The Dating Experiment (The Experiment, #2)(20)

The fickle little bitch.

“I don’t know if I can get over him while I’m working with him, that’s all,” I added as an afterthought.

“So?” Mellie said. “Take a vacation. Take a week off. Two weeks, even. Work from home. Who says you need the office for anything other than a home base to take meetings?”

I hesitated.

Peyton leaned forward, shrugging a shoulder. “You’re determined to get over him, so you have to do what you have to do.”

Why did that sound so much more ominous than she’d meant it?





Chapter Eight – Chloe


Shit happens.

And in my life, men are usually the root cause of said shit.

Well. It’s either men or a questionable curry.



Warren: Hey, Chloe. Sorry, I can’t make it this weekend. An emergency came up at work and I’m still out of town. Raincheck?

Me: Of course. Don’t worry about it!



I sighed and set my phone down on the sofa next to me. Working from home had many positives, but also many drawbacks. Like the fact I could pick up my texts instantly because I was almost constantly distracted.

The TV? A distraction. The washing machine? A distraction. A cat walking across my fence outside?

Distraction.

And now I had no plans for the weekend except for to work. At least Dom would be out of the office on Saturday evening, so I could catch up on all the things I wasn’t doing while sitting at home, on my sofa, browsing social media and watching my Friends boxset from series one, episode one, to the final episode in series ten.

It didn’t matter how many times I watched this series. It never got old, and I almost always found something I’d missed before.

This time? It was my dating life.

Another sigh escaped my lips. Nobody ever really said how much it sucked to be the only single one in your group of friends. I couldn’t be happier for Mellie and Peyton to have found people they loved and who loved them—and who balanced out their crazy personalities—but that didn’t mean I wasn’t jealous.

They’d both found their person in the last four months. It was ridiculous to think I’d find mine, too.

Because it sure as hell wasn’t the person my heart wanted it to be. And, let’s face it, even if it were Dom, it’d be a daily disaster. Between my temper and his skill at losing things, it would be nothing but a hot ass mess.

I pushed my laptop off my legs onto the cushion next to me. The fan whirred to cool it, and the screen blanked off.

How long had I not been working for?

Ugh.

You know what? I was done with this pity party. I didn’t even have a ticket to a pity party for one night—I had a freaking season ticket to every party every weekend.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t the only party-goer.

Still, I was done. It was time to make a change. And that started with a new haircut because all good things did.

***

So, as it turns out, I was a big fat chicken.

The new haircut I’d intended to get had ended up with a one-inch trim, meaning the only new thing about my hair was the ends.

I’d take it.

I did get my nails done, though, so there was that. And I felt better. Even with the knowledge that in approximately one hour, Dom would be on his second date with Rachael, and I’d be in the office working like a little loser.

I’d take it. I’d get a pizza on my way to the office and a giant sangria from the cocktail place on the corner of the street.

I pushed my freshly-trimmed bangs out of my eyes and made good on that plan. I grabbed all the things I needed to work for the next few hours, including my laptop, and sent for an Uber. Sangria wasn’t exactly the best friend of driving, plus it was Saturday, so if I wanted to get anywhere on time, Uber was the way to go.

Within ten minutes, a shiny, red car pulled up outside my house. Grabbing my things, I headed out, pausing only to lock my front door and tuck my key into my purse.

The Uber guy agreed to stop and wait at my favorite pizza place. The pizza place was, as always, quick to get their stone-baked pizzas out of the oven and into a box, so he wasn’t waiting long.

A plus since I’d had to agree to pay him while he waited.

I slid into the back of the car, pizza box in hand, and nodded when he asked if I wanted to go to my final destination now. He seemed relieved at my response and almost pulled out on another car as he joined the traffic.

If I was going to die because I stopped for pizza… well, there were worse reasons a girl could die. Carbs were up there with the good ones.

By the time we made it through the Saturday traffic, I was ready to chew my own arm off in hunger. I just about managed to resist, but not without a momentary flash of murderous tendencies thanks to the rude goodbye from the Uber driver.

It wasn’t even goodbye. It was a random grunt that said he wanted to be one of the people going to drink instead of ferrying them around.

Not that I was going out to drink in my yoga pants and sneakers. Nobody did that. Which, really, was a bit of a fucking shame.

The world would be a happier place if a girl could go dancing in her yoga pants.

Think about it; you’d never have to worry about accidentally flashing your panties at a club full of random strangers.

Also, what else would you wear yoga pants for? Everyone knew you didn’t actually do yoga in them. You simply wore them like real pants, helping them to fulfill their dreams of one day becoming accepted as real pants.