“I beg to differ.” She dropped her bag next to the machine she usually picked, and she made a face to herself before she turnedto me. “I should warn you that Shark Week begins tomorrow, and I’m already cranky.”
“Duly noted.” I knew what questions to ask her, in other words. “Do you get bad cramps?”
“Let me guess—you’re educated in that too.”
Yup, she was extra feisty today. “More than that, I have two baby sisters who don’t mince words,” I replied.
Willow and Elise were significantly younger than the rest of us, and they’d still had the ability to scare the shit out of us once they’d hit puberty. Ever since then, we either gave them a wide berth during those days, or we walked around with chocolate in our pockets.
Natalie changed into her running shoes and tied them. “My cramps aren’t terrible, but my cravings are.”
Ah. Made sense. It was common.
“I can help you set up a more lenient structure for those days,” I offered.
She glanced over at me. “Really?”
“Of course.” I turned on the display for the treadmill and picked one of the easy programs. “Hop on.”
She complied and bit her lip. “I’m sorry I was a bitch.”
I smiled. Bitch was a strong word. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” she sighed. The slow walk began, and she gathered her hair in a haphazard bun. “I woke up pissed because I dreamed about cake all fucking night. It’s pathetic.”
Pathetic was also a very strong word.
“So we both had shitty mornings. We can turn that around now,” I said.
“What made your morning shitty?” she asked.
I waved it off dismissively. “More bullshit from the dating scene. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna give up soon.”
“Oh. That bad?”
I nodded, reluctant to say more. The goal was to keep things professional.
Natalie smirked a little. “Did a Canadian spend the night?”
“Ha!” Okay, that was funny. I chuckled and shook my head. “No. I spent five minutes messaging with someone who believes our horoscopes matter.”
“Oh God. I know so many people who turn their signs into their identities.”
Yeah, it was weird.
“Okay, so no date for her, I take it,” she prodded.
“No. I think I’m done for a while.” I eyed the display. “I went out for drinks with someone last week, and I wanted to stab myself with a fork. Ten years ago, I could pick whoever I wanted, and we’d at least have something in common. I don’t know what’s happened—and it ain’t me. I’m everyone’s type.”
Her hard work was paying off. The seconds ticked by on the display, and she wasn’t remotely out of breath yet.
“Did you just say that?”
Say what? I met her gaze and noticed she looked confused. “What?”
She widened her eyes. “That you’re everyone’s type?”
I furrowed my brow. “But I am.” Wait, was that arrogant too? Christ. Fuck that. “I have a steady job, I’m reliable, loyal, I’m driven, fairly social, no baggage, and I’m objectively attractive.”
