Clarissa Lincoln is a martini glass half full type. Heck, even when she slurps the last bits of icy vodka from the glass, she'll tell you it's plumb full!
Until a disaster of a night on New Year's Eve sends the daydreaming, serial dater spiraling as...
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"Wow," I comment as Conner leads us inside and flips on a light switch. "It's very you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Well..." I trail off as I look around.
His apartment could be the standard for the open layout, classic, neutral-colored, clean, and simple design that you see over and over on the four hundred different versions of House Hunter shows.
His walls are painted a light, easy-on-the-eyes grey, with white baseboards, and his flooring is a wood-looking dark grayish brown. The kitchen, of course, is the focal point with its oversized island and shiny white counters that face out into the living room, another ample open space. Everyone is minimally decorated with beige and white furniture and black accent tables. Even the throw pillows are neutral colors.
The main decor is the view from the sliding glass door that looks out to the terrace Conner talked about. Other than that, there are only a few complimentary photos hung up.
"I pay way too much for rent to get a 'well,'" he balks at my answer, and I get it! He probably does, and this is the look these days. Most people likely walk in and say, wow.
"Don't get offended, Conner. As someone who aspires to be very rich someday, I appreciate this place's resale value and all that," I say slowly. "It's just that it's so boring."
"Gee, thanks," he says dryly.
"I have a different style, is all. I prefer the old school houses and apartments with stories behind them and character. Like the big Victorian mansions uptown, did you know some of them still have ballrooms in them? Can you imagine? Now that is a house with a personality, " I say and then wave my arms around. "This... is just a product, not a home."
"So it's boring and has no personality, that's just... thanks, Rissa."
"I didn't say you don't have a personality. I'm sure there's more to you than being a crabby writer who tells women what to do, but your apartment isn't giving any clues of that."
"I don't tell women what to do," he argues. "And the book was written for anyone. I never specified gender."
"Okay, a crabby writer who tells singles what to do," I correct myself.
"I don't tell anyone what to do. I—"
"My point is everything in here is so— plain. It looks like a staged apartment. Please don't tell me your favorite color is beige."
"It's not. I like blue, but I don't have any eye for putting a space together. I paid extra to take it with the furniture it already had."
"So it is a staged apartment," I say with a short laugh; no wonder there is no color. "I'll help you. I'm an excellent decorator. Just hand me your debit card and keys, and let me at it."
