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4. When your waffle maker is preheated, spray with cooking spray and begin making your waffles. Pour the batter into one corner and smooth into the other corners with a spatula. Cook. Remove waffles from waffle maker and set aside. Repeat until all waffles are made. Or until you decide to go out for waffles at one of the many amazing establishments in Manhattan that make way tastier waffles than even a baker can make. Bonus—no clean-up or storage of a ridiculously heavy object. Besides, having waffles with Chase is more proof of how well we fit as roomies, especially since I want to talk to him about that crazy date that just ended.





11





Out on the street, Josie breathes a huge sigh of relief, then plants her hands on my shoulders. “I can’t thank you enough.”

A cab squeals by, on a hunt for a fare at the end of the block. I wave away her thank-you. “Don’t even think twice about it. I barely did a thing.”

She squeezes my shoulders harder, her eyes pinned on me. “No. You did everything.”

“You’re the one who worked the EpiPen. You hardly even needed me.”

She shakes her head. “You’re wrong. I totally needed you. Being able to call you, having you join me, taking him to the hospital . . . Chase,” she says, taking a beat, “that was everything.”

It wasn’t everything, not even close, but I can’t deny that my heart fucking races from the compliment. I wish I didn’t like it so much.

She tilts her head. “I’m starving. Want to go to Wendy’s Diner and order waffles? On me.”

My growling stomach is the answer. “Waffles on you is my dream meal.”

She nudges me and shoots me a smile as we walk along the sidewalk. “King of double entendres.”

“And I wear the title with pride,” I say, trying my best to think about waffles, not eating them off Josie. Though I bet that’s the absolute best way to eat waffles.

Under the bright fluorescent lights at Wendy’s Diner around the corner, curiosity gets the better of this cat. After the waitress brings water and coffee and takes our order, I stroke my chin, as if I’ve got a beard. “Beards. Glasses. Skinny jeans.”

She frowns in confusion. “Is that your grocery list?”

“No. But is it yours? Would I have received an aardvark text warning me to stay away tonight? Are you into hipsters?” I nod in the general uptown direction of the hospital. I’ve never thought about who she might be into before. It hasn’t been a big part of our lexicon. The fact is, I’m only vaguely aware of a few dates and boyfriends she’s had in the past. I am well aware, though, that of all the things I might be, a hipster is absolutely not one of them.

I’m not sure why my muscles tense as I wait for her answer. Or why I hope she doesn’t have a big thing for hipsters.

She laughs and takes a drink of her water. She shrugs happily. “I don’t really have a type.”

My shoulders relax. “You just like all dudes?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. Obviously I don’t like everyone. But I don’t have a physical type per se. Sure, handsome is nice, but it’s not a prerequisite that he has tats or not, or a beard or not, or burly muscles or not, or red hair or not, as examples.”

I drag a hand through my hair, unable to resist flirting with her, even now. “Light brown hair. That’d do the trick nicely, though?”

She stretches a hand across the Formica table and rubs my hair. “Yes, and warm hazel eyes, and a nice square jaw, and strong arms, and a flat belly,” she says, letting go, and my eyes widen at the litany of compliments while my body enjoys the got-her-to-cop-a-feel moment.

“Perhaps you should write my PlentyOfFish profile.” I pretend to tap on a keyboard. “Type: Ridiculously handsome, chiseled jaw, eyes that melt a woman, brilliant wit, and as a bonus, great in bed.”

She laughs. “Well, now that you mentioned the bonus features . . .”

I point at myself. “Just being honest and laying out all the key features of this type of car.”

“I appreciate your frankness about the vehicles on the lot, Chase,” she says, deadpan. Then she adds, “And yes, if I do have a type, ideally he’s smart, funny, kind to animals, and treats women well.”

“Also, he should be able to handle peanuts, right? Incidentally, I happen to love them.”

She laughs. “Peanut aficionado is optional. Walnut lover is better, though. If he loves pecans, then we’re talking the real deal.”

“So mixed nuts it is. Duly noted.” I mime making a check mark.

“Plus, bonus points for not being a liar,” she says, taking her time on that last one as a waitress strides by, balancing three plates of scrambled eggs and bacon.

I grab my coffee and take a thirsty gulp. When I set it down, I ask, “So what’s the story there? Wyatt mentioned some guy you dated.”

She sighs, looks at the table, then back up. “It’s stupid.”