Ryan
Hope you’ve got your thank you note ready for me. Handwritten required, calligraphy preferred.
I roll my eyes. When I called my Mom to let her know about my eviction, she immediately suggested I stay with Ryan. For some reason, she’s not convinced that he’s the spawn of Satan. As much as I hated the idea, it did make sense. Ryan’s apartment is a short metro ride to my office, and it’s in a prime central location. It’s the easiest place for my apartment search.
Suddenly, the car screeches to a halt at an intersection, sending me lurching forward against the seatbelt. I cling to Waffle’s cage, but that doesn’t stop her from meowing her displeasure with the abrupt stop.
The driver whips his head around, scowling.
“You said that wasn’t a cat!” he snarls. “I’m allergic!”
I fight the urge to scoff. He can’t bethatallergic—he hasn’t so much as sniffed for the entire car ride.
“Sorry,” I squeak. “There weren’t any pet-friendly Ubers in the area, and I couldn’t carry all this on the train.”
“Get out! Now.”
“Come on, please?” I beg. “Can’t you just take us the rest of the way? It’s only a few more minutes!”
“No cats!” he snaps, putting the car in park. “Get out. Now.”
He opens the door and stalks from the driver’s seat to the trunk. Then, he practically hurls my suitcases onto the street. I hustle out of the backseat to get them before someone runs them over while Waffle meows loudly in indignation.
I’ve barely gotten my feet under me when he screeches away, leaving me and all my stuff out in the cold.
“Merry Christmas to you too, asshole!” I yell after him. Waffle whimpers from her carrier, scared by my screams, and I coo gently at her. “Don’t you worry about that mean, mean man. He’s just mad because his car smells like an old hippie and he has a butt for a chin.”
Just then, a snowflake lands on my nose. It’s quickly followed by thousands of its pals. The sidewalk starts to sparkle, and it’s clear the snow is going to stick.
Great. Just great. Not only do I have to drag my stuff to Ryan’s building, but I have to hurry to get there before I’m dragging my suitcases through the snow.
It takes a few minutes for me to find a way to hold Waffle’s carrier in one hand and roll both suitcases with the other. I set my jaw determinedly as I stalk the last ten blocks of the journey. The sidewalk is slippery, but I stomp with every step, using my stiletto heels like ice picks to jam into the growing snow piles for stability.
And Cat claims these shoes aren’t practical.
Finally, the House of Cards comes into sight. I hate that I’ve given in to using that nickname, but it’s easier than saying “the place where all the guys live.” And I’ve never been happier to see it than I am right now.
The snow swirls around me, sticking to my hair and eyelashes. I can feel my suitcases wobbling. One wheel looks to give out. It’s just a cheap carry-on, designed to carry bikinis for a weekend getaway to Miami, not fifty pounds of books.
“Come on, suitcase,” I mutter. “One more block. You got this.”
Finally, the revolving doors are right ahead of me. I shoulder my way through them, shoving into the marble atrium. I breathe a sigh of relief into the warm indoor air, right as my shoe skids on the floor, making me lose my balance. The only way to keep both me and Waffle upright is for me to drop the suitcase handles. They thud awkwardly on the floor.
“Pippa? What’re you doing here?”
I look up to see my best friend, Cat Daniels, standing by the private elevator. Her wild blonde curls are all over the place, as usual. I’m so happy to see her, I could kiss her. Finally, a friendlyface—and someone who won’t kick me and my pet cat out in the cold.
Nate looms over Cat’s shoulder like an Armani-clad bodyguard, and I shoot him a stilted smile. Over the past few months, I’ve gotten used to having him around. That doesn’t make me Nate’s biggest fan. I love that he treats Cat like the princess she is, and he’s definitely generous, but I don’t find his constant grumpiness quite as endearing as Cat does.
Cat picks up one of my suitcases, and hands it off to Nate.
“I got kicked out of my apartment,” I explain. “I knew not having a formal renters agreement was going to bite me in the ass.”
Cat’s eyes widen. “Oh no. Did they find Waffle?”
“What’s Waffle?” Nate asks.
Waffle meows in response, and I pull the blanket off her carrier so Nate can see her.
