Living with Claude Lockheart is like voluntarily signing up for emotional whiplash with a side of chaos.
In the past three days alone, he's done enough to qualify as both a national hazard and a charming lunatic.
First, he swapped out my shampoo for glittery, kid-scented bubble bath. When I walked out of the shower smelling like a cupcake explosion, Claude had the audacity to say, "New scent? Smells... edible."
"Claude," I deadpanned. "I look like I just got mugged by a unicorn."
He only grinned. "You're glowing."
Then came the opera alarm. My phone shrieked like a haunted soprano at 6 a.m., scaring me out of a perfectly peaceful dream about ramen.
"Thought you'd appreciate a cultured start to your morning," he said, casually eating cereal while I looked like I'd just survived a horror film.
"You're insane."
"I'm innovative."
Another day, I went looking for cereal and opened a cabinet labeled "Cereal"—only to be greeted by a bag of rice falling directly onto my face.
