“I do not want to get married!”

“Sit down.”

She gives me a gentle tug, and I plop on the sofa beside my satin-clad roomie to see what in the world is about to happen.

“Do you want children?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“One day . . . just not today!” Not until I’ve landed that anchor spot.

“What are your political views?”

“Seriously?”

“Very liberal . . .”

“I don’t want to go out with anyone crazy political.”

“Nonconformist?”

“That’ll pull up every patchouli-wearing hippie—”

“Ultraconservative.”

My eyes narrow, and I watch as my roomie chooses middle of the road. “They don’t have journalism on here as a career option. I’ll choose creative-slash-performance. That nip slip definitely qualifies.”

“My eyes can’t narrow any more.”

“Thank heavens for that or you’d definitely need a nip-tuck.”

I watch, mesmerized as she continues entering information about hair color, body type, activities I like and don’t like, until we finally get to the part where possible matches pop up. A screen of headshots appears, and my stomach sinks.

“I don’t like the looks of any of them.”

“We have to go deeper.” Chas is on a mission, but I’m completely skeptical. “Ah, yes. Here we go. What about this? Phil is five-ten to six foot, non-religious. He loves television and is a fan of several series . . .” She nods and raises an eyebrow. “A TV fan is a big plus. Oh, look. He’s pointing to a whiteboard. He does presentations. He reminds me of that Dwight Schrute fellow on The Office.”

“Gross! Dwight is not hot.”

“Did I say Dwight? I meant Jim, when he was doing his Dwight impersonation.”

“That was not a good look for Jim. I don’t like that look.”

“Stop being difficult.”

I don’t like any of this. As much as I want to be open, I can’t help comparing Whiteboard Phil to Cade’s deep dimples, wavy dark hair, the beard, the abs . . .”I don’t know, Chassy. I’m not feeling it.”

My roommate shifts to face me. “You’re done with James?”

“Yes.” I can’t answer that question fast enough.

“You can’t go out with Cade?”

My chin drops, and I don’t answer that question so fast. My fingers twist together, and I feel this weight pulling down from the center of my chest. It hurts. “It’s more like dating him would give Marv another reason to demote me.”

“So you need a transitional man.”

My nose wrinkles, and I look up at her. “What?”

“A rebound guy. You don’t want Cade to be your rebound guy once you finally get over yourself and go out with him, do you? You want it to last, don’t you?”

“Of course . . . not?” I’m confused by the question, although, somehow I’m not convinced stringing poor Phil along is the correct answer either.

“Then I’m giving Phil the swipe right, and you’ll have dinner with him this weekend.”

“Wait!” It’s too late. My roommate’s long fingers have already clicked on the screen, bringing up the Contact Made! message. “Chas! Why did you do that?”

“Cool your tits. It’s just dinner. You don’t have to sleep with him.” More eyebrow waggling. “Unless you want to.”

“I don’t!” I only want to sleep with one man in this entire city, and as much as I don’t want to believe it, it’s very possible I’m just a rebound for him as well. I don’t even know when Cade broke up with his ex-fiancée. Maybe Chas is right.

“It’s late, cupcake!” Chas bends down to kiss my temple. “Hit the feathers or you’ll look like Bette Davis tomorrow, the Baby Jane years.”

“Thanks.” My voice contains absolutely zero sincerity, but it doesn’t matter. My roommate flounces to her room, and I’m sitting looking at the picture of Whiteboard Phil.

Poor Phil, with his mustard shirt and glasses, pointing so earnestly at his presentation. He doesn’t deserve this.

A sudden buzz on my phone makes me jump, and I scoop it up to see a text. You ran out so fast. We never had a chance to talk.

It’s Cade, and the flood of joy and heat surging through my chest takes my breath away. My fingers tremble as I text back.

Sorry. Reality set in at the sound of Marv’s voice.

Fucking Marv, he texts.

I want to smile, but instead I press my lips together. My eyes heat, my entire body is heavy, but I know what I have to do.

It was for the best, I text. We can’t do that again.

Several minutes pass. My phone is silent, and I don’t even see the three little bouncing dots, meaning he’s writing a reply. The knot in my throat twists tighter.

He finally responds. What are you saying?

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’m being pretty presumptive, but at the same time, it’s who I am. I don’t do casual hookups, and if I’m just another notch on Killer’s bedpost . . .

We can’t see each other right now. It will only complicate things.

My bottom lip goes between my teeth, and I blink several times. I think about Chas’s warnings. I think about what I want, and I think about rebound guys. I think about wanting it to last . . . If there even is an it for me to worry about protecting.

I need a little space. Time to think, I add.

Again, silence. No dots. Nothing. I wait for several seconds longer, until I finally decide that’s it. Killer isn’t about waiting. It hurts like a kick to the stomach, but I push on my legs to stand, walking slowly to the bathroom where I’ll brush my teeth, wash my face, do the ritual, prepare for bed . . .

I’m halfway there when my phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump.

I lift it, and two words glow in the darkness.

I’ll wait.

Cade

I WAKE UP at eight on Saturday for my usual weekend jog through the park. I keep my eyes open for Stone in case she decides to come for a run. The early October air is crisp and the leaves are just starting to turn a golden hue. I’m thankful for the reprieve from the humidity, but disappointed there’s no curvy blonde with a smart mouth in the vicinity.

I stop running near a lake and bend over to catch my breath. I replay what happened between us in the kitchen. I can’t let it get that far next time.

So why am I pulling out my phone and calling her?

I lean against a stone bridge in the park and wait for her to answer.

“Whoever this is . . . you’ve reached hell. Go away.” Her voice is husky and scratchy from sleep.

“Wake up, Stone.”

I hear a sharp intake of air and scrambling around as if she’s sitting up in bed.

She clears her throat. “Cade? What? Why?”

I grunt. “You’re a mess in the morning.”

“I-I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Ah. Couldn’t stop thinking about Pixie?”

“That and other things.” She pauses and I wonder if I’m the reason she didn’t sleep. “I dreamed I was on a planet ruled by crazy smart monkeys—”

“Planet of the Apes?”

“Yeah. I hate monkeys now.”

I grin for no apparent reason.

“And get this . . . apparently someone posted the Pixie footage to my mom’s Facebook page. I’m the laughing stock of my entire family.”