Page 17 of The Plus One Pact

This is work.

And I need to be extra careful. After all, she's a professional too. More likely to see through my Cassanova routine.

I need to bring my A game.

But then again, I always do.

I'll have Doctor Ivy celebrating her divorce in no time.

Chapter Five

Ivy

Which is crazier: spending two hundred dollars I don't have on a hotel room or inviting a sex worker to my apartment?

I opt for the latter.

Which is probably the more ridiculous choice. But Romeo—is that really his name?—isn't surprised. At least, his text doesn't hint at any surprise.

He says if I'm nervous, we can talk first. We can even meet for a drink, at a bar, a public place. No charge for the extra time. A new client special. For first timers.

We tend to need a little encouragement.

But this isn't New York City. This isn't even Los Angeles. There's no bar down the street. I have to drive wherever I go, and that means I won't be able to drink enough to ease my nerves.

Probably smart.

But, hey, I'm already inviting a sex worker to my house. Why start with smart now?

I send the man my address. I try to put our meeting out of mind. But all day, all night, all the next day, I think about it. Through my laps at the pool at the gym, my session editing the podcast with Meredith (I refuse to discuss the plan to turn myself into a trick in the name of content), my afternoon tea, my walk on the beach, my dinner with a friend from grad school.

Nothing distracts me. Not even the soothing sounds of Law and Order. There's something about the way the detectives solve the crime, every time. In only forty-four minutes, they figure out who did it, and why they did it.

If only life were that simple.

At an hour to our meeting time, I give up on distraction and pour my energy into preparing my place. My apartment is small but nice. A one-bedroom that stretches the limits of my budget. Really, if we lose the sponsor, that's it. Even with the fancy letters after my name, I can barely afford to live in this place where I grew up. It's too damn expensive.

Maybe I can move back in with my parents.

Now, that's an idea.

No, I can get a job somewhere, in theory, eventually. There are well paying jobs out there. They're just not the ones I want. I hate working with couples. They bicker constantly. They remind me of my ex. It's… awful.

I’ve always been fascinated by relationships and sex. I’ve always been a good listener. So, I thought I’d love helping couples.

But I didn’t. At first, I only found it uncomfortable. And I still liked, no loved, my solo clients. Then things got worse with my ex, and I started to hate working with couples more and more.

As soon as I had the opportunity to limit my number of couple clients, I did. Then the show got big, and I didn’t need to see anyone anymore.

But, hey, I’m not here to save anyone’s relationship. I'm here to save my show.

No pressure.

What would make my apartment say, this is a fun, no pressure sex session, to me at least?

Even though I've lived in this space since I decided to divorce my ex (it’s been a year now), I haven't done a lot to decorate. The walls are bare. The couch only holds a slim blanket and a small pillow. At least the bookshelf is full, with a mix of mysteries and textbooks.

That makes me look smart, I suppose.