Chapter 2 – ryan
RYAN
The way my head is pounding, I know that one of two things happened last night. Either one of the guys dared me to slam my head into the wall, or I finished that second bottle of whiskey after all.
Either way, it’s confirmation that last night’s engagement party was freaking awesome.
Of course, that’s not a surprise. Everyone in our little group brought something to the table.
As the restauranteur, Beau brought amazing catering.
Luke, the owner of Twisted Devil Whiskey, brought top shelf booze.
James, the CEO of the streaming service Sequel, rented a photo booth, complete with props.
And me? I brought the party.
The diamond ring balloons, the hats with Cat and Nate’s faces on them, and the karaoke machine?
All me. What can I say? I love love. Not for me, obviously.
There’s no way I’m giving up my freedom for a life with one woman.
But I love love for other people. I’m the type of guy to get a little sappy when I find out two celebrities got married, even though I know it’s not going to last. Because obviously, love never does.
So even though my head feels like it’s being repeatedly kicked by a Clydesdale, I’m happy. I sprawl out in my bed, enjoying the feeling of fresh, fifteen-hundred-thread-count-sheets and thinking about how life is full of surprises.
I never really thought any of us guys would get married. We all treat our jobs like our wives, and our friendship like the mistress we sneak away to spend Saturday nights with. We haven’t exactly made a lot of room for relationships.
I mean, Cat and Nate feel like a no-brainer.
Nate had to lock her down fast, because Cat’s amazing.
She’s sweet, funny, and most importantly, she puts up with him—which, considering his genetic disposition toward grumpiness, is kind of a miracle.
She gets along with all of us, so it kind of feels like a sixth best friend is marrying into our fucked up little family.
And that’s worth the hangover of a lifetime.
I’m deciding whether to rot in bed for another few hours or drag myself into the shower when I catch a whiff of bacon.
Hello.
I throw off the covers and go straight for the kitchen. I don’t know how I’m smelling bacon, but whatever hungover demon is controlling my body is determined to find out. When I see the back of my stepsister’s head, I stop in my tracks.
Shit. In all the excitement, I almost forgot my heinous houseguest.
Oh well. Coffee and bacon will make facing the beast worth it.
Pippa looks disturbingly good for a woman who only went to bed four hours ago.
She’s already applied her signature red lipstick, even though there’s no one here who gives a shit what she looks like.
She’s perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter, one pedicured foot propped on the seat, one dangling down.
Even her pajamas are chic, wide-legged black pants paired with a lacy black cami.
Her silky black robe falls off one shoulder, showing off an expanse of olive skin.
She’s dressed like she walked out of a magazine spread, not a raucous all-night bacchanalia.
No, Pippa’s only hangover tell is the way she’s shoving a fist-sized cinnamon roll into her mouth.
There’s a whole spread on the counter—pastries, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit on platters. I see a steaming carafe of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice, and an uncorked bottle of champagne for mimosas.
“Aw, Pips, you shouldn’t have,” I say as I stroll in.
She scowls at me. “Uh didn’t,” she mumbles through a mouth full of pastry. “Iss from Cat un Nate.”
“You should keep your mouth shut when you’re chewing. And in general.”
Pippa gives me the finger and takes a long sip of her coffee.
Ignoring her, I start making myself a plate.
It’s probably best for us to both have some food in our systems before we try to speak to each other again.
I load up on bacon, eggs, and mini-pains au chocolat, and pour myself a mimosa, heavy on the champagne.
Hair of the dog and all. I take a seat next to her and dig in.
Pippa sighs loudly. “Do you ever wear a shirt?”
“Why would I wear a shirt and deny you the view?” I drawl. I raise my arms, interlace my fingers, and stretch. I admit, I’m showing off a little. I’m not an obsessive gym rat freak like Nate, but I keep it tight, and the ladies notice.
Pippa notices all right. She looks me up and down and her nose wrinkles in disgust. I wish I could say her revulsion is all a ruse, but Pippa’s a shitty actress. No, she hates me and my sexy bod.
“Rule number one: when we’re in shared apartment spaces, everyone wears shirts,” she sniffs.
“Terrible rule. What if you get hot?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want you to get all sweaty because you weren’t allowed to strip.”
“Most of us don’t have as much trouble keeping our clothes on as you do. I’m surprised all your outfits aren’t tearaway, so you can keep time spent stripping to a minimum.”
“Tearaway clothes are officially on my Christmas list.” I take a fortifying sip of my mimosa. “Rule number two: when we’re in shared apartment spaces, no pants.”
Pippa stares icily at me. “You’re repulsive.”
An electronic version of Ode to Joy starts playing, triggering my impending hangover headache. I drain half of my mimosa, trying to convince my body not to turn on itself.
Pippa points at me before she picks up. “This is a work call, so no shenanigans.”
I can barely hold back my grin. Too bad for her, my middle name is shenanigans.
While she chats with someone named Ingrid in a hushed voice, I quickly google Pippa Murphy.
Instantly, her profile on Belladonna Magazine pops up, and I scroll through her most recent articles.
All of them have potential. 50 Flirty Questions to Ask Your Date, 10 Most Overrated TV Boyfriends, 15 Relationship Trends We Can’t Wait to End…
I grin when I find what I’m looking for.
“Five Signs He’s Playing You,” I recite in a high-pitched voice.
Pippa turns around slowly, her eyes narrowed to thin slits. I can hear the muffled voice of whoever she’s talking to, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.
“Sign number one: He talks about future plans before you’ve even been on a date. Textbook manipulation. He’s trying to get you invested by making you imagine a future together.”
Pippa throws a couch pillow at me, but I duck out of the way easily.
“Sign number two,” I continue. “He never introduces you to his friends. Girlfriend, no. He’s hiding something!”
I snap my fingers in emphasis and I swear, Pippa’s eyes go red.
“Ingrid, sorry, but I’ll have to call you back later,” she says through gritted teeth, before turning on me. “You are such a turd! That was my editor. If she heard you, that would be so embarrassing.”
“Don’t wanna be embarrassed? Then don’t write embarrassing stuff.”
She closes her hazel eyes and I watch her lips move as she counts to five.
Finally, she opens them, staring determinedly at me.
“Look, if we’re stuck together, we need to agree on some ground rules.
I get three, and you get three. If any of my rules are unfair, you can dispute them, and vice versa.
If we hit a standstill, we’ll call Cat and she’ll be the impartial judge. Okay?”
I consider. It all sounds reasonable enough. Plus, Cat might be Pippa’s best friend, but I don’t think she’d allow Pippa to make a rule that lets her lock me in a dungeon or anything.
“Fine,” I say. “Three rules, Cat’s the referee.”
“Good. Rule one: no mocking my articles.”
I open my mouth to argue, because I had some pretty good jokes lined up for Seven Vibrators for the Sex Toy-Shy. But all things considered, it’s a pretty minor rule. Pippa’s playing loose, getting mad about shit that just happened instead of thinking about the big picture.
House rules is just a game like any other. And I don’t play games I don’t win.
“Fine,” I say. “Rule two: No judging my sex life. That means no comments about the frequency of female guests or any of the things they do while they’re here.”
Pippa gapes at me. She makes fun of my sex life waaaaay more often than I joke about her work. If she agrees with my rule, I win this round.
Her shoulders slump. “Ugh, fine. I won’t comment on your revolving door of women. But rule three—all sex sounds will be at a reasonable volume and time. I don’t want to be woken up at 3:00 a.m. by you moaning.”
I force myself to keep a straight face. This is going better than I’d hoped.
First, Pippa didn’t even argue with rule two.
Then, she made a major error by not giving me specifics on rule three.
After all, reasonable volume and time are relative.
If I get a girl going at midnight, it’s not like Pippa is going to wake Cat up to arbitrate how loud I make women moan.
She’s essentially handed me a pair of pocket aces.
“If I must,” I grumble, putting on a good show of being pissed off. “Rule four: No using my Sequel account. James installed a proprietary tech on mine that always gives me the perfect recommendations, and I’m not letting that get fucked up with your girly shit.”
She scoffs. “Fine. I’ll make my own Sequel profile. It’s not that big a deal.”
“You only say that because you don’t have your own proprietary tech.”
“Rule number five,” she says, ignoring me. “The apartment stays at least somewhat clean. I don’t mean you have to dust the windowsills or iron the curtains. I just want to be able to make a sandwich without dealing with overflowing garbage and gross crusty dishes in the sink.”
I expected this rule. It’s no secret I’m a slob.
It’s not like I mean to be—I just always end up getting distracted by something more interesting, like watching old Phil Hellmuth games or going down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about cryptids.
I mean, come on. Tell me you wouldn’t rather learn about Mothman sightings than do the dishes.
It’s fine. I’ll just hire a maid. A really, really hot maid. Fuck, I should’ve done that a long time ago, actually.
Pippa sticks an accusing finger in my face. “You have to do the cleaning yourself. No hiring someone, because I don’t want to walk in on a half-naked woman in an apron every other day.”
Damn. I should have known Pippa would figure out my plans. “What if I don’t make her wear an apron?”
“No hired cleaners, or else I’ll turn your Sequel profile into nothing but romcoms and clown murderer documentaries,” she sneers.
“Fine, I accept that rule,” I concede nobly. “No trash heaps, but for rule six, I expect you to clean up after your cat. I draw the line at changing the kitty litter.”
“As if I’d let you anywhere near Waffle,” Pippa scoffs. “I’m adding on rule seven: you have to be nice to her, or I’ll end you.”
“I’ll be nice to her if she’s nice to me. She hissed at me again when I came home last night.”
“She’s a cat. You’re a human. You’re supposed to have a higher level of consciousness, even if I’ve never seen proof.”
“That’s not fair though! You don’t get a fourth rule. Three each, that’s what we said.”
“Call Cat,” Pippa says furiously. “See if she fights me on a rule protecting Waffle. Now, as much fun as this was, I’ve had way too much Ryan time for how hungover I am. I think we’re done here.”
Grabbing her mug of coffee, she storms back to her room, slamming the door behind her.
“Well, at least nobody stabbed anyone,” I mumble to myself. “That’s got to be a win.”
Overall, in the game of house rules, I think I won.
I protected my Sequel account, I made sure Pippa wouldn’t stick me with any pet care, and I ensured that she wouldn’t be able to monologue about what a player I am to any women I brought home.
Sure, she got one extra rule, but it’s negligible.
It’s not like I was really going to kick Waffle or anything.
Having eaten all the bacon, I’m in the middle of contemplating eating a second glazed donut when Pippa emerges from her bedroom.
In one hand, she’s got a string of twinkle lights.
In the other, she has a pathetic little green plastic Christmas tree.
She sets it in the middle of the living room coffee table.
Looks like I’ve got a chance to make things even more even.
“Rule number eight,” I declare. “No decorating my apartment.”
Pippa gapes at me. “Seriously?”
“It’s only fair. Four rules each.”
“Come on! It’s the holidays, and these are the only decorations I salvaged for my move. You’ll barely even see them.”
I shrug. “Rules are rules, Pips. You know that.”
“Your heart is two sizes too small, you Grinch,” she spits.
“That’s funny, since I’ve got something else that’s two sizes too big—”
“Wasn’t there a rule that we couldn’t talk about sex?””
“The rule was you can’t make fun of my sex life,” I clarify. “I can say whatever I want.”
I can practically see the steam coming out of Pippa’s ears as she stomps back to her bedroom.
Yup, I think I won this hand. Total champion.