The Roommate Equation

“I hate to ask this,” Vinnie says with a sigh. “But, I need a favor.”

I blow out a relieved breath.

At least he's not firing me.

“What do you need me to do?”

He rolls his chair closer to me. “Nico Chase is spiraling out of control. His assistant quit. He won’t answer any of my calls. I’m worried about him. He’s holed up in his mansion, probably drinking himself to death. I need you to take a box of scripts over to him and talk some sense into him.”

“I thought you were letting him go.”

He rolls his shoulders. “Nico is like a son to me. We’ve been together for a long time, but I’m losing my patience with him. He likes you, says you remind him of his sister.”

Of course, the chunky girl reminds the hot movie star of his sister. Yeah, go figure. When people look at me, they say, She has a pretty face, which in Los Angeles translates to She’s pretty for a fat girl.

“Why is everyone going nuts? It’s not because of Nico Chase.”

He shakes his head. “Hailey Rayne is threatening to leave. We also have a shot with Carter Max. He’s taking meetings with every agent in the city this week, and we’re one of them.”

Vinnie pushes up his sleeve and glances at his watch. “I have to jump on a call. Walk with me.”

After I accompany Vinnie back to his office and set the box of scripts onto my desk, it occurs to me that I don’t have a car. Shit. I often run errands for Vinnie throughout the day, but I wasn’t thinking when Sloan insisted I carpool with them.

Now, what am I supposed to do?

Mr. Control-freak drove us to work. Dylan would never let me borrow his two hundred-thousand-dollar Maserati. He used to tell me that I’m the worst driver on the planet.

Dammit. And damn him.

I clutch my cell phone in my hand and groan as I scroll down to Dylan’s name. What choice do I have but to call him? I promised myself I would never use his number.

I take a deep breath and blow it out as I tap Dylan’s name on my screen, hoping he takes my call.

Please don’t act like an asshole, Dylan.

I can’t afford to lose this job.

Chapter Nine

Dylan

I lean against the wall in the Date Crashers training room and watch Sloan teach our new Crashers. With the sudden spike in business, we’re hiring new Crashers almost daily to help break up our customers’ dates.

A few months ago, a major Hollywood starlet used our app to save herself from a bad date. She documented the entire night on her Instagram and Snapchat accounts and tagged us, which shot our user numbers through the roof. Now, our customers get a kick out of sharing their bad dates. Hey, I’m not complaining. All of the free press saves us a shit ton of money on advertising—more profits for us.

Some people say that Sloan and I are assholes for creating an anti-dating app, while others love getting help with a bad date. Not everyone has the moves or the nerve to leave someone in a crowded restaurant. And in some ways, Date Crashers makes the dreadful process of dating somewhat bearable.

“You’re supposed to be a distraught pregnant woman who found out her husband is cheating on her,” Sloan says to one of the female Crashers. “And you call yourself an actress?”

“I am,” the brunette croaks.

“Then, act like it,” Sloan growls. “You need to convince a stranger to bail on the date. Try it again. From the top.”

Most of our Crashers are aspiring actors who moved to Los Angeles, hoping for their big break. At one point, Sloan wanted Ash to come work for us, but I immediately shot down the idea. I told him it was best if we keep family and friends out of our business. Truthfully, I couldn’t handle seeing Ash regularly.

My cell phone vibrates, buzzing against my thigh. I fish it from my pocket and sigh as Ash’s picture appears on my screen. Her brown hair is curled at the ends and hung over her right shoulder. She’s sticking out her tongue in a playful way, her plump lips red from her cherry gloss.

Why is she calling me?

I should let it go to voicemail. If she needs something, she will call Sloan. Except he’s in the middle of a hardcore training session and won’t be available for a few hours.

She hasn’t called me since we broke up.

That was five years ago.

So, this must be important.

I raise the phone to my ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Hello to you, too, sunshine.” She blows air into the speaker. “How did you know something is wrong?”

“Because I know you, Ash. I’m the last person on earth you would call in an emergency, so you must be in trouble.”