I stare down my phone, half-disgusted, half-confused, and hang up on my sister.

Come on, it was a long time coming.

I open the door in my pj’s and wet hair. Ty stands there, in tight black jeans and a matching leather jacket, looking like an advertisement for bad boys.

“What are you doing here?” I aim for a grunt, but my voice is smiling, betraying me completely with its high-pitched volume. I sound like Izzy.

“Taking you on that date.” He drops his dark-eyed gaze to my unintentional cleavage, entertained. "Diggin' your outfit, by the way."

I'm wearing a blue onesie with huge Cookie Monster eyeballs on top of my blue hoodie. That's it. I'm never going to live through this humiliation.

“Why didn’t you call first?”

He shrugs, as if to say what for?

“You know, to ask if I was available,” I clarify.

“I already told you, Barbie. I don’t do question marks.”

I crack a can of beer for him while I get dressed. I have no idea where we’re going, nor do I care. He wants his two hours now? That's what he'll get. But I'll be milking my interview with him to thirty minutes, and he better give me great answers.

The thought of Nicole sneaks into my mind again, but I shake my head and make it disappear, exchanging the blonde bombshell with a picture of my fragile grandmother, who is probably sinning out of wedlock on a regular basis while I’m stuck here, price-matching new pocket rockets on the Internet.

Considering Ty’s casualwear, I opt for a Grumpy Cat muscle tee, black leggings and my denim chucks. I have no time to fix my hair and makeup, so I quickly draw on thick, black feline eyeliner and squeeze nude lip gloss onto my lips. When I walk out of the bathroom, ready for my date, Tyler isn’t there.

And I have no way to contact him, seeing as I don’t have his number.

I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Maybe he finally realized he isn't going to get some and gave up. Or maybe my peculiar onesie broke his spirit? I walk across the living room and pick up the half-empty Bud Light. It is still cold and leaves a ring on the oak coffee table. I lean back into the sofa and glare at it, my only real proof of Ty ever visiting this place. The bottle, and his scent—that hot-guy smell that's stuck in my nostrils days after I met him.

I fall back onto the sofa with a sigh, determined not to let this affect me. I pick up my phone and text Shane, blocking all the questions running through my head.

I decided I'm staging an intervention for you and Izzy. You'll work out whatever this is that happened between you two, and boy, this is going to be fun to watch.

My mouth curls in amusement, knowing how ticked off Shane's going to be.

Then I hear the doorbell chiming again.

This time, I sure as hell expect someone.

I open up without even checking who it is. (I know, I probably would be the first victim if this was a B-grade horror movie.) But it’s not a guy with a chainsaw. It’s Ty.

“What is wrong with you?” I seethe, visibly cross. I’m not sure what kind of game we’re playing, but I know I’m on the losing end.

“A ton of things, but I don't think we can cover it in two hours. Maybe a whole weekend? Anyway, I forgot something in my car. Here.” He thrusts a black velvet box with gold letters on top at me.

He follows as I place it on my coffee table, right next to his beer, and eye it like it’s a ticking bomb.

“This doesn’t look like flowers.” My tone is still hostile.

“Pretty and smart.” His husky voice matches the devilish look that's on his face.

Seeing as he brought a gift, my pissed-off level shouldn’t be plunging by the second. Gifts are not my thing. In fact, I hate to be on the receiving end. Izzy pays for my stuff, my parents pay for my stuff. Sometimes it feels like I'm being held hostage by my relatives’ capability to offer me everything I can't get for myself. But with Tyler, I somehow feel like I don't owe him anything back. He doesn't know me, and I'm guessing by the nickname he's given me that he assumes I feel like I belong in this glitzy apartment.

Wrong, hottie. Very wrong.

I reach for the box and open it hesitantly. I take out a pair of pink-leather boxing gloves. Slick, new and glossy.

“I got you these babies when I was shooting the promotional video for the fight in San Francisco. Passed ’em by, did a U-turn and walked right into the store. They made me think of you because they're stupid-pink, like Barbie, but they hold a promise to something darker, raw…like you.”

A grin slips through my frown.

“She’s cracking. I can see a smile.” He takes hold of the gloves and insists I try them. Once he’s helped me push my hands inside, he kisses the thick material of one pink glove and pulls me to my feet, twirling me in my spot like I’m showing off one Izzy’s designer dresses.

I’m caving in this moment. Hormones are on a break, and Brain is dead right now. But you know who is rocking it like a badass? Heart.

“Listen up,” he says. “For this date, I want us to start over. Forget the parking lot, forget kickboxing class and forget the shower. This is just a boy-meets-girl scenario. No prejudgment or reading into shit, alright?”

I give him the eye-roll treatment, way too embarrassed to admit that I like his braveness and new no-bullshit policy.