Sneak peak of my writing schedule today:

[Topher Lydon]

Peter turned, a jar of dried basil in one hand like a grenade. "Guests, West? Is that what we're calling them? The man is a predator in a tailored uniform. He looks at me like I’m a particularly complex croissant he hasn't decided how to eat yet."

"He likes you," West grunted. The words tasted like bile.

"He likes the idea of me," Peter corrected, hopping down from the stool. His oversized cardigan flapped like the wings of a flightless bird. "He thinks I’m some tragic, brooding artist trapped in a rustic prison. He doesn't know I’m currently wearing socks with individual toes because they’re comfortable."

West looked up. "You’re wearing the toe socks?"

"They provide superior dexterity! Stop deflecting." Peter marched over to the table, slamming the basil down. "You want me to walk into the lion’s den, drink his terrible American wine, and… what? Seduce him? West, look at me."

Peter gestured to himself. The messy platinum hair, the baggy corduroys, the cardigan that smelled faintly of turpentine and woodsmoke. "My idea of flirting is correcting someone’s grammar. My seduction technique is arguing about the correct humidity for storing watercolours. If I try to bat my eyelashes, I’ll look like I’m having a seizure."

[Topher Lydon]

He was currently five feet and six inches of thermonuclear fury.

[Topher Lydon]

Jason, who had been shrinking into his chair under the bombardment, suddenly bristled. The passivity burned away in a flash of protective loyalty. “He’s not ‘ewww.’ And he doesn’t have that many freckles.”

“Please,” Bobby scoffed, leaning back. “Freckles are a sign of weak character. A lack of moral fibre. Look at me.” He gestured to his own face. “Not a single one. Pure, unblemished integrity.”

Peter, who had been watching this exchange with a mixture of horror and fascination, couldn’t help himself. He paused in his feigned interest in a rose bush. “Bobby, your nose is a constellation of poor life choices and missed sunscreen opportunities. You have more freckles than a ginger at a solar flare convention.”

“Lies! Slander!” Bobby barked, his hand instinctively flying to his nose. “This is strategic pigmentation! *Peter’s* the freckly one. He’s the artistic twin. I’m the law. The law has a clear complexion.”