes and tipped back his head as if in supplication to a compassionate deity. Water ran down his face like tears.
    The best policy was simply to avoid one another. So far, he’d managed this rather successfully. Jack’s mood brightened as he recalled how he had charmed Candace off her high horse and persuaded her to go out with him Saturday night, as he’d known she would, though he’d delayed calling until six-thirty to keep her guessing. When she answered at the first ring, he knew he was in. Girls! The evening had gone pretty much according to plan, though their discussion of Candace’s writing was bumpier than expected: Who would have guessed that she’d set such store by her adverbs? Candace herself, in a skimpy black dress, was even prettier than he’d realized. Out of the black dress, she was sensational. At the end of the evening he had escorted her home, like the Southern gentleman he was, learned that her roommate was fortuitously absent (another giveaway), and decided to stay.
    Jack stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel to frisk himself dry. Candace was a sweet girl, too. When they finally got out of bed, she’d insisted on making him waffles and maple syrup for breakfast. He didn’t especially like waffles, but he’d enjoyed watching her make the effort for him. After that, frankly, he’d become restless. Candace’s apartment was tiny, its windows looking straight into other windows or at blank, dirty walls—probably the best she could afford, but it made Jack feel claustrophic. She’d suggested going to the park (what for?), but he got away by claiming to have a squash date, which was true once he’d called Gus to arrange it.
    Jack’s thoughts reverted to Freya. So far, they’d gotten through three days without difficulty; there was no reason why the remaining time shouldn’t pass smoothly, as long as they were both polite and respected each other’s space. They were mature adults, after all. One tiny niggle remained, which was that he still hadn’t got around to telling Candace about Freya moving in. But he’d been busy. A man couldn’t do everything.
    Wrapping the towel around his waist, Jack returned to his bedroom to dress. As he pulled on his usual jeans and comfortable shirt, he sniffed appreciatively at the smell of coffee and toast. There were some good things about having a woman about the place. He arrived in the kitchen, determined to be good-humored, and looked around for his cup of coffee and his plate of toast. Neither was to be