Ingrid is pleased. And when Ingrid is pleased, everyone is pleased—especially me.
I hum a Yungblud song as I walk back to the House of Cards. My editor spent the last half hour raving about my Valentine’s Day feature on taboo relationships. I wrote a little about Ryan and me, of course—I did promise our readers I would—but I also edited together their stories of unlikely love. It was a viral smash. Ingrid was so happy, she let me go home early for the holiday.
My cell buzzes, and I pull it out eagerly. It’s been a total lovefest on my phone today, with heartfelt messages and goofy memes from Cat and Brinley. This time, it’s Mom, texting a picture of Waffle that she drew little red hearts all over on some app.
Mom
Be my meow-entine! I loaf you!
I roll my eyes at the pun, but it’s still good to hear from her. She’s the only one in our family to accept Ryan and my relationship. The three of us had one awkward lunch together right after my article was published, where Ryan and I sat threefeet apart from each other and Mom talked about anything other than our personal lives. After she resorted to discussing the snowy weather, she broke down.
“This is ridiculous,” she huffed. “We’re all the same as we ever were. Now, stop pretending that you’ve never held hands and we’ll all act normal.”
Ryan’s dad is still ignoring all of us, pretending this isn’t happening. Mom swears he’ll break eventually, but Ryan isn’t so sure. I’m cautiously optimistic that whatever comes next, we’ll figure it out together.
The setting sun has turned the sky a pretty peony pink, and it reflects back on the windows at the House of Cards. My steps quicken when I see it.
I officially moved back into Ryan’s apartment on February 1st. The real estate broker practically cried when I told her that I had to break my lease early, but I’m sure some other lucky girl will snatch that perfect apartment up quickly.
I’m happy to be back, but not nearly as happy as Waffle is. She spent the first day home practically glued to Ryan’s leg, winding around him and rubbing her face on his jeans. The traitor might be starting to like him better than me.
When I open the lobby door, I find out that Valentine’s Day apparently threw up on the whole room. Shiny red and white balloons fill the lobby like gigantic bouquets. Beau stands in the middle of it all, directing the staff to move them inside Velvet and Vice or send them up to the restaurant.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, neighbor!” I call to him.
He shakes his head. “It’s never a happy Valentine’s Day when you work at a restaurant. Do you have any idea how many couples are going to try to sweet talk their way inside without a reservation?”
I shrug. “Have you tried running a shittier restaurant? One nobody wants to go to, with reheated food and awkward overhead lighting?”
Beau shudders. “Point taken. By the way, when you see Ryan, tell him it’s not too late to take me up on my offer.”
“What offer?”
“You’ll see,” he says darkly before turning to a staffer holding a three-foot-wide bouquet of roses. “Those go upstairs, man.”
“But all the other flowers are in the club,” the staffer says.
Beau rubs his temples. “All of them? We don’t haveanythingon the tables upstairs?”
“Sorry, boss.”
“This fucking day,” he mutters, grabbing the flowers himself. I excuse myself quickly, ready to escape his storm cloud and head upstairs to my own Valentine.
When the elevator doors open to our apartment, I gasp. Romantic piano music spills from Ryan’s amazing sound system, and red rose petals are scattered around the floor. Unfortunately, that’s not the only surprise.
Ryan whirls around the kitchen in a pink frilly apron, chopping up something that looks like a pineapple for a few seconds before he rushes over to the stove to stir something. His hair looks wild and distinctly mad scientist-y.
Then, an alarm goes off. Ryan jumps and opens the oven door, releasing a dark cloud of smoke into the kitchen. “Shit!” he yelps, before being interrupted by his own coughing. Seconds later, the fire alarm kicks in, alternatively blaring and beeping. His hand over his mouth, Ryan grabs a tea towel and starts waving it frantically by the alarm.
It probably makes me a bad girlfriend, but I can’t help it—I laugh. He’s just so chaotic in the kitchen, I can’t help it. Ryan winces when he sees me. “Surprise?”
I grab a pillow and join him in waving the smoke away from the alarm. Soon enough, we coax it into silence, and Waffle stops glaring at us from her new throne at the very top of the cat tower in the living room.
“Are you trying to burn the whole place down?” I demand, tossing the pillow back onto the couch.
“I was making you a romantic Valentine’s dinner with French food. It’s boeuf bourguignon!” He holds up a little notecard. “Cat gave me the recipe.”
I groan, wondering if I did something to make my best friend mad at me. “Didn’t she know you can’t be trusted in the kitchen?”
