“I don’t know,” I groan just as my phone dings on the countertop. I glance at the screen and see it’s a message on my Instagram.

Nichole glances at my phone. “Is that him?”

“I’m thinking yeah.” I pick up my phone and open the app, where I find a message from Ryot.Bisley.Balls. I let out a large sigh. “Yup, it’s him.”

Nichole chuckles. “You picked the wrong brother. I got the player, and you got the sweetheart, relationship-prone one. Now you must decide what you’re going to do about it.”

She takes her coffee and heads back into her room, leaving me alone with my phone.

My thumb hovers over his name, and I consider swiping to the left to delete the message without even reading it. Despite my brain telling myself to do just that, I don’t. I tap the message. Even though I know it’s not right, I still want to see what he has to say.

Ryot.Bisley.Balls: You know, I did some thinking last night after we said goodbye. I think you got the wrong impression of me, and I believe I need to prove you wrong.

Don’t message him back.

It will only lead to trouble.

It will lead to something I’m not ready for.

Yet . . . he’s so playful, a breath of fresh air, an unexpected return to my life I didn’t know I missed. Which is crazy, because we’ve only been around each other three times. That’s it. Sure, we’ve messaged a lot, but that’s it. So why does it feel like I know this man when I really don’t? Why do I feel desperate to talk to him? To be around him?

My brain wavers between deleting and messaging him back.

This is the last thing I need. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do with my life because I can’t be a server forever. And that shows how far off I am from committing to a man in a relationship. I’m just not there yet.

Setting my phone down, I move away from it and into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and pull out a container of my overnight oats. The entire time, the message burns a hole in my brain. From the silverware drawer, I grab a spoon and take my pre-made peanut butter oats back to the island and have a seat. I stare at my phone.

My phone stares back at me.

Don’t, Myla. Don’t answer the message.

Don’t even think about it.

It’s a valiant effort, truly, but let’s all be honest here. No way can I let that message go unanswered.

I pick my phone up and message him back.

DrinkWithMe: What sort of impression do you think I have of you?

Once I press send, I set the phone down and squeeze my eyes shut. God, what am I doing? Why am I entertaining this? I know where it’s going to lead. There’s no way we can just talk. There will be some sort of endgame, and that will probably be a date.