“The bedroom ban,” I say.
She grins. “See? You are learning.”
I shake my head, laughing. “What would I do without you?”
She shrugs, suddenly softer. “Make terrible mistakes.”
I hesitate, then scratch the back of my neck. “Right. Hypothetical.”
Her eyes narrow. “I love a hypothetical.”
“What if,” I say carefully, “Sophia asks me back to hers. Or suggests… continuing the evening.”
Christa stares at me for a beat, then snorts. “Oh, bless you.”
“What?”
“Women rarely do that,” she says. “Not on a first date. Not unless they’re very sure or very bold or very done with subtlety.”
“So I’m safe.”
“Statistically,” she says. “Yes.”
“And if she does?”
Christa brightens in a way that makes me immediately regret asking. “Excellent. Then you deploy an exit strategy.”
“An exit strategy.”
“Yes. You do not say anything about therapy or bans or personal growth. You simply lie.”
“I’m not great at lying.”
“You are about to be coached,” she says, sitting up straighter. “Option one. You have an early start. Important. Vague. No follow-up questions.”
“That feels weak.”
“Fine. Option two. You’ve eaten something dodgy.”
I grimace. “That’s unromantic.”
“It’s effective,” she counters. “Option three. You suddenly remember you left the oven on.”
“I don’t cook.”
“Not the point.”
I laugh. “These are terrible.”
“They are foolproof,” she says. “If all else fails, you can say you live with a pregnant woman and it feels complicated.”
I choke. “Absolutely not.”
“Worth a try,” she says lightly.
I lean against the counter, grinning at her. “You realise how ridiculous this sounds.”
“Yes,” she replies. “That’s why it works.”
