Page 7 of Set on You

“You think so, huh?”

“Yup.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. And I’d come up with a better pickup line than that.”

I half-scoff. “Hit me with your best shot.”

He smiles and strokes his defined jaw, pretending to be pensive. “Well, GIF wars always work. Or maybe I’d use a classic joke.”

“A classic joke? Like what?”

He leans his elbow on the machine beside us. “Okay... Are you ready to be wowed?”

I give him a deadpan look.

He softens his entire face, his demeanor transitioning from Squat Rack Thief to fake-charming-man-with-mesmerizing-smile before my eyes. His teeth are brilliantly white, although one is marginally crooked in the front, which makes him slightly more human. His ears also stick out a smidge, but it just adds to his faux charm. “Are you a bank loan? Because you have my interest.”

My expression is one of stone, so as to not give him an ounce of satisfaction. The joke is lame. But the way he says it so earnestly, it’s borderline adorable. The moment that thought registers, I mentally smack myself.

He goes for it again. “Are you my appendix? This feeling in my stomach makes me want to take you out.”

My abdominals ache from suppressing my laugh. This is an abworkout all on its own. “Okay, these are next-level horrible. I hope you haven’t actually used these on a real, live woman.”

He feigns offense, holding his palm to his chest. “Those were my best ones.” Taking one last glance at my screen, he dangles my phone at chest level. “Zayn responded... with a wink face,” he says flatly, handing my phone back.

With ninja speed, I snatch it before he changes his mind and holds it hostage forever.

“What’s your name?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I even register what I’m saying. Why do I care to know his legal name? Squat Rack Thief suits him just fine.

I hold my breath, awaiting his answer.

Amused, he opens his mouth, but no words come out. Instead, he just strides away.

chapter three

THANKS FOR LETTINGme crash tonight,” Mel says gratefully, bundled on the living room floor next to me in a bougie silk Ted Baker pajama set that probably cost more than my couch.

Tara dive-bombs us on the air mattress, clad in her homemade iron-onTeam Peter KavinskyT-shirt. “Okay, put onTo All the Boys.My body is primed and ready.” She tosses a full-size canister of Pringles at us.

“Really, Tara?Plain?” I take this as a personal affront. This is why I don’t let my sister choose the snacks.

She scowls at me, reclaiming the Pringles, holding them snugly to her chest, as if protecting them from harsh words. “Original flavor is the best, thank you very much.”

“Sure, if you like the taste of salty cardboard,” I say.

Tara scoffs. “Coming from the girl who thinks pretzels are remotely in the same league as chips.” She turns to Mel, her Frenchbraid whipping me in the cheek in the process. “She’s one of thosepretzelpeople,” she whispers conspiratorially, eyeing me as if I’m a rare race of mole people rumored to dwell in the sewers.

Mel nods gravely, like she understands.

I give Tara a swift kick in the shin. “I refuse to abide by such slander.”

Tara pretends to yelp in pain for all of two seconds before launching into a long-winded tale about the latest rando she supposedly “fell in love with.” She met this one in the elevator of the hospital where she works. Allegedly, he had soul mate potential. She knows this because he gave her a Werther’s Original and told her he liked her floral-print nursing scrubs before getting off at his floor.

“A butterscotch candy? Are you sure he wasn’t a toothless senior citizen?” Mel asks.

“No, he was no older than thirty,” she chirps back defensively.

“Jesus, I’m shocked you didn’t get roofied,” I lament.

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