His smile didn’t look happy.

“Baby LeBlanc.” Dean’s lazy tone slipped right into my lower belly, and I stilled. He grabbed me by the shoulder, spinning me in place so that I faced him. His companions eyed me like I was a pile of rotten eggs. I placed my palms on his iron-steel chest, pushing him away.

“Careful. You smell like Jack Daniel’s just came in your mouth,” I deadpanned. He threw his head back and laughed—this time sporting an honest smile—thoroughly enjoying our bizarre exchange.

“This girl.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to his chest. He pointed at me with a hand that held onto the neck of a beer bottle, looking at the girls with a dazed grin. “Is fuck-hot and has brains and wit that would eclipse Winston Churchill in his finest hour,” he gushed. They probably thought Winston Churchill was a Cartoon Network character. Dean turned to face me, his brows dropping low all of a sudden. “That puts her in a high risk to be a condescending bitch, but she isn’t. She’s also fucking kind. That’s why she’s a nurse. Hiding that fine ass under scrubs is a crime, LeBlanc.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Officer Pothead, but I’m just volunteering. I’m actually a barista,” I corrected, ironing my scrubs with my hand as I wormed out of his touch, offering a polite smile to the girls. I volunteered at a NICU three times a week, monitoring incubators and cleaning baby poop. I wasn’t as artistically talented as Millie or as lucky as the HotHoles, but I had my passions—people and music—and I didn’t think any less of my aspirations than what they did for a living. Dean had an MBA from Harvard and a New York Times subscription, but was he really better than me? Hell, no. I worked in a small coffee shop called The Black Hole between First Ave and Ave A. The money was bad, but the company good. I figured life was too short to do something I wasn’t passionate about. Especially for me.

Jessica Rabbit rolled her eyes. The petite brunette hitched one bare shoulder and turned her back to us, messing with her phone. They thought I was a salty bitch. They were right. I literally was. But if we were being literal here, they were in for a rude awakening. I knew my neighbor and my sister’s ex-boyfriend’s ritual by heart. In the morning, he’ll call them a taxi and won’t even bother to pretend he saved their numbers.

In the morning, he’ll act like they were nothing but a mess he had to clean. In the morning, he will be sober, hungover, and ungrateful.

Because he was a HotHole.

A privileged, unhinged, egomaniac from Todos Santos who thought he deserved everything and owed nothing.

Come on, elevator. What’s taking you so long?

“LeBlanc,” Dean barked this time, leaning against the silver wall and pulling a joint from behind his ear, fishing for his lighter in his tailored, dark jeans. The bottle was discarded and passed to one of the women. He wore a designer V-neck tee—the kind of lime green that made his eyes pop and skin look even more tan—an open black blazer and high-top sneakers. He made me want stupid things. Things I never wanted from anyone, much less from a man who dated my sister for eight months. So I bottled them up and tried to be mean to him. Dean was like Batman. He was strong enough to take it.

“Tomorrow. You. Me. Sunday Brunch. Say the word, and I’ll be eating more than just food.” He dipped his chin down to exhibit his emerald eyes, a sinister expression on his face. No question marks with this guy. Brat, the bitter thought crossed my mind. He is going to have a threesome in a few minutes, and he’s standing here hitting on his ex-girlfriend’s sister. They can hear everything, too. Why are they still here?

I ignored his less-than-stellar advance on me, warning him about something else entirely. “If you light that thing in the elevator,” I pointed at his blunt, “I swear I will sneak into your apartment tonight and pour hot wax all over your groin.”

Jessica Rabbit gasped. Petite Brunette shrieked. Well, they would be in the fire line if that happened.

“Geez, get some chill.” The brunette waved a hand at me, ready to explode. “Like, creepy much?”

I paid no attention to the woman with the crayon makeup. Instead, I simply stared at the red numbers above the elevator’s door, indicating that I was getting closer and closer to a bath, wine, and Portlandia.

“Answer me.” Dean ignored the girls he was about to pork, returning his glazy eyes to mine. “Brunch?” Hiccup. “Or we can just skip the whole thing and fuck?”

Hopeless romantic, I know, but sadly, it was still a no for me.