Jem brought his guitar in to do sing-alongs with his students, which he personally thought didn’t count, but Ivy was the expert.
When the meat had browned and Jem had removed it to deglaze with the onions, Ivy said, “Okay, now we’re getting to the good stuff. Tell us about your date comfort zones.”
Jesus Christ. “What does that even mean?”
“Like, if someone takes you to a salsa bar…,” Tori prompted.
“The kind where they serve tortilla chips or the kind with ladies in red dresses?”
He glanced over in time to see Ivy cover a snort with her hand. “Let’s assume the focus is on the second one.”
Jem and Tori brainstormed a list—“I know way too much about your areas of competence, Anderson. Sporting events, golf, knowing which fork to use at fancy dinners, clubbing. Oh, hey, do you think anyone’s looking for a guy who can do a keg stand? Child-minding, black tie, talking to rich people like you’re one of them—”
“Why is this starting to sound like an indictment of my character?” Jem wondered as he scraped the rest of the vegetables into the pot.
“I can’t imagine,” Tori said airily.
The questionnaire wound down just as the chili finished cooking, with Tori proclaiming, “Okay, there’s a section on, like, whether and what kind of time you’re willing to spend with your dates without your clothes on, but that’s none of my business and I’d rather not know, so… I think we’re done.”
Fuck, in an hour or so,Jemwas going to have to decide if he was willing to put naked time on the table. For now he settled for puttingdinneron the table. “Great.” He flashed a small smile. “Thank you for the help, really. It’s, uh… it means a lot.”
Ivy reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Of course. It was fun. And thank you for saving us from takeout for another night.”
“Hey, you know I’m in love with your kitchen.”
Tori paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Do you think we need to add that to your profile? ‘Weirdly turned on by functional design’?”
Ivy elbowed her, looked over teasingly, then glanced back at Jem. “Is that a feature or a bug?”
Jem’s friends were such dorks. He was so lucky. “You’re the expert.”
“Feature, definitely, if it gets me fed like this.”
Jem flushed at the compliment. Sue him; he liked knowing he made people happy.
Conversation died off as they all concentrated on their dinner, but when Jem was about halfway through his bowl, he caught Tori and Ivy giving each other a married-couple wordless look.
Jem made a bet with himself about who’d speak first. His money was on Tori. She usually did the heavy lifting when she thought Jem needed handling.
Good thing he didn’t make the bet with anyone else, because he was broke and it was Ivy who broached the subject. “Jem, you know we support you if you want to do this sugar-baby thing. We’d never judge you for that.” She put her spoon down and blinked at him with those wide, earnest brown eyes. “But if youdon’twant to do it—if you’re doing it because you think you have to—we could give you a loan.”
Jem was already shaking his head. “No, that’s—I can’t accept that. I don’t know when I’d be able to pay you back, and then it wouldn’t be a loan.”
To his relief, Ivy didn’t push it, just smiled her acceptance. “Okay. Well, offer stands.”
“Told you,” Tori muttered, sticking out her tongue.
Ivy laughed at her. “Oh my God.”
It was just a normal dinner after that. Ivy insisted on doing the dishes while Jem finished the last of his profile. He had to admit, the biography she’d written him sounded—well, it sounded embarrassing, but embarrassing in a way that suited Jem and would likely attract the kind of people he wouldn’t mind spending time with.
Jem A., twenty-seven-year-old former NCAA athlete, now a young professional himbo with golden retriever energy. Whether you need me to crush it on the golf course, charm investors at a charity gala, or pour margaritas by the pool, I can do it all and look good doing it. Rather hang out at home? That’s cool, I’ll make you dinner and we’ll trash-talk X Factor. The world is your oyster when you’re with me (unless you like actual oysters, because I’m allergic to shellfish).
“I thought you said I wasn’t a himbo, just himbo-presenting,” he said to Tori, playing up his puppy-dog eyes.
“We could edit to ‘himbo-presenting golden retriever,’” Ivy said, “but that seems redundant, and there’s a character limit.”
“Nah, it’s great, actually. Thank you again.” He smiled and hit Submit, then closed the app. “For the first time, I actually feel pretty good about this.”
