My feet feel like I took them on a walk through a broken glass factory. It’s only a short walk from my Uber to the House of Cards entrance, but every step feels like a punishment I don’t deserve.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I mumble to myself.
Normally, I pride myself on being able to rock four-inch heels through any scenario. Tonight, I can’t wait to strip my boots off and slip into my mercifully flat slippers.
I blame my date. When Alex showed up in a cowboy hat and shiny cowboy boots, I figured it was just a fashion statement. Instead, he dragged me out to a honky-tonk and accosted my poor ears with country music all night. I don’t care how much Beyoncé and Miley Cyrus try to convince me otherwise—country musicsucks.
Still, I was determined to make the best of it. I’ve already written two articles about going out to dinner with wealthy assholes, and I don’t want all my 12 Dates of Christmas to be downers. So I took a few tequila shots and let myself get dragged out on the dance floor.
I had so much fun, I ended up staying out till 1:00 a.m. Getting up tomorrow is going to be a bitch, but it was worth it.
Once I’m in the lobby, I slump onto a bench and unzip my boots. I wince at the pain as my new blisters rub up against the leather, but once the shoes are off, I breathe a sigh of relief. Sweet freedom.
I shoot the doorman an apologetic look as I pad barefoot over to the elevator. He gives me a professional nod, completely unphased. I guess between all the guys who live here, he’s probably seen worse.
Maybe I should have invited Alex upstairs to talk a little more. He was nice enough, and didn’t mention crypto or give off stalker vibes once. I just don’t see us really dating. We had absolutely nothing in common—I love books, he only reads the news. I dream of traveling, he doesn’t care if he ever leaves Canada. I have a cat, he’s got three big dogs. If it weren’t for all the dancing, we would’ve just been sitting there awkwardly.
Still, it might have been nice to make out with him as a distraction. My first article from the new series goes live on theBelladonnasite tomorrow, and I’m nervous as hell. I’ve never written anything that felt sopersonal, where I let my own, unfiltered voice free instead of using a polished, magazine-standard tone.
I just hope people don’t hate it.
When the elevator arrives, my finger automatically goes to the wrong button—number ten, Cat and Nate’s floor. I used to go up and visit her all the time, so it’s habit. I wish Icouldpress it, so I could go up and tell her all about my night.
Since Cat got engaged, we’ve barely seen each other, and even our texting has gone down to a minimum. It feels like she’s always busy these days, and I don’t want to add more on her plate by being too demanding. Even if I’m dying to share my dating stories with a real friend and not my editor.
I just need to be patient. Cat’s always made time for me before, even when she was working two jobs. She’s not going to ditch me—even if I’ve lost some flaky friends before, Cat’s not like that. She’s too loyal. She’ll call me back.
The elevator arrives, and even though none of the lights are on, the ambient city light shining through the windows illuminates the outlines of the furniture in blue-ish white. My boots clunk to the ground as I drop them. After all the blisters they gave me, maybe I’ll just throw them down the elevator shaft.
My mouth feels dry, dehydrated from all the dancing and tequila. Padding to the kitchen, I grab a glass and turn on the tap.
“It was a good date, I take it?”
I jump, practically dropping my glass. Thankfully, my brain registers that it’s Ryan’s voice I’m hearing before I grab for a butcher knife. My empty hand goes to my chest, pressing against my thudding heart.
Ryan’s sitting in the living room, leaning back in an armchair with one long leg crossed over the other. I can’t see his face in the dark, but I can see him lift a glass of whiskey to take a sip.
“What the fuck, Ryan? Aren’t you supposed to be in L.A.? Why are you just lurking in the dark like a serial killer?”
He chuckles, but nothing about it sounds amused. “I needed to make sure you got home okay. It’s one in the morning, Pips.”
I shake my head. “Nobody asked you to play paranoid Daddy. You volunteered, apparently.”
The words feel sharp and raspy as they come out of my dry throat. I fill my water glass and take a long sip.
“Well, if I’m going to playDaddy, I should do it right.” Ryan drags out the word, taunting me with it. “Where did the young man take you?”
“Drinks and dancing. Some honky-tonk in the West End.”
This time when Ryan laughs, it’s warmer. “Oh man, you must havelooooooovedthat.”
I raise my chin. “I had a great time, actually.”
“Of course. Because you love country music so much,” he says sarcastically.
My shoulders tighten. Something about the way he’s so confident sets me on edge. He acts like he knows me, even if we haven’t spent real time together since high school. Well, screw that. I’m tired of him telling me how boring and stuck-up and humorless I am.
“You don’t have a clue what I like. Music or otherwise,” I spit.
