Like I said, a cult. A freaking cult, and I’m the lonely spinster on the outside. Even the interns are either married or engaged to be married. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have assumed being paired up with a partner was a requirement to work at Butter Putter.

“Jenna made that recipe you sent the other day,” Brad S steps in. “The buffalo wing dip in the Crock-Pot.”

“How did it go?” Ellison asks.

Why wasn’t I sent the recipe?

I like buffalo dip.

Brad S chuckles and shakes his head. “Let’s just say she added a little too much sauce.” He rubs his stomach like a forty-year-old dad wearing jean shorts and New Balance sneakers with tube socks. “I had quite the bellyache.”

Ellison winces. “But I’m sure you ate it anyway, because that’s the kind of husband you are.”

“I sure did.”

This is a living nightmare.

Surrounded by happy couples boasting about their weekend plans, talking about their partners like they worship the ground they walk on. What’s that like? Couldn’t tell you.

And frankly, let’s call a spade a spade. It makes me jealous.

Insanely jealous.

Because, I’m going to be honest with you, the rom-com life I planned on living when I made the move to the city was not the kind of Nancy Meyers dream I was looking for. Sure, I might have the apartment aesthetic with the cozy, slipcovered furniture and herbs in the windowsill, but the falling in love with myself, not so much.

My neighbor next door to me keeps pointing out that I walk as if I have a lopsided leg. She’s on the younger side of eighty and holds a broom as a cane, so I don’t think she cares much about what others think of her, hence telling me I walk weird.

I also caught a reflection of myself in the Trader Joe’s window a week or so ago, and guess what? I looked like a crazy bag lady who feeds pigeons because they’re the only beings that will give her the time of day.

It was horrifying.

And worst of all, I woke myself up in the middle of the night precisely three days ago because I suffocated myself with morning breath. Yeah, popped those eyes right open as I gasped for air, only to realize the stench *whispers* was me.

So falling in love, not so much.

“What about you, Scarlett?”

I’m knocked out of my thoughts as I look up and all eyes are on me.

Did Ellison just call me Scarlett?

“Uh…” I drag out. “It’s Scottie actually.”

“Oh, my apologies,” she says, pressing her hand to her chest. “I don’t know why I said Scarlett. I know it’s Scottie.”

Bet she wouldn’t call Brad Bueford. Or Chad Charles.

No, just the lopsided single pigeon lady with dragon breath.