The Introvert's Guide to Online Dating - Emma Hart Page 0,6

up at me. “Rrrroew.” The low-pitched noise was halfway between a plead and a whine, but I wasn’t buying it.

All I had to do was wait for her to find a good sunny spot on the windowsill. Then I could shake her food bowl, cover the empty spot, and she’d happily eat her kibble.

If Mariah Carey was a cat, she’d be a Ragdoll.

They were damn divas.

I turned away from her and took my cereal over to the dining table where my laptop was set up. You’d think at this point that I’d have a desk somewhere, but my apartment really wasn’t made for more than one person, so my itty-bitty dining table was my ‘desk.’

That, or my sofa was.

Or my bed.

That probably explained the neck pain I experienced on a regular basis.

I scooped a spoonful of Cheerios that may or may not have been one week past the expiration date into my mouth. They still tasted fine, and the milk was in date, so it wasn’t like I was going to throw up.

I hoped.

Although I did have a terrible habit of eating out of date cereal…

I tapped in the password for my laptop and waited for it to fully load up. I was pretty sure I’d shut it down last night with Photoshop still running, and that meant I was two seconds away from hating myself for that particular decision.

My laptop was not high spec enough for that nonsense.

By the time it was ready for me, I was almost done with my breakfast and Gen had decided my foot was a good place to flop onto for a nap.

Story of my life.

My toes were half dead, my email was overflowing, and my coffee cup was empty. I had absolutely no chance of sorting anything but the email, so I got to work on it. After sifting through at least thirty emails from Alice and John and Sandeep and Dean asking me if I’d be willing to offer my Facebook page up for advertising for varying fees, I finally made it to the actual emails.

All right, so I replied to a few telling them I was in Europe and they were breaching GDPR laws.

It was fun.

And they usually left me alone after that.

And I was very much here for that scenario.

I responded to a few emails that were genuine inquiries. After following up with current clients, I opened one of Holley’s nine emails that had varying subject lines demanding my attention.

Well, that explained the six missed calls and four texts telling me to check my email.

At this point, I was lucky she hadn’t showed up at my front door with a Filofax or some shit. That was the kind of thing she’d do.

Holley’s emails were telling me to ignore all the one from Saylor, which told me that I absolutely had to read Saylor’s and had to do so right now.

From: Saylor Green

To: Tori Sussex

Subject: THIS IS GOING TO PISS HOLLEY OFF

Hear me out. Bobble hats that say BOOK WHORE on the front. And sweaters with ‘I’m a ho for romance’ on them. And t-shirts with ‘Sci-Fi slut’ on.

I laughed at the last one. Yep, that was exactly the kind of thing that would piss Holley off. The problem was, people loved Saylor’s inappropriate book merchandise. Her coffee cups with ‘My books are hotter than this coffee,’ and her shirts adorned with ‘I sleep with a new man every night,’—or something like that—were the bestsellers, and Saylor was on a mission to start an entire line.

Holley still thought what they had was enough.

Kinsley had stopped caring and just let them argue about it. In her own words, she didn’t care as long as it made them money.

I just pulled the designs together.

I shot Saylor back an email that I’d work on it and did one last check of the inbox, then opened my planner. I had a video chat at midday with a client over her branding so I could start pulling her photography website together, which meant my morning was free to work on Piper’s stuff for the bakery.

I was knee-deep in my research in stock sites for inspiration when my phone buzzed next to me. A quick check confirmed it was a text from Ivy.

IVY: What are you doing tonight?

ME: Probably contemplating all my life choices and getting squashed by my cat. Why?

IVY: I’m coming over.

ME: Are you bringing the two-foot-tall terrorist?

IVY: That’s my daughter you’re talking about.

ME: She’s cruising along my furniture. I still haven’t replaced that vase