Chapter 2
Chapter 2
I close the door to my apartment as quietly as I can manage. I don’t want to rouse my roommate from sleep. It’s after one in the morning, and he works crazy hours as a trainee doctor. I like to think of myself as a considerate roommate, after all.
I slip off my heels and pad lightly across the hardwood floors of the hallway toward the kitchen. After all that karaoke singing and plotting the No More Bad Dates Pact, I need a glass of water. As I near the kitchen, I hear a distinctly female giggle coming from the adjacent living room. Hmm. Jason must be “entertaining.” I’ll grab a glass of water and head straight to bed. I drop my clutch onto the kitchen counter and open the top cupboard to pull out a glass as something furry and purring brushes up against my legs.
“Hello, Freckles.” I pick my cat up and give her a cuddle. She’s warm and fluffy, and her purr grows to almost jackhammer proportions as I scratch her head. “I was talking about you tonight. Have you had a good evening? Did you do some fun cat things like sleep or purr or clean yourself?”
Her response is to close her eyes, her cat motor running, and look about as blissed-out as any creature can get.
Oh, to be a cat. I smile. “I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I, Freckles?”
I place her back on the floor and pour her a small bowl of milk, which she laps up. Literally. I walk over to the sink and fill my glass with water, and then lean back against the counter and watch her. She’s content in her little world, always happy to see me and curl up beside me when I sleep. For Freckles, life is uncomplicated, straightforward, and happy. She gets up, does cat things, sleeps, does more cat things, and then sleeps some more. Easy. “I bet you don’t have to make a pact to date non-jerks,” I murmur.
“You talking to yourself again, McCarthy?” Seemingly out of thin air, Jason appears at my side, making me almost drop the glass in my hand. “I could get you assessed, you know, see what madness lurks beneath.”
“Don’t creep up on me like that, dude,” I protest.
“You were too busy either talking to yourself or your fur ball cat. Dude .”
“She’s not a fur ball. She happens to be feline aristocracy,” I quip.
Okay, I’m making this up as I go, but Jason deserves it right now. Roommates should sign an agreement that they’ll keep out of one another’s business—even if I quite like having him around.
His laugh is low and soft. “Did you have a good night? Your regular karaoke gig with the girls, right?”
“Yup.”
“How were the vocals tonight? On point?”
“Naturally. Well, as ‘on point’ as I can be. Darcy sang that new song you hear everywhere right now, and she sounded great. Erin did an ABBA song, as she always does.” I roll my eyes. Erin refuses to move her musical taste into this century. It’s like she got stuck listening to her parents’ music when she was little and never managed to shake it off. “Then the three of us sang ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at the end, which was so fun, although I’m sure I saw some guy in the audience doing the sign of the cross.”
There’s a glint in his eye when he asks, “Because you were so good?”
“Yeah, Jas. Because I was so good.” I collect my purse from the counter. “Who’ve you got here?”
“One of the nurses from the hospital.”
I shake my head. “Doctors and nurses, huh? A combination as cliché as—”
When I don’t offer anything further, Jason says, “As cliché as what?”
I shrug. “As doctors and nurses. You’re so cliché, there are soap operas about you guys.”
He shakes his head. “It’s meant to be, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your nurse, Mr. Stereotype?”
“She just left.”
“She did?” I look down the hallway to the front door. “How did I miss that?”
“It may shock you, but I do things you don’t know about sometimes.”
I put my hand over my heart. “That is truly, truly shocking. Why have you never told me this before?”
“It’s on a need-to-know basis.” He pushes himself effortlessly and perches on the counter. “So, any gossip from the girls’ night?”
“Of course. There’s always gossip. It wouldn’t be a girls’ night if there wasn’t.”
“And?” he prods.
I place my glass on the counter and lean up against it. “And we made a group decision on something.”
“Let me guess. You’re all going on an exploration trip to Antarctica to observe the mating rituals of the emperor penguin.”
I let out a laugh. “Jas, that’s so random. Why would you say that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Because that would be awesome.”
“If you think us girls get together to plan trips to places with sub-zero temperatures, even if it is to see cute little penguins, you really don’t know women, Christie.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Oh, I know women.”
I put my hand up. “I don’t want to know.”
“So, what did you girls decide?”
“We made a pact. We’re calling it the No More Bad Dates Pact, and we’re all in on it.”
He bites back a smile. Poorly. “The No More Bad Dates Pact? What are you, thirteen?”
“I didn’t date at thirteen.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Okay, you got me. I wanted to date at thirteen. Vanessa O’Reagan.” His eyes get misty. “She was at my high school. Four years older than me and just about the most perfect specimen of womanhood my young eyes had seen.”
“Four years is a huge age gap, especially when you’re thirteen.”
“Didn’t you date a guy five years older than you last year?”
“That’s totally different, and you know it. We’re in our twenties. Thirteen and seventeen is a whole other ball game. A whole other kind of totally creepy ball game.”
“Things could never be creepy with Vanessa O’Reagan. Only utterly and completely beautiful.” He gets that far-off look in his eyes again before his face creases into a grin.
“When you finally shake yourself out of your walk down pubescent crush lane, shall we get back to the pact?”
“Ah, yes. Back to this incredibly mature pact you three made tonight. Does it involve Chinese burns, noogies, and wedgies? ’Cos that could really add a certain je ne sais quoi .”
“And you think I’m the immature one?” Hope swells inside me as I think about our pact. “It’s going to be so good, Jas. We’ve agreed we’re only going to date the good ones. No jerks, idiots, or a-holes need apply.”
“How are you going to manage that?”
“We’re going to help each other. If one of us meets a guy we want to date, the other two have to meet him to ensure he’s worthy.”
“Worthy, huh?”
“Yes. Worthy . We’re worth it, and we’ve got each other’s backs here.”
He studies my face for a moment. “Girl code, huh? You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Yes, we have.”
“And you don’t need any help?”
“I’ve got my girls, Christie. What more do I need?”
“How about a guy’s perspective?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you may have noticed I’m a guy.”
“I get daily proof of that fact with the towels on the floor and the dishes on the counter.”
“And here I was thinking you were going to mention my manly presence, all brooding, strong, and silent.”
I let out a laugh. “You are many things, but brooding, strong, and silent you are not.”
“Hey! I take that as an insult to my manhood.”
I count my points off on my fingers. “First up, you’re one of the most annoyingly chirpy people I’ve ever met, even first thing in the morning. So, you’re not in the least bit brooding.”
“Accepted.”
“Secondly, you can talk more than me! And that’s saying something because I’m a girl, and it’s kinda in the job description to talk.”
“Okay, you got me with that one, too. What about the strong part? I am super strong. Watch.” He collects the coffee machine in his hands and lifts it up, only for it to come to an abrupt halt when the cord goes taut, making a twanging sound. “Darn wall plug,” he mutters.
I shake my head at him. With an athletic build and at just over six feet tall, there’s no denying Jason is in great shape. Despite the fact he’s a trainee doctor and works completely crazy long hours, he always finds the time to work out, plus he totally scored in the genes department. “Okay. You’re strong. But brooding and silent are off the table.”
He shrugs. “I’m happy with that. Anyway , my point about this pact thing of yours is that I could give you a guy’s perspective.”
“How?”
“I could help vet these guys. Make sure they’re good enough for you.”
I try not to let warmth inside my belly spread at his words. Yup, you guessed it, I fail. You see, Jason is one of my BFFs, and he’s always looking out for me. What’s more, he’s cute. Like really cute. Cute in that total smokehouse way. Plenty of women would kill for the chance to be with him (well, maybe not kill exactly. This isn’t Game of Thrones , but you get the picture). Despite his evident hotness, I can just be myself around him. Hang out, chew the fat. With me and Jason, there’s no pretense, no dating nerves.
I scrunch up my nose. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I know. I want to. It’ll be fun. Did you decide how it’ll work, whether there are any ground rules, that kind of thing?”
“What we’ve agreed is that we’re not going to go on any dates until we’ve done some checks on the guy.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Checks?”
“Nothing hardcore. No police records or anything. Just ask around, check social media, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds reasonable. What else?”
“We can only date guys who are willing to meet with the Vetting Committee first. Kind of like a ‘what are your intentions toward my daughter’ questionnaire.”
Jason shakes his head. “You may as well all just give up now and become old maids.”
“What? Why?”
“Because no guy is ever going to agree to meeting a girl’s friends before he even goes on a date with her.”
“He would if he was a nice guy,” I reply defensively.
“Or if he thought he might prefer one of the friends.”
“Jason M. Christie, I cannot believe you just said that.”
He shrugs. “I know the way guys think. That’s why you need me. And it’s Doctor Jason M. Christie to you.”
Despite the smile that teases at the edges of his mouth, I know he has a point—not about the doctor part because he’s only in training—but about understanding how guys think. Or don’t think, as the case may be. Pointing out the obvious, Erin, Darcy, and I are all women, trying to navigate the dating warfare landscape. Having a guy friend help us understand the “enemy” might give us an advantage.
“Look,” I lay my hands palm down on the counter, “if I say yes to this, you’ll need to be a proper part of the team. You’re not in charge, you’re just one voice.”
“Who do you think I am, Genghis Khan?”
“Genghis Khan?” I laugh. “What you do in your spare time is no concern of mine, Christie. If that means dressing up as an all-conquering Chinese emperor, then as long as no one gets hurt . . .”
“Your comedic talent is wasted as a barista, you know, McCarthy.”
“I know. I could do so many incredible things with my life. Now, promise you’re not going to come in and try to take over.”
“I’m not going to come in and try to take over.”
Satisfied, I nod. “You’re on the team.”
He studies my face for a beat, then says, “You’re serious about this, huh? You want to meet the right guy.”
“I do. I’ve had enough of the wrong ones, the ones I don’t particularly care about, the ones who definitely don’t care about me. I want—” I stop myself from going on.
“What?”
“No, you’ll think I’m silly.”
“How do you know I don’t already think that?”
“Do you?”
“No. Far from it. Tell me.”
“I want to be with someone I’m so into I can barely breathe, you know?”
“That sounds more like a respiratory condition to me, McCarthy. And I would know, I’m—”
“—a doctor,” I finish for him. “As you remind me ten times a day, every day. Although, for some reason, you forget to add the word ‘trainee’ when you mention it.”
“Semantics, McCarthy. Semantics. So, back to this respiratory condition,” he leads with a smirk on his face I know too well.
I roll my eyes. “You have no romance in your soul, Christie. It’s that Ariana Grande song. The line is about falling for someone so hard you can hardly even breathe.”
“I don’t listen to Ariana Grande. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man.”
“Everyone listens to Ariana Grande, whether you know you are or not. She’s everywhere.” I stifle a yawn. “All right. I’m going to bed. I need my beauty sleep. With Bailey only just back from her honeymoon, I’ve been getting one day off a week and I’ve got a Mandatory McCarthy Meal tomorrow.” I collect my glass from the counter to take to my room.
“You’ve always got Mandatory McCarthy Meals.”
I’m from a large Irish Catholic family—is there any other kind of Irish Catholic family?—and most weeks, Mum puts a call out to her offspring, their partners, kids, and various hangers-on to attend a Sunday family lunch: the “Mandatory McCarthy Meal.” They’re usually raucous affairs with my family’s seemingly huge ability to talk loudly and offer opinions on everything, so unless you want to have every aspect of your life dissected and “fixed,” it’s best to keep your personal business to yourself. The last thing I’m going to do tomorrow is mention my new pact.
Jason jumps off the counter. “Good night, Soph. We’ll start plotting tomorrow.”
“Am I going to regret this?” I ask.
“Never,” Jason replies with a wink.
As I make my way down the hallway to my bedroom, I seriously begin to wonder if I will.