“Why would I wear a shirt and deny you the view?” I drawl. I raise my arms, interlace my fingers, and stretch. I admit, I’m showing off a little. I’m not an obsessive gym rat freak like Nate, but I keep it tight, and the ladies notice.
Pippa notices all right. She looks me up and down and her nose wrinkles in disgust. I wish I could say her revulsion is all a ruse, but Pippa’s a shitty actress. No, she hates me and my sexy bod.
“Rule number one: when we’re in shared apartment spaces, everyone wears shirts,” she sniffs.
“Terrible rule. What if you get hot?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want you to get all sweaty because you weren’t allowed to strip.”
“Most of us don’t have as much trouble keeping our clothes on as you do. I’m surprised all your outfits aren’t tearaway, so you can keep time spent stripping to a minimum.”
“Tearaway clothes are officially on my Christmas list.” I take a fortifying sip of my mimosa. “Rule number two: when we’re in shared apartment spaces, no pants.”
Pippa stares icily at me. “You’re repulsive.”
An electronic version ofOde to Joystarts playing, triggering my impending hangover headache. I drain half of my mimosa, trying to convince my body not to turn on itself.
Pippa points at me before she picks up. “This is a work call, so no shenanigans.”
I can barely hold back my grin. Too bad for her, my middle name is shenanigans.
While she chats with someone named Ingrid in a hushed voice, I quickly google Pippa Murphy. Instantly, her profile onBelladonna Magazinepops up, and I scroll through her most recent articles. All of them have potential.50 Flirty Questions to Ask Your Date, 10 Most Overrated TV Boyfriends, 15 Relationship Trends We Can’t Wait to End…
I grin when I find what I’m looking for.
“Five Signs He’s Playing You,” I recite in a high-pitched voice.
Pippa turns around slowly, her eyes narrowed to thin slits. I can hear the muffled voice of whoever she’s talking to, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.
“Sign number one: He talks about future plans before you’ve even been on a date. Textbook manipulation. He’s trying to get you invested by making you imagine a future together.”
Pippa throws a couch pillow at me, but I duck out of the way easily.
“Sign number two,” I continue. “He never introduces you to his friends. Girlfriend, no. He’s hiding something!”
I snap my fingers in emphasis and I swear, Pippa’s eyes go red.
“Ingrid, sorry, but I’ll have to call you back later,” she says through gritted teeth, before turning on me. “You are such a turd! That was my editor. If she heard you, that would be so embarrassing.”
“Don’t wanna be embarrassed? Then don’t write embarrassing stuff.”
She closes her hazel eyes and I watch her lips move as she counts to five. Finally, she opens them, staring determinedly at me. “Look, if we’re stuck together, we need to agree on some ground rules. I get three, and you get three. If any of my rules are unfair, you can dispute them, and vice versa. If we hit a standstill, we’ll call Cat and she’ll be the impartial judge. Okay?”
I consider. It all sounds reasonable enough. Plus, Cat might be Pippa’s best friend, but I don’t think she’d allow Pippa to make a rule that lets her lock me in a dungeon or anything.
“Fine,” I say. “Three rules, Cat’s the referee.”
“Good. Rule one: no mocking my articles.”
I open my mouth to argue, because I had some pretty good jokes lined up forSeven Vibrators for the Sex Toy-Shy.But all things considered, it’s a pretty minor rule. Pippa’s playing loose, getting mad about shit that just happened instead of thinking about the big picture.
House rules is just a game like any other. And I don’t play games I don’t win.
“Fine,” I say. “Rule two: No judging my sex life. That means no comments about the frequency of female guests or any of the things they do while they’re here.”
Pippa gapes at me. She makes fun of my sex life waaaaay more often than I joke about her work. If she agrees with my rule, I win this round.
Her shoulders slump. “Ugh, fine. I won’t comment on your revolving door of women. But rule three—all sex sounds will be at a reasonable volume and time. I don’t want to be woken up at 3:00 a.m. by you moaning.”
I force myself to keep a straight face. This is going better than I’d hoped. First, Pippa didn’t even argue with rule two. Then, she made a major error by not giving me specifics on rule three. After all, reasonable volume and time are relative. If I get a girl going at midnight, it’s not like Pippa is going to wake Cat up to arbitrate how loud I make women moan. She’s essentially handed me a pair of pocket aces.
