With a sigh, I open my phone and download the first dating app I see—Keepr. After a good roll of my eyes at the name, I put my cynicism to the side and get to work on my profile.
12 Dates of Christmas Ideas:Ice skating. Drinking hot chocolate. Sleigh ride. Shopping for matching ugly sweaters. Christmas markets?—
“You writing about me again, Pip?”
Ryan strolls into the living room, shirtless, naturally, despite the fact that it’s well past noon, when respectable people have their torsos covered. I’m really regretting not insisting on making shirt-wearing an official house rule, because I don’t need a daily reminder that my stepbrother has a six pack, even after I watched him eat six thousand calories of bacon yesterday.
Waffle lifts her head when she hears Ryan’s voice, and the fur on her back stands up straight. At least I have one ally—she hates him just as much as I do.
“I am, actually,” I say sarcastically. “How do you spellnarcissisticagain?”
Ryan reaches for Waffle, trying to pet her. She hisses at him and darts away in a tiny black blur.
“That cat hates men,” Ryan grumbles.
“Not all of them. Waffle is just good at distinguishing between nice guys and heartless heathens.”
“Nice guys are overrated. She’ll learn that eventually,” Ryan says as he plops down on the couch next to me.
“She’s just asserting her boundaries,” I add pointedly, glaring at the millimeters of space between us I would like to widen.
Oblivious, he grabsmycoffee from the table and takes a sip. “Well,myboundaries don’t involve claws.” He makes a face at the taste of my coffee and sets it down. “Or being judged by a puny menace every time I walk into the living room.”
“Same,” I say brightly. “And yet you are.”
He smirks, and because he has no respect for personal space, he leans over to peer at my screen. The warm, musky scent of his cologne mingles with the scent from my morning coffee.
Fuck, I hate that Ryan smells good. Men who are rotten on the inside should smell like it, as a warning to women everywhere.
I reach up to shut my laptop, but Ryan’s too quick. He snatches it out of my hands and reads off the screen.
“Hey, that’s mine!” I grab his arm, trying to yank my computer back. His bare skin feels too hot as my arm grazes against it.
He transfers the laptop to his other hand, forcing me to practically dive across his lap for it. My fingers barely graze the metal before Ryan grabs my shirt, pulling me down so my face is shoved against the sofa and my body is draped over his legs like I’m a bad girl he’s about to spank.
“What the fuck, Ryan!” I squeal into the fabric. “Let me go!”
“What the fuck indeed. The 12 dates of Christmas? What is this, the Hallmark movie from hell?”
He lets go of my shirt and I roll off his lap, landing unceremoniously on my butt. I only miss hitting my head on the coffee table by pure chance. With the tiny amount of dignity I’m able to muster, I climb back to my feet.
“It’s for work. An article I’m writing,” I explain primly.
Ryan frowns, a furrow forming between his thick brows. “Wait, what do you mean? You’re not really going to date twelve guys, are you?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I take advantage of his distraction to pluck my laptop out of his hand. “Otherwise, it would be the 12 platonic hang-outs of Christmas.”
His frown deepens. There are lines around his mouth that I’ve never seen before. “That’s insane. Where are you even going to find guys who’d agree to do this?”
Ouch. Of course, Ryan can find a new girl to bring home every night, but he doesn’t think I can find a guy to go on a single date with me.
For some stupid reason, my eyes sting, warning me that tears are en route. What the hell? Ryan hasn’t been able to make me cry since I was fourteen, and those wereveryunique circumstances. After that, I swore he’d never make a fool of meagain, and I’ve been avoiding him ever since. I painstakingly figured out a specific routine to stop any tears in their tracks.
First, I wiggle my toes to ground myself. Then I clench my fists and dig my nails hard into my palms, telling myself that I’m the only one who gets to hurt me. I haven’t actually had todothis routine in years, since I usually manage to get away with seeing Ryan twice a year—at Christmas and on Mom’s birthday. When I wiggle my toes, it feels weird and awkward.
“I’ll have you know, my first date is tomorrow night,” I lie, convincingly I think. “Hot cocoa tasting down at Terrace.”
Ryan runs his fingers through his hair. “New rule, then. You can’t bring any of these dates back to the apartment.”
