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“No.”

She frowns. “Did you get his number?”

“No…”

“Verity.”

I give her an awkward, stretched smile, and she lets out an unimpressed huff.

I’m trying not to let it show, but my chest squeezes with disappointment. It didn’t occur to me until I was in the car, five blocks away, that I had no way to reach out to him. I couldn’t even tell him I got home safely or anything.

It leaves a sour swirl in my stomach that he might think I’m just some girl who used him for free drinks and a free ride. I know a few girls in the city who go on dates four or five times a week because they can get a free meal out of it. Even Hannah will admit that she loves dating because of all the swanky cocktail lounges she gets to drink at and barely pay a penny.

But that’s not me.

Which is why I suck at dating in the city.

I’m too soft.

The people who live here are a different breed—they eat and breathe the hustle culture, moving from one thing to the next, always chasing a high. The grind never stops, and they run themselves into the ground trying to stay one step ahead.

I just get steamrolled, time and time again.

I am barely able to keep myself afloat at work, always playing the political games of favoritism and trying not to drop a rung on the ladder. I love what I do and am damn great at my job, but it is exhausting having to compete for attention with my colleagues, having to prove that my ambition and dedication are just as strong, if not stronger, than theirs. We are always pitted against each other. I don’t have the mental energy to spare in my dating life—I just want that one aspect of my existence to be simple. But the world doesn’t work that way.

“Oh well, who knows, maybe you’ll run into him.”

“In a city this big? Sure.”

“Hey, it can happen. Remember that time we grabbed those hangover bagels with the cheesy eggs and chili crisp that made your tongue all numb and bumped into that guy on the way out?”

“Oh, your five-foot-eight guy.”

“Yup.” She waggles a finger at me. “Never say never. People can pop up when you least expect it.”

I don’t want to burst her bubble, but I really doubt I will see him again. He isn’t even living in the city currently, which brings my odds way down.

Maybe I was just a blip on his lifeline.

Sure, I forgot to ask for his number, but he also never asked for mine. That means something, doesn’t it? Then again, I tried to run away from our kinda date, so I didn’t really leave him much of an opportunity to ask for my number, did I?

I let out a groan.

I’d been so focused on standing my ground and not kissing him—even though I literally dreamt about his lips—that now I am never going to see him ever again. What if the universe really did send him my way, and I just ignored it?

Ugh, this is a nightmare, and my hangover is doing nothing to make me feel better about it.

“All right. We both need to shower and get our shit together.” Hannah claps her hands together and slides off the couch, shattering my spiral. “I’m going first. Pop the coffee on, ‘kay?”

“Yes, your royal highness,” I drawl.

She sticks out her tongue but quickly disappears into our shared bathroom.

I slowly detach myself from the couch and slog my way over to the kitchenette. My tongue tastes like cotton, and I dig around for some pain killers before downing them with a healthy glass of water. Our coffee machine—the only thing in our place worth some money other than Hannah’s handbag collection—bubbles away, filling the apartment with the scent of freshly roasted beans.

I spend a few minutes searching for my phone, which had managed to fall between the couch cushions, before pouring myself a fresh cup of coffee. I dump in a healthy glug of cinnamon roll creamer and let the caffeine spark my will to live as I scroll through my notifications…none of which are from Mike.

What an asshat.