When I’m done, I pull on some pants and walk back into my bedroom. A musical knock sounds on mydoor.
Only one person in my life knocks like that.
“It’s open, Adriano,” I grumble.
He walks in a second later, armed with his perpetual grin.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Who else knocks a door like a f*****g Beethoven?”
“It’s called ‘whimsy.’ It’s French.”
“Did you just say ‘whimsy’?” I ask. “I think you made my point. And no, for the love of God, it is notFrench.”
Adriano rolls his eyes. “Keep on insulting me and I might not tell you the good news.”
“You’ve got the Polish problem sorted?”
He blinks. “Uh… Well, never mind, I might not tell you the news after all.”
I slide open the doors to my walk-in closet and peruse through shirts.
Adriano follows behind me. I can tell by
