Page 28 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander

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Ruined by a frozen pizza.

I wave a dish towel around to clear the last wisps of smoke, close the windows once the air becomes somewhat breathable again, and stand motionless in the middle of my kitchen.

My arms are covered in goosebumps.

My feet are frozen.

And I’m starving.

Then, very slowly, a horrible thought crosses my mind.

The bath.

The faucet.

Wide open.

“Oh no!”

I sprint upstairs two steps at a time, heart pounding, one hand gripping the banister so I don’t slip.

I reach the landing, turn left, shove open the bathroom door.

The water overflowed.

Of course it did.

The floor is a lake.

A shallow lake, admittedly, but still a lake.

My towel floats limply on the surface. My bathrobe hangs miserably from its hook, one corner soaking in the puddle.

And the water is still pouring over the edge of the bathtub in a steady, almost hypnotic cascade.

I shut off the faucet with a sharp motion.

Silence falls again.

Broken only by the sound of droplets still falling from the edge of the tub.

I stare at the damage, arms hanging uselessly at my sides before forcing myself to snap out of it.

All right. Time to work.

I have no idea how long it takes me to mop everything up, but when I finally make it downstairs to the living room in my pajamas, I’m even angrier, more exhausted, and hungrier than before.

That’s when I step into a puddle of water.

I freeze in horror before slowly lifting my gaze.

Water is dripping from the ceiling directly onto my corduroy velvet couch—bought from an antique dealer and impossible to replace.

Onto my bookshelf filled with veterinary textbooks, some of which cost a fortune.

Onto the administrative paperwork scattered across my coffee table.

Onto the rug I inherited from my grandmother.

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