“Jesus, Rosie—how much longer are you gonna take?” you called, arms crossed over your chest as you let an irritated huff.

You heard the whistling from the other side of the door, as Rosie took his time styling his perfect hair, and trimmed his perfect mustache.

The door swung open. “Stop moaning about it. I can’t be lookin’ less than hot at this shindig, alright?” he barked in response. You rolled your eyes. If Rosie was anything, he was pretty. As much as you didn’t want to admit it.