"Wow," I comment as Conner leads us inside and flips on a light switch. "It's very you."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Well..." I trail off as I look around.

His apartment could be the standard for the open layout, classic, neutral-colored, clean, and simple design that you see over and over on the four hundred different versions of House Hunter shows.

His walls are painted a light, easy-on-the-eyes grey, with white baseboards, and his flooring is a wood-looking dark grayish brown. The kitchen, of course, is the focal point with its oversized island and shiny white counters that face out into the living room, another ample open space. Everyone is minimally decorated with beige and white furniture and black accent tables. Even the throw pillows are neutral colors.

The main decor is the view from the sliding glass door that looks out to the terrace Conner talked about. Other than that, there are only a few complimentary photos hung up. 

"I pay way too much for rent to get a 'well,'" he balks at my answer, and I get it! He probably does, and this is the look these days. Most people likely walk in and say, wow. 

"Don't get offended, Conner. As someone who aspires to be very rich someday, I appreciate this place's resale value and all that," I say slowly. "It's just that it's so boring." 

"Gee, thanks," he says dryly.

"I have a different style, is all. I prefer the old school houses and apartments with stories behind them and character. Like the big Victorian mansions uptown, did you know some of them still have ballrooms in them? Can you imagine? Now that is a house with a personality, " I say and then wave my arms around. "This... is just a product, not a home."

"So it's boring and has no personality, that's just... thanks, Rissa." 

"I didn't say you don't have a personality. I'm sure there's more to you than being a crabby writer who tells women what to do, but your apartment isn't giving any clues of that."

"I don't tell women what to do," he argues. "And the book was written for anyone. I never specified gender."

"Okay, a crabby writer who tells singles what to do," I correct myself.

"I don't tell anyone what to do. I—"

"My point is everything in here is so— plain. It looks like a staged apartment. Please don't tell me your favorite color is beige."

"It's not. I like blue, but I don't have any eye for putting a space together. I paid extra to take it with the furniture it already had."

"So it is a staged apartment," I say with a short laugh; no wonder there is no color. "I'll help you. I'm an excellent decorator. Just hand me your debit card and keys, and let me at it."

His face pales, and his eyes fill with fear. "That is not going to happen."

"Oh, come on! You're taking over my personal life. I can't take over your living space?"

"I don't know how long I'll even stay here. I only signed a year lease."

"Why stay in Minnesota anyway? I figured most best-selling authors live in New York."

"Nothing there for me," he says, sounding slightly clipped.

Hmm.. is there more to that story? I find myself a bit curious but opt not to push about it yet.

He heads towards the kitchen and sets the steaks down on the island and I follow. 

"Any preference on a side? I have some frozen fries we can pop in the air fryer."

"Yeah, sure," I agree. "You got anything to drink?"

"There's wine in that cabinet right by you; grab a bottle and a few glasses."

I find a bottle already open that's about a third of the way full. The label looks fancy, so I'm excited to try it. I pop the cork out and pour each of us a glass while Conner generously seasons the steaks.

Once his air fryer beeps, he adds the fries to the basket and hits start.

"That's handy," I comment. "My version of an air fryer is baking it in the oven and hoping for the best."

"That's just baking it."

"Yeah, but the alternative is frying them in oil and starting another fire," I shudder at the memory as I sip my wine. 

"Please don't help me cook," he says, and I make a face at him. 

He grabs his glass and the steaks, and I follow him to his outdoor terrace. He is on the top level, so it looks out at rooftops near us and has a nice view of the cityscape, too.

"Now, this is impressive," I comment.

It's a roomy balcony with comfy outdoor furniture and one of those fabulous tabletop fireplaces that Conner lights up on his way to the grill. Everything is grey, black, and white, of course, but it's a great chilling spot. 

Conner sets the plate of steaks down and then lights up the grill. He glances at me as I sit close to the fire to warm myself. A slight smirk plays on his lips when he eyes my heels.

"You need a blanket? Your feet must be cold."

"I'm fine; the fire helps," I say, appreciating that he even cared to offer; that's rare from men these days. 

"I have to ask. Why the shoes?" The bewildered look behind Conner's thick-framed glasses is almost cute.

Almost.

"You're questioning the shoes and not the sweats?"

"It's January, yes I am. Aren't you afraid you'll break your neck?"

"I used to spend hours practicing my walk. I can handle any conditions with any size heel," I boast as I gulp down more wine.  It is so smooth. He's got good taste in wine; I'll give him that.

"Practice walking?" There's his confused look again, and I snicker at it.

"Grew up with America's Next Model," I explain with a short giggle. "I spent many afternoons walking around the house in my mom's heels with a book on my head, perfecting my signature walk, and then I'd sit in front of the mirror to work on my smize."

"Your what?"

I flash a smile at him but focus on my eyes, narrowing them a bit and trying to smile through the eyes, or smize as Tyra Banks taught thirteen-year-old me and all my girlfriends. 

Conner blinks and then says. "You look like you're constipated."

I gasp in horror, clasping a hand over my heart. "You don't tell a girl that when she's smizing. Clearly, you never had a sister."

"I do, actually, Cami," Conner says as he turns and flips the steaks on the grill. They sizzle, and the scent is starting to fill the air. "But she's twelve years younger than me. I hardly even know her."

"That's sad," I say with a frown. "You should try and get to know her better."

"Cami doesn't care about her boring old brother," he says with a dry laugh.

"I bet she does."

"She's twenty; she only cares about her Instagram followers."

"You're wrong," I say bluntly.

"Trust me, I'm not." He makes a face and turns around to flip the steaks. I wait until he turns back to me to continue.

"Yes, you are! I work with a ton of young people right out of high school. They hate that everyone assumes they only care about their social media accounts. That's not true at all. They use social media for communications and stuff, sure, but it's not their whole personality. They feel that kind of resentment from older generations, and it only worsens it."

"Are you lecturing me about young people?"

"I am," I say as I take another sip of wine. "The eighteen to twenty-five-year-olds are the ones that'll sell your book, you know. You'd be smart to learn to relate to them."

"Now you sound like my manager," he complains. "That makes no sense. The book is for adults looking to date for eventual marriage."

"I was dating for marriage at eighteen, so..."

He rolls his eyes at that and I scowl at him.

"I'm serious! You get them to start posting about your book on Booktok, and it could really take off beyond what you've ever done so far."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We aren't here to talk about everything I do wrong in marketing. I have a whole team that yells at me about that already."

He turns to grab the steaks, and they smell so tantalizing I can taste them already. As he plates them up, he heads back in, motioning for me to follow, and I do.

His apartment's warm, heated air is welcoming after being out in the chilly winter air. I go to top off our wine glasses as Conner plates up our food, and then we sit. I have to admit the steak looks absolutely amazing. As I take that first bite, I nearly moan as the savory and salty flavors hit my tongue.

"Told you so."

I look up to find Conner with a smug look on his face as he watches me. 

"Fine, you were right about the steak," I agree reluctantly. "But this dating plan..."

"I know you're weary about it, and I get it."

"No, you don't. I had a life plan. The, where do you see yourself in five years, question they ask in high school; I took that very literally. I was supposed to be engaged by twenty-five, married at twenty-six, pregnant with the first baby by twenty-seven..."

"Why the timeline? You realize you can't... " He pauses like he's trying to figure out what to say. "...marriage and babies happen when the time is right, not when you say they have to happen."

"Well, I'm twenty-nine, and the timing apparently has never been right," I let out an irritated sigh, then gulped back more wine.

"Forget about your timeline."

"I can't."

"You have to," He says. "This a reset. When it's all said and done. If you have to have a damn timeline, we will set a new and more realistic one, but your existing plan is out the window now."

"Since I'm years behind, I have to agree," I say flatly.

He shoots me a look. "You aren't years behind anything; there's tons of time still. But, first, you need to remember what you actually want."

"I told you–"

"A husband, right," he says. "So it 's okay if he's not someone you're attracted to in any way?"

"Well, no, I mean–"

"Or if he mistreats you, that's okay too?"

"No, of course not!"

"Good, you do have standards. Let's figure out what they are."

I make an irritated face at him and then shove another bite of steak into my mouth. It's so good. I forgot I was annoyed. I find myself digging into it more eagerly, and we both fall silent for a while as we eat.

"I want you to consider some of your ideal dates. You had no idea where to go or what to do tonight. For a dating MVP, I'd say that's pretty messed up."

"I had a bad day at work and--"

"No excuses; the point is you are so far away from knowing what you want that you're spinning around in circles, making the same mistakes with the wrong people repeatedly."

"Did Melanine call you?" That sounds a lot like her usual speech when I'm down in the dumps after it doesn't work out.

"Don't get mad, but yes, she did. Melanie looked me up through my contact information online. She wanted to thank me for offering this and to tell me not to let you weasel your way out of it. She really thinks you need this."

"She's still a traitor," I mutter before grabbing a fry.

"True friends are willing to piss you off if it's for your own good," Conner comments.  

"I guess," I mutter, but I know he's right; both Melanie and Candice have been there for me every single time. I know they get tired of it.

"Anyway, back to this. I want you to think about your ideal dates, places, or things you would daydream about doing, stuff that would impress you."

Ideal dates? I used to have tons of little fantasy dates, but now it's always just the end goal. I go wherever he wants, always focusing on being easygoing but flirtatious and exciting. I never think about what I want out of the date other than the obvious.

I try so hard to impress I never think about being impressed myself.

"You look stumped, some dating MVP you are," he teases.

"I just... I guess I lost focus on that."

"I know," his voice softens, and he leans forward slightly. "You know the date goes both ways. You're supposed to be spoiled and doted on, too." 

"I mean... there are lots of things I've daydreamed of, but I realized real men don't do that kind of stuff. So, I got more realistic over time."

He laughs and then clamps a hand over his mouth when I shoot him a dirty look.

"Sorry, Rissa, but you calling yourself realistic, I just can't.." He chuckles again despite my glaring.

"Stop!" I scold him angrily.

He is still laughing even as I deepen my scowl.

"I'm going to throw this steak bone at you," I threaten, and then I realize that I've eaten my entire steak, which was huge. Damn, he is a good cook; I'll give him that.

"I'll be nice, I promise," he says, holding his hands up. "You'll like this, Rissa. This is all about taking yourself out on dream dates and being as extra about them as you want to be. So let's hear some of them. I don't care how silly you think it is."

"Well, okay..." I say thoughtfully. "There are a lot of silly girlish fantasies I had about dates before."

"Like?" He's standing as he asks, and I watch as he opens a drawer. He takes a notebook and pen out and then sits back down.

"I mean, a horse-drawn carriage ride would be swoon-worthy," I say. "Although I guess that's a third or fourth date, or maybe it doesn't matter since I'm dating myself."

"We're just gathering ideas right now; let me worry about the order."

I see he's already writing stuff down on the open page.

"You worry about the order?" I question with a tilt of my head.

"I'll be planning the dates from here on out," Conner explains.

"You don't trust I'll go now?" I arch an eyebrow.

"Actually, I can see you warming up to this," he says with a knowing twinkle in his eyes that annoys me.

How does he have such a good read on me anyway?   

"I want to plan the dates so there's an element of surprise," he says slowly. "If you have to plan everything, it takes some of that out of it. Obviously, you'll have some ideas of what you might be doing since we're going to go over your ideal date nights. But you'll never know for sure what is happening and sometimes I may choose something we didn't already talk about." 

This is starting to sound fun, but I don't want him to know I'm excited, so I keep my face as neutral as his apartment.  "So you text me when and where, and I just show up?"

"I think I'll schedule a driver to come and get you and bring you back here when you're done," He muses.

"Here, why?"

"So we can talk about it for the book," he clarifies. "The fresher you are off the date, the better."

"Right... are their rules like no drinking or?"

He laughs, "No. This is supposed to be fun. The only rule is you remain totally single, no dates, hookups, texting exes, none of that."

No hookups. Fuck.

Should I ask if he's going to ship me some toys along with planning all these dates? I feel my face growing hot at the very idea of this.

"What?" He looks at me curiously, and now my cheeks are flaming red. 

"Nothing!" I say quickly as I swallow the last of my wine. "I think you better open another bottle, and let's fill that page up with dream dates."