He looked through the peephole and rested his forehead against the wooden door for a moment. He took a deep breath and swung the door open. “Hi, Lara.”

“Hi, Quentin,” said the stunning woman who Cat had seen smash Jared’s phone last weekend.

“Jared’s not here,” Quentin told her.

She pushed past him into the apartment, taking her high heels off and lining them up beside the door. Cat couldn’t help but notice that the woman had a gorgeous pedicure. Actually, she was kind of objectively perfect in every way. Long, trim figure, not a hair out of place. She sort of looked like the kind of woman who would betray James Bond and turn out to be the evil genius at the end of the movie.

“Thanks,” she said, glancing at Cat.

“Oh, my gosh. Did I say that out loud?” Cat asked the room.

“Yes,” Quentin replied, looking like he was having a very hard time keeping a straight face.

“Where is he, then?” the woman, Lara, asked Quentin.

“I have no idea. He had dinner and then left.”

“I assume he hasn’t gotten a replacement phone yet?” Lara asked, injecting a fair amount of haughtiness into her tone, but something in her eyes spoke of regret. Embarrassment.

“Not yet.” Quentin must have seen the look in her eyes as well because he spoke gently.

“Okay, well. Can I just wait here for him to get back, then?” Lara’s hands went up to her hair, back to her hips, then just fell at her sides. She did not seem like a woman who was very accustomed to asking for permission.

Quentin’s eyes flicked to Cat and Cat nodded her head.

“Sure.”

“You want some ice cream?” Cat offered. “We just had some.”

“No...thank you.” The second half of the sentence was delayed enough to imply that that was another thing she wasn’t very accustomed to.

“You’re offering up my ice cream?” Quentin muttered with a half smile as he plopped down on the couch again, this time close enough for his shoulder to brush Cat’s.

“Oh.” She laughed. “Apparently. I guess in my mind, your ice cream is my ice cream?”

“It’s like the opposite of mi casa es su casa.” He laughed. “‘Oh, you thought that was yours? Nah. It’s mine.’”

She face palmed. “I told you I was a lot.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “And I told you. You’re not a lot. You’re the perfect amount.”

“You two are cute,” Lara said softly from where she sat in the armchair at the other end of the couch.

“Thanks!”

“Oh, no, we’re not—” Quentin and Cat spoke at the same time but he cut himself off and looked down at her. “Did you say, ‘Thanks’?”

“Uh—” For the second time that night, a noise at the door cut her off. All three of them turned and looked at the front door as the sound of a key scrabbling around for the lock sounded clearly through the room. On screen, the walls of the trash compactor still bore down on the cast.