As she digs her keys out of her bag and unlocks the three locks on the door, I worry about my truck parked out on the street in this neighborhood. If someone breaks my windows or spray-paints graffiti on my truck, I'm going to be pissed.
An unexpected pang hits me when we finally walk inside. Her apartment is incredibly small. So tiny I feel like I have to go outside just to change my mind. And it's suddenly painfully clear to me—my new wife does not have much of anything. I feel bad now for taking her to my huge condo in a gated community and whining about the clutter in the 2,500 square feet of space Mikah and I share, and mostly wreck. I can't help but wonder if one of the reasons they put us together is because I have money and can get her out of here. And I also wonder if she did this for the money we'll receive and not to find a life partner. She doesn't seem like the using type, but damn, fifty grand has to be tempting for her. If that's true, so would my multimillion-dollar inheritance and my music royalties. Thankfully, we signed a prenup, so my assets are safe if she turns out to be a gold digger. But a part of me was actually hoping this would turn into a real marriage like my parents have. I don't want to be standing here like an asshole in six months, watching her walk away with a fat check and flipping me the bird.
Fuck it. If it happens, it happens. I'll take my own fifty grand from this and party my ass off with every big-titted blond I can find.
Somehow she has managed to transform this tiny, run-down space into a cozy little home that screams her. It's colorful. It smells like candy. It's clean and organized. Above all that, it reflects her unique creativity and ability to turn something plain, broken, and old into something pretty cool—giving it new life with her touch. What little furniture she has is hand-painted and distressed to make it appear antique. I don't even have to ask her; I already know she painted it all herself. Instead of typical curtains, gauzy fabric in a rainbow of colors covers the windows, hanging from birch branches. Not metal or plastic rods—white birch branches, and I can picture her walking through the woods looking for the perfect little branch.
Colored plastic boxes, which must hold the supplies she uses to make the clothes and soaps she mentioned, are stacked in a mock stairway leading to the ceiling.
As I stare around at all the little details she's added to her apartment, my interest in her kicks up a few notches. She's definitely not lazy or an airhead. She's driven and talented and completely self-supporting.
"You've made this place pretty cool, Asia," I say, slowly walking around the small space.
"Thank you… I'm kinda really into crafts."
"It shows. You've got a gift."
"I'll be right back." She disappears down a short hallway to what I assume to be her bedroom and comes back a few minutes later holding two things. One is the smallest cat I've ever seen in my life—that's also wearing a little sparkly tiara on its head—and the other is a black scarf with white X's randomly dyed into it.
"No one said a cat was part of the deal." I'm only partially kidding.
She holds the tiny silver creature with huge green eyes against her chest. "Well, she is. I've had her for three years. I'm not about to part with her. I love her."
"Three years? That's an adult cat?" I swear this cat would fit in one of my hands.
"Yes. She has a form of dwarfism. She hasn't grown since she was eight weeks old."
"Shit. Why is it wearing a tiara?"
"Her name is Princess Pixie. I dress her up and post pictures of her on social media sites. She has a huge following, over eighty thousand likers and followers."
This cat has more fans than my personal fan page. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No. She even has product sponsors. They send me food, outfits, and toys for her, and then we review and post about them."
Fuck me in the ass. Just when I thought things were looking up, now I have a diva dwarf cat with fans to deal with.