She did, unknowingly, give me a little motivation for the tour though. I thought of how she didn’t know the city at all, about how disdainful she seemed of it in our brief interactions, and I got inspired to make it lead to the High Line. It was my absolute favorite place in the city, the place I thought could make even Legend fall in love with New York. Especially once Jude got his hands on it. Or, er, tongue around it. Together, we really were the perfect man. Perfect for Bree, anyway.

Jude was a pretty good sport about the tour. He delivered the file back to me within a few hours and I got the honor of sending it along to Bree.

And then we . . . waited. I figured it would take her a while to listen to it. Maybe she wouldn’t have time during working hours. But then five o’clock rolled around. And then six. By midnight, Jude’s Game, Set, Match inbox was still empty.

Hmph.

I wasn’t super panicked about Leanne’s new policy of docking our pay if a second money-back guarantee comes through.

But, by the next day, I’m a little panicked about it.

Especially when I get home in the afternoon to a notice taped up on Dylan and Charles’s door. At first, I think it might be a take-out menu (which, I admit, I get a little excited about. I’ve been in a bit of a rut with my dinners lately). But then I see it’s yet another classified section of the Metro newspaper, with every available apartment circled in a particularly violent slash of thick red marker.

Honestly, now I’m pissed.

I get it. I’ve been invading Charles’s space. But I feel like I deserve a little credit for trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. And it’s not like I want to be here. It’s not like it was my choice to get kicked out of the apartment I shared with my ex-fiancée. Or to find my job in such a precarious position. Has Charles truly never been down and out? And if he has, hasn’t he had some kind person—maybe even what some would call a friend—help him get back on his feet?

Probably not, since he’s such a miserable person that only sweet, optimistic Dylan would be able to see the good in him at all.

I tear the notice off the door and stomp in, where I hear his unmistakable heavy footsteps in the kitchen. I rage in there.

“What the hell is your problem?” I yell.

“Excuse me?” He looks up at me, stunned, his hands full of two of my Chinese take-out boxes, which he’s pouring out onto a plate.

Was I going to eat them? Probably not. But are they mine? Hell yes.