My mouth falls open. “What? Why? You have women over here all the time. It’s not fair!”
“It’s my apartment. I get to decide who I let in here.”
“But we agreed, we each get four rules. You can’t just?—”
“I can, actually.” Ryan’s frown is gone, replaced by a wide smirk. He puts his hands behind his head, stretching out his arms to make his triceps bulge. “I’m the only one who can invite people into the apartment I own.”
“Let’s see what the referee has to say about this.” I yank my phone out of my pocket, ready to call Cat when Ryan chuckles.
“Cat can say whatever she wants. She’ll be overruled by actual tenant laws. My house, my rules.”
“Why do you even care?” I spit. “It’s not like I would even let my dates talk to you.”
Ryan props his feet up on the coffee table, taking up more space, reminding me that this is his place—for better or for worse. “You can kiss whatever freak agreed to go out with you goodbye in the lobby.”
Then, just to piss me off even more, he grabs my coffee mug and drinks it.
Asshole.
“Now, I better not hear about you bringing anyone home tonight,” he says smugly. “I’m off to a poker tournament in San Diego, so I won’t be back to chaperone you till late tomorrow.”
“Can’t freaking wait,” I spit. “Have fun. Stay forever.”
I stomp back to my bedroom, leaving Ryan gloating on the couch.
Waffle has made herself at home on the bed, cleaning her paws far away from Ryan. Smart girl. I lie down next to her and open Keepr. Before this, I’ve always met guys in person, at parties or at bars. Unfortunately, I’m in a time crunch, which means I’ll have to turn to the apps for efficiency's sake. It’s the only way I’ll find twelve guys to hit my quota
Except there are only eight messages in my inbox. That can’t be right. Aren’t I supposed to get like a hundred matches right away? That’s what all my friends have said.
I click back to the bio I wrote last night to review it. My top pic is a black-and-white photo of me holding a cup of coffee. My one-sentence summary is cute, but professional. All my answers to the prompts show off my quirky sense of humor or reveal something about me.
My heart sinks as I’m struck with a horrifying realization. What if Ryan’s right? What if Ican’tfind a single guy to go out with me?
I shake my head quickly. No, I refuse to believe that Ryan is right about anything. Millions of people live in Toronto. At least twelve of themmustwant to go out with me.
I just hope I don’t have to lower my standards.
4
PIPPA
“Ialready ordered for you.”
Any hope I had for this date going well dies painfully the second Jesse utters that sentence. Presumption is one of my number-one pet peeves.
My smile tightens. “You did? What did you order?”
Jesse grins. “Etherium had a legit killer day, so we have to drink some champers to celebrate, bro.”
“Oh.” Now I can’t even pretend to smile. Ihatechampagne. I know, I know—champagne is like chocolate and puppies, and everyone is supposed to love it. Not me. It’s too acidic and has way too many bubbles. I occasionally drink it for Cat’s sake, since it’s her absolute favorite, but I wouldneverorder it for myself.
Not to mention, we were supposed to be drinking hot chocolate. It’s the only Christmasy thing about this whole date. Otherwise, it’s just a normal dinner at Terrace Steakhouse. The restaurant downstairs from our apartment is nice and all—in fact, there are couples sitting all around us on dates that seem to be going much better—but it’s no different than any other time I came here with Cat and Nate.
Jesse doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment. He’s far too busy scrolling his phone.
“Yo, hold up,” he says. “BTC just jumped, so I have to unload some shit. BTC is Bitcoin, by the way.”
Oh, god. This date is going from bad to worse, andfast.
