Chapter 20 – pippa
PIPPA
Ishould have known that any guy who accepted a date with me two days before Christmas would come waving all the red flags.
Charlie’s profile looked fine—boring, but fine. He had brown hair, brown clothes, and a face I could best describe as regular. He loved playing video games and hiking.
“Can I get you another Diet Coke?” the bartender asks. She’s in her fifties with full sleeves of tattoos, and she’s already let me know that she’s profoundly unimpressed by men as a whole. I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks. Probably shouldn’t have any more caffeine this late.”
“I can get you something a little stronger if you want, on the house. ‘Cause you know, I’ve been on plenty of shitty dates in my life, too.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
“Men these days. They think they can get away with caveman bullshit. I don’t know what the internet told them all…”
That starts her off on a long rant about how computers are ruining all our lives. I just pretend to listen and nod. Most days, listening to a colorful character like her would be my idea of a good night. Unfortunately, at the moment, I can’t really focus.
My date didn’t do anything wrong, but the vibes were off the whole night.
He’d stare too intently at me, or ask really intimate questions about my past sex life.
Then, after I went to the bathroom, he suddenly seemed very invested in me drinking my wine.
He was so pushy, I started wondering if he put something in it. That’s when I called Ryan.
Or rather, Cat. When I went to my recent calls, I accidentally pressed the number under hers—Ryan’s.
I’ve been avoiding him since the White Elephant party. Because kissing your stepbrother is one thing. Letting him fuck you until you’re screaming his name is another. I’m not ready to face my mistake just yet.
In the end, Charlie left the restaurant after calling me on my obviously fake call.
I considered calling an Uber and telling Ryan not to bother coming, but the restaurant is close enough to the House of Cards that Ryan should be here any second.
Just then, Ryan bursts through the door.
People’s heads turn to look at him as he scans the room, looking for me.
His messy hair is even wilder than usual, like he spent the whole drive here raking his fingers through it.
Even I’m taken aback with how intent his eyes look—like he’s hunting for someone, almost.
The hostess hesitates, clearly scared to talk to him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He ignores her, still searching the restaurant for me.
As soon as he spots me, his focus narrows.
His long strides eat up the distance between us, and my body stiffens.
Damn it, he’s going to yell at me for being irresponsible and not vetting my dates enough.
That’s what he accused me of after he interrupted my date with the crypto dude.
Instead, he shocks me by pulling me into his arms for a rough hug. I’m surrounded by his familiar musky scent, shielded from the world by his chest. My body instinctively relaxes against him before my mind can even process it.
“You good?” he asks roughly. I give a tiny nod and he pulls away to inspect me. His eyes rake over my face, my neck, my body. “Did he touch you? Where is he?”
“I’m fine. He left. You shouldn’t have come.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“You didn’t have to come,” I repeat, my voice wobbling.
“Yeah,” he grits out. “Well, you don’t get to drunk-dial me and then decide I’m optional.”
Ryan glances up at the bartender. “She’s paid up?”
The bartender nods. “She’s good.”
He shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around me. Underneath, he’s only wearing a ratty white T-shirt, but I can tell by his expression he’s not about to take the jacket back, even if I offer. His jaw is tense, his eyes narrowed and dark. He actually seems pissed.
I’ve never seen Ryan actually angry. Annoyed, sure—usually because I’m goading him. But he’s the type of guy to let things slide off his back, not get under his skin.
My mouth feels dry, and my relief gives way to worry. Something feels off. Ryan seems angrier than he should be…maybe even angry at me?
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against his side as he leads me out of the restaurant. Outside, it’s so cold that I can see my breath in the air. Despite Ryan’s protective position, he moves so quickly that I have to trot to keep up with him.
His car’s idling outside, the keys still in the ignition.
I want to lecture him for being an idiot—anyone could have driven away with his Mustang—but the words die on my tongue.
My instincts tell me to keep my mouth shut, for once, instead of baiting him.
He opens the passenger side door for me, then slams it shut the second I’m seated. I scramble to get my seatbelt on fast.
Through the glass, I watch his jaw flex. For a second, I’m not sure if he’s going to punch the hood of his car or come back around and shake me, but by the way he’s raking his hands through his hair, I can tell he’s barely holding it together.
Did I scare him that much?
Once Ryan turns on the car, he turns the heat up on high and pushes all the air vents toward me, even though I’m still in his jacket and his arms are bare. He puts the car in drive and sets off toward home without saying a word.
A tense silence fills the car. I have no idea what’s going on in Ryan’s head. He’s been compassionate and irate in equal measure since he stormed into the restaurant, and I wish I knew which emotion was winning right now.
After a few minutes, I can’t stand the quiet anymore.
“Well, on the plus side,” I say, forcing a weak laugh. “My readers are going to love ‘The Time My Date Maybe Tried to Roofie Me.’ It’ll get clicks for days.”
“So you think that’s funny?” he mutters.
“Well, I—”
“And then calling me like that and scaring the shit out of me?”
My eyes widen. “No, of course not.”
“Seriously, Pippa, how many more of these are you going to go on?”
I cross my arms. “Enough to get to twelve. Kind of the point of the articles, remember?”
Ryan slams on the brakes right before a stop sign, sending me jolting against the seatbelt. “Well, maybe you should be writing some better fucking articles.”
I gape at him.
“Wow,” I say tightly. “Victim-blaming and career advice. Really checking all the boxes tonight.”
His hands flex on the wheel. “I’m not blaming you. I’m blaming every asshole who thinks they can lay a finger on you and just walk away. Do you have any idea how badly I want to go back there and find that asshole so I can just…”
My lips part but no words come out when I see the darkness in his stare.
“You need to stop with this madness, Pips. It’s not safe.”
“Are you serious right now? These articles are going viral. It’s some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. I’m not stopping.”
“Quit lying to yourself, Pips. Your boss is just exploiting your humiliation,” he says through gritted teeth, not even looking over at me. “She’s sending you into shit situations that endanger you, just to get views for a stupid fucking magazine.”
Oh, fuck that.
I’m tired of Ryan putting down everything I write.
It’s like he doesn’t even try to get what we do at Belladonna.
The headlines sound like old-school cliché Cosmo magazine ones, but the actual writing goes under the surface.
It’s sharp, honest, and incisive, and I worked hard as hell to get staffed there.
“Actually, I get to control the narrative on what I write,” I snap. “I’m literally the one writing my story. And my editor loves the 12 Dates pieces, so at least someone values my writing skill.”
Ryan’s jaw clenches even tighter. He’s going to break a tooth if he’s not careful, and you know what? He’d deserve it.
Well, if he’s not going to talk, fine. I’ve got plenty more to say.
“For the record, I’m not doing anything I didn’t want to be doing. I’ve been meaning to get serious about dating for a while now, anyway. Ingrid just gave me the push I needed to actually try. I’m literally getting paid to do this, so even the shitty dates are worth it.”
“Are they?” Ryan’s voice is knife-sharp. “So it was worth a guy practically scaring you to death tonight?”
I take a shaky breath and glare at Ryan. “I had it handled, asshole.”
“So that’s why you called me to save you?”
“I wasn’t trying to call you. I was trying to call Cat, but I hit the wrong button.”
He laughs cruelly. “Right. Because five-foot-nothing Cat, who’s in fucking Mexico right now, could have come and saved you.”
The Mustang turns sharply into the House of Cards garage. Ryan drives way too fast, swinging recklessly into his assigned parking spot. I’m taking off my seatbelt before he’s even pulled to a complete stop.
“I would have been fine!” My voice sounds too high and sharp. “Don’t start thinking that I need you. You mean nothing. Just like I mean nothing to you. Once I’m out of this apartment, you can go back to pretending I don’t exist until next Christmas.”
“Fine by me,” he snaps.
“And for the record,” I add, stepping out of the car at the same time he does. “I wasn’t drunk.”
“Yeah?” he asks, voice low, eyes narrow. “Maybe not this time, Pips.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
And suddenly I’m a stupid teenager again. Just a sixteen-year-old girl hopelessly in love with a boy she can never have, drinking at parties she shouldn’t be at, drunk dialing his number when she’s too dizzy to get herself home.
I clench my jaw.
“Tell me, Pips, why is it me you always call when you’re scared?”
Something trembles in my chest but I shut it down and look away.
I slam the car door and tear off his jacket, throwing it at him before I march toward the entrance to the lobby. I keep my eyes straight ahead, but I can’t help but see him turn away in my peripheral vision.
Instead of going to the elevator with me, he heads right into Velvet and Vice. I’m sure that once he’s inside, he’ll find some girl who won’t spend the rest of the evening yelling at him.
My chest feels tight when I press the elevator button. I just hope that if Ryan does bring someone home, she won’t be able to hear me cry.