Chapter 1

Chapter One — The Worst Date of My Life

Lori's POV

There are three things I know with absolute certainty.

One, I should have stayed home.

Two, the man sitting across from me is a walking red flag wearing entirely too much cologne.

And three, if I survive this date without committing a felony, I deserve a fucking medal.

“So, what do you bring to the table?”

I blink. Once. Twice.

“I'm sorry?”

Derek leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over a chest he has already informed me he works out six days a week.

“What do you bring to a relationship? I mean, you seem nice, but I'm looking for a high-value woman.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I stare at him across the little candlelit table, wondering whether the restaurant would charge me for throwing my wine in his face.

Probably.

And the wine isn't even that good.

“Well,” I begin sweetly, “I have a job, my own apartment, thirty-seven houseplants, and a cat who judges everyone I bring home.”

Derek frowns. “Thirty-seven plants?”

“Thirty-eight if you count the basil, but he's going through something right now.”

He doesn't laugh. Of course he doesn't.

“That's kind of excessive.”

“So is asking a woman what she brings to the table before the appetizers arrive, but here we are.”

His jaw tightens.

I smile.

God, I miss my couch.

I miss my fuzzy socks, my oversized T-shirt, and the judgmental stare of my cat from the back of the sofa.

Instead, I'm sitting across from a man who has spent the last forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency, criticizing my choice of career, and telling me how women these days don't understand what men need.

Apparently, what men need is an audience.

And possibly a therapist.

"So,” Derek says, picking up his water glass, “you've never been married?”

"Nope.”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I tilt my head.

“Because the stork lost my address.”

He doesn't laugh at that either.

I'm beginning to think Derek was assembled in a factory that forgot to install a sense of humor.

His eyes drift toward my chest. Not subtly.

Not accidentally.

He looks long enough that I actually glance down to make sure I haven't spilled something on myself.

Nope.

Just boobs.

“You're different from your pictures,” he announces.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“You're prettier in person.”

“Thank you?”

“But you could probably do something different with your hair. Men like when women make an effort.”

I stare at him. Then I look at my wineglass. The wineglass looks back.

We understand each other.

I should have known this date was doomed when he told the hostess women were naturally indecisive because I hadn't chosen between a booth and a table fast enough.

But somehow, against all common sense, I've stayed.

Maybe I'm too polite.

Maybe I'm optimistic.

Or maybe I'm just a fucking idiot.

My phone vibrates against my thigh.

I glance down.

Maya: So? How's Mr. Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Available?

I snort.

That earns me another irritated look from Derek, who has moved on to explaining why women shouldn't expect men to pay for everything.

Which is interesting, considering he hasn't stopped talking about how much money he makes.

I type back beneath the table.

Emotionally available was apparently a typo.

Three little dots appear.

Maya: Oh no.

Oh yes.

Maya: Scale of 1 to 10?

Negative twelve.

Maya: LMAOOOO.

He asked what I bring to the table.

Maya: Please tell me you said a chair.

I bite my lip.

Dammit.

That would have been better.

Maya: Get out of there. I'll call you with a fake emergency.

I glance at Derek.

He's explaining the importance of maintaining a woman's feminine energy.

While chewing with his mouth open.

I feel my uterus actively attempting to remove itself from my body.

No need. I'm leaving.

“Who are you texting?”

I look up.

Derek is staring at me.

“A friend.”

“During our date?”

“Well, yes. That's generally when phones receive messages.”

He doesn't appreciate that answer.

Again.

“You know, women these days have no respect for men.”

I set my phone facedown.

“Derek.”

“What?”

“I don't think this is going to work.”

He blinks.

“What isn't?”

I gesture between us.

“This.”

He actually laughs.

“You're seriously making a decision like that after one date?”

“Technically, we've only made it through the appetizers.”

“You don't even know me.”

Oh, I know enough.

I know you interrupt.

I know you chew with your mouth open.

I know you think a woman's value can be calculated using the same logic as a depreciating vehicle.

And I know that you have referred to yourself as an alpha male three times in the last hour.

Which, for the record, is three times too many.

“I think we're looking for different things,” I say diplomatically.

He scoffs.

“Like what? Some guy who's going to worship you?”

I consider that.

“Honestly? At this point, I'd settle for someone who doesn't explain my own job to me.”

His eyes narrow.

“You've got a smart mouth.”

“Thank you. I've been practicing.”

“That's not a compliment.”

“Then we're even.”

I reach for my purse.

Derek looks genuinely bewildered.

As though the possibility of a woman rejecting him has never occurred to him.

I find that difficult to believe.

Statistically speaking, it must happen constantly.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“We haven't had dinner.”

“I've lost my appetite.”

He glances toward the waiter.

“I'm not paying for your drinks if you're just going to leave.”

“Fantastic. Neither am I asking you to.”

I place enough cash on the table to cover my wine and appetizer.

And a tip.

Because the waiter deserves financial compensation for being forced to witness this shitshow.

Derek watches me stand.

“You're making a mistake.”

I adjust the strap of my purse.

“Probably. But at least it's a new one.”

Then I walk away.

And for approximately eleven glorious seconds, I think the evening is finally over.

---

The hostess smiles as I approach.

“Have a wonderful evening!”

“You too,” I reply automatically.

Then I stop.

Turn.

And lean slightly toward her.

“Just a heads-up. If the guy at table twelve asks whether you believe in traditional gender roles, run.”

Her expression shifts.

She glances toward the dining room.

Then back at me.

“Oh, honey.”

I nod solemnly.

“Exactly.”

She presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile.

I push through the restaurant doors and step into the cool October evening.

The air hits my bare shoulders.

I immediately regret choosing this dress.

Not because it isn't cute.

It's extremely cute.

Dark green, fitted at the waist, with a neckline that made me feel sexy without looking like I was auditioning for a nightclub.

I'd even spent forty-five minutes curling my hair.

Forty-five minutes.

For Derek.

A man whose entire personality could be summarized by a podcast microphone and an unpaid parking ticket.

I pull my cardigan from my purse and slip it over my shoulders.

Downtown is alive with Friday-night energy.

Music spills from a bar across the street. Couples stroll past storefronts. A group of women in heels laughs loudly near the corner.

I watch them for a moment.

They look happy.

Uncomplicated.

Like they've got somewhere exciting to be.

And here I am, thirty years old, walking away from another failed date.

I sigh.

It's not like I need a man.

I don't.

My life is good.

I have a job that pays the bills, an apartment I love, a small collection of friends who would absolutely help me bury a body, and a cat with the personality of a Victorian landlord.

I'm fine.

Really.

But sometimes...

Sometimes I want someone.

Not because I'm lonely every second of every day.

Not because I can't function without a boyfriend.

Just because there are nights when the apartment feels a little too quiet.

When I make dinner for one and realize I've spent the entire day talking to people without actually feeling heard.

When something funny happens and I instinctively reach for my phone, wishing there was one particular person I could tell.

Someone who would understand why it's funny.

Someone who would want to know.

Someone who might remember that I hate cilantro, love thunderstorms, and cry whenever an animal dies in a movie.

Even if it's animated.

Especially if it's animated.

I want ordinary things.

Lazy Sunday mornings.

Random grocery store trips.

Someone to argue with about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

Someone who looks at me like I'm the best part of their day.

Is that really asking too much?

Apparently.

Because the universe keeps sending me men who think emotional intelligence is a feminine hygiene product.

My phone rings.

Maya.

Of course.

I answer.

“Before you ask, no, I did not kill him.”

“Disappointing.”

“I know.”

“Was he really that bad?”

“Maya, at one point he told me women are biologically programmed to respect men who drive expensive cars.”

There's a pause.

Then a choking sound.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“Yep.”

“Please tell me you asked what kind of car he drives.”

“A Honda Civic.”

Maya screams.

Actually screams.

I pull the phone away from my ear.

“Oh my God. Lori.”

“I know.”

“A fucking Civic?”

“It's a perfectly respectable vehicle.”

“NOT FOR THAT CONVERSATION.”

I laugh.

Really laugh.

For the first time all evening.

A couple walking past smiles at me.

I smile back.

“I'm deleting the app,” I announce.

“You say that every month.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You said that after the guy who brought his mother on your date.”

“That woman was lovely.”

“She asked about your fertility.”

“She also paid for dinner.”

Maya wheezes.

I start walking toward the parking garage.

“I'm serious. I'm done.”

“You always say you're done.”

“And one day I'll be telling the truth.”

“Okay, but hear me out.”

“No.”

“I know someone.”

“Absolutely not.”

“He's nice!”

“So was Ted Bundy, according to several people.”

“Lori!”

“I'm just saying.”

She laughs again.

And I smile despite myself.

Maya and I have been friends since college.

She's the sort of woman who can walk into a room full of strangers and leave with six new friends, three phone numbers, and an invitation to somebody's family barbecue.

I, on the other hand, once avoided a conversation with a neighbor by pretending I couldn't hear her through my headphones.

I wasn't wearing headphones.

It was a difficult moment for everyone involved.

“Come over,” Maya says. “I have wine.”

“You always have wine.”

“And snacks.”

“What kind?”

“Those little chocolate-covered pretzels you like.”

I hesitate.

She gasps.

“Oh my God, I have her attention.”

“Shut up.”

“Come on. We can watch terrible movies and talk shit about Derek.”

Tempting.

Very tempting.

But my feet hurt, my social battery is officially dead, and there's a cat at home who will begin filing formal complaints if dinner is late.

“Rain check?”

She sighs dramatically.

“Fine. Abandon me.”

“You have a husband.”

“He's playing video games.”

“Then abandon him.”

“I might.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too. Text me when you're home.”

“I will.”

I hang up.

And immediately hear my name.

“Lori!”

Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me.

I turn.

Derek is coming down the sidewalk behind me.

His jacket is unbuttoned, and he's walking with the determined stride of a man who has decided that being rejected is an administrative error.

I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

Because surely the universe cannot hate me this much.

“Hey!”

I open my eyes.

He's closer now.

“What?” I ask.

He stops in front of me.

“We need to talk.”

“No, we really don't.”

“You can't just walk out like that.”

“I can. I did. It was actually pretty easy.”

His mouth tightens.

“Do you think you're better than me?”

What a fascinating question.

Because until tonight, I hadn't given it much thought.

But now?

“Derek, I'm not doing this.”

I try to step around him.

He moves with me.

Blocking my path.

A cold little sensation settles at the base of my spine.

“Move.”

“Not until you explain why you acted like such a bitch in there.”

My jaw clenches.

I glance around.

People are still passing, but nobody seems particularly interested in us.

Why would they be?

We're just another couple having an argument outside a restaurant.

Except we're not a couple.

We never were.

And I don't particularly like the way Derek has planted himself in front of me.

“I don't owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me some respect.”

I stare at him.

Then laugh.

Not because it's funny.

Because the alternative is screaming.

“Respect isn't something you can demand from a stranger, Derek.”

He steps closer.

“Watch your mouth.”

There it is again.

That tone.

The one that makes my stomach tighten.

I straighten my shoulders.

“Get out of my way.”

He grabs my wrist.

Hard.

For half a second, my brain stops working.

I look down.

At his hand.

At the fingers digging into my skin.

Then back at him.

“Let go.”

“Stop making a scene.”

I yank my arm.

He tightens his grip.

“Derek.”

My voice is different now.

Not sarcastic.

Not playful.

“Let. Go.”

Something in my expression must finally register.

He releases me.

I stumble backward.

A woman standing outside the nearby bar looks over.

Derek notices.

His expression changes instantly.

He smiles.

Actually smiles.

“Jesus, Lori. Calm down. I was joking.”

I stare at him.

A joke.

Of course.

Because apparently, physically restraining women is hilarious.

“You need to leave me alone,” I say.

His smile disappears.

“Whatever.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Good luck finding somebody who puts up with your attitude.”

I don't answer.

I turn and walk away.

Faster this time.

Not running.

Absolutely not running.

But close.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

I don't stop until I've reached the garage entrance.

Only then do I look behind me.

Derek is gone.

Good.

I stand beneath the fluorescent lights and take a slow breath.

Then another.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

I'm fine.

It's over.

He's gone.

I reach for my car keys.

They aren't in the little pocket where I always keep them.

Of course they aren't.

Because naturally, the perfect conclusion to this evening involves standing in a creepy parking garage digging through a purse that apparently contains everything except the one thing I need.

Lip balm.

Receipts.

A pen that doesn't work.

Three loose hair ties.

A peppermint I stole from the dentist's office.

No keys.

“Fantastic.”

I dump half the contents into my palm.

There.

Bottom of the bag.

Right beside a crumpled tissue.

I unlock my car and climb inside.

The moment the doors lock, something in my chest loosens.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel.

And laugh.

Just a little.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

Cry?

Scream?

Drive back to the restaurant and hit Derek with a breadstick?

Actually, that last one is appealing.

I pull out my phone.

Open the dating app.

Stare at the little icon.

Then delete it.

There.

Freedom.

I start the engine.

“Congratulations, Lucifer,” I mutter. “You're officially the only man in my life.”

---

Twenty minutes later, I'm home.

I kick off my heels inside the door and groan.

My feet are going to need at least three business days to recover.

“Lucifer!”

A black furry head appears around the kitchen doorway.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

“Your mother has returned from war.”

He blinks.

“Thank you for your concern.”

He turns and walks away.

Rude little bastard.

I follow him into the kitchen, where he's already sitting beside his empty food bowl.

“Nice to see your priorities haven't changed.”

He meows.

Loudly.

“I know. I know. Starving. Neglected. Call animal control.”

I fill his bowl.

He immediately begins eating.

No thank-you.

No acknowledgment.

Typical male behavior.

I grab a glass of water and wander into the living room.

My apartment is small, but I've made it mine.

Bookshelves line one wall, filled with romance novels, fantasy paperbacks, and a handful of self-help books I purchased during various personal crises.

Most remain unread.

My couch is a soft charcoal gray, covered in mismatched throw pillows and a ridiculous knitted blanket Maya insists looks like something an elderly woman would own.

She's right.

I love it.

And then there are the plants.

Everywhere.

Trailing vines.

Little succulents.

A monstera that has become alarmingly large.

And Gerald.

Gerald is a fern.

Gerald is an asshole.

No matter what I do, Gerald looks like he's moments from death.

I've moved him.

Watered him.

Not watered him.

Begged.

Threatened.

Considered an exorcism.

Nothing works.

I examine one of his drooping fronds.

“Really? After everything we've been through?”

He offers no defense.

I sigh.

“Men.”

My phone vibrates.

Maya: Home?

Alive and emotionally damaged.

Maya: So a normal Friday?

Pretty much.

Maya: Love you. Don't let that idiot ruin your night.

I smile.

Love you too.

I set the phone aside.

Then catch sight of my wrist.

Four faint red marks stand out against my skin.

The smile fades.

I touch them.

They aren't deep.

They'll probably be gone by morning.

Still.

Something unpleasant twists in my stomach.

I can't stop remembering the change in Derek's face.

How quickly he went from smug and obnoxious to genuinely angry.

How easily his hand closed around my wrist.

How absolutely certain he seemed that I didn't have the right to walk away.

I pick up my phone again.

Find his number.

Block it.

Then block him on social media.

Just in case.

I hesitate over the conversation in the dating app before remembering I've already deleted it.

Good.

For once, my impulsive decisions are working in my favor.

I shower.

Change into my favorite oversized T-shirt.

Pull on fuzzy socks.

And settle onto the couch with a blanket and a bag of chocolate chips.

Not cookies.

Not ice cream.

Just chocolate chips.

Sometimes a woman needs to eat baking ingredients straight from the bag.

It's called self-care.

Lucifer jumps onto the couch beside me.

“Don't judge.”

He immediately begins washing his ass.

Point taken.

I switch on a terrible romantic comedy.

The kind where the woman leaves her high-powered corporate job to inherit a Christmas tree farm and falls in love with a handsome lumberjack who somehow has the time and money to own three different flannel jackets.

Predictable.

Absurd.

Comforting.

Exactly what I need.

Halfway through the movie, my eyes start to close.

I adjust the blanket.

Lucifer curls against my leg.

And for the first time all evening, I feel completely relaxed.

Tomorrow, I'll wake up.

Make coffee.

Water Gerald, who will undoubtedly continue his slow march toward death.

Maybe visit the bookstore.