refusal to accept the fact that we are one hundred percent over. Stress from working enough hours to violate a good chunk of the labor code. Somehow, half my clients can’t seem to pick out their own underwear recently, much less put together an outfit.
But that’s not all! I could’ve lost too much weight. Aren’t my yoga pants a bit loose around my waist? I look down, sucking in and pulling at the elastic at the same time. Yeah, I think it is. Tía Bea is right—the Guacamole Diet works, even if you’re not trying to diet and eat other things.
Sex with Edgar a month ago has nothing to do with anything. Nope. Nothing at all.
And eight days isn’t that late. My period’s going to start anytime now. I slept for twelve hours last night. I feel well rested, and I’m enjoying a beautiful late morning in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Just look at the Los Angeles sky. It’s a pure, cloudless blue.
Besides, birth control does not spontaneously fail. The CDC says the pill is ninety-nine-point-seven percent effective. Condoms are ninety-eight percent effective, which isn’t quite as good, but still good enough. I mean, we had a lot of sex that night, but we didn’t do it ninety-eight times. The odds are with me.
Plus… Since I’m on the pill, and Edgar used condoms, we should be… I pull out my phone for the math. Ninety-nine point seven plus ninety-eight is…one hundred and ninety-seven-point-seven percent protected! My eggs might as well have been surrounded by a twelve-foot-thick titanium shield.
The doorbell rings, and I check the monitor screen to see who’s visiting. It used to be that only my family came by on my days off, but in the last few years, some clients have decided to drop by because they felt their fashion problems were so immediately critical that they didn’t need to make an appointment. And it isn’t like my address is a state secret. Anybody with access to Google can find it.
If it’s one of my special snowflake clients, I’m not here. Not because it’s my day off, but because I do not see clients when I’m not ready. Curlers in my hair with no makeup and an old PJ shirt and yoga pants do not inspire confidence in my abilities as a fashion consultant. I always meet my clients at their places after I’m fully made up and decked out. Or some other public place. I don’t even let my significant others come by, ever, not even to pick me up for a date.
But actually, it’s Hugo standing at the door, smirking and mouthing, I know you’re in there, at the camera. Out of my seven cousins, he’s the youngest—and the only one younger than me, although he emulates his brothers and tries to boss me around.
But it’s sort of my fault too. Two years ago, one of my clients, who was barely twenty-seven, keeled over for no apparent reason and went into a coma. Being so young, and with no will or other end-of-life planning in place, her estate got tangled up in a huge mess. I got spooked watching the clusterfuck unfold and gave Hugo a power of attorney to handle my affairs, just in case. I thought he was the best choice because he’s younger than me and not quite as overbearing as my older cousins and brothers…
Except that turned out to be an error in judgment.
Thankfully, Hugo’s attitude has improved recently because I helped him get a job—indirectly, but help is help.
I open the door. His smile widens.
His dark hair is too long for an assistant to a high-powered law firm partner, but I guess his boss hasn’t told him to chop it off yet. I might be a little biased, what with him being my cousin and all, but he’s a nice-looking guy with bright, intelligent brown eyes and a dimple on his cheek.
I sweep my gaze over him, taking in the outfit. A bright yellow T-shirt that says Manny’s Tacos, jeans frayed in an aesthetically pleasing fashion and comfy sneakers. Definitely not professional.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
Hugo works as an assistant for Samantha Jones, one of the meanest and most sought-after divorce attorneys in the state. It’s a waste of his law degree from Columbia, but he’s infatuated with the older woman and wants to be in close proximity to woo her.
Hugo’s heart works in mysterious ways.
“It’s Saturday.” He