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You have to be pretty desperate to consult someone referred to as the Drunken Psychic for insight into your perennially single status.
But that's me...
- Working in a bakery despite dreaming of culinary school.
- Hanging out with my happily married friends and trying not to be gut-twistingly jealous.
- And renting a blissfully sweet one-bedroom apartment on the banks of a river that has been a much-needed refuge.
Until now.
Because tonight, after trying to make heads or tails of the psychic's mysterious pronouncements about my love life, I arrive home to find a man on my couch.
A very naked, very muscley, very handsome man.
Did I mention he was butt naked?
And things only get more confusing from there. We have a whole conversation, in which he reveals that he's the star center for the Wilcox Wombats hockey team, Rock Stevens. And that Rock is actually his real name. And that he's in town for a week for an all-star pickleball tournament. And that my apartment is actually his apartment.
And then he refuses to leave. Things only get more confusing from there.
As we try to navigate our sudden forced-roommates situation while the landlord gets to the bottom of the mixup, Rock decides to turn the tables. Instead of being annoyed that I'm in his apartment, he suddenly becomes charming. Sweet, even. And even though I know it's a mistake, he charms me right up onto the kitchen counter, and... well, you can imagine the rest.
