Page 6 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
“It’s not like I’m trying to be a good roommate,” he insisted when I caught him organizing my chaotic bookshelf. “I’m just bored. And your apartment offends my aesthetic sensibilities.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, not believing him for a second. “Demons are known for their interior design skills.”
“You’d be surprised.” He shelved my battered copy ofGood Omenswith a snort. “This book gets everything wrong, by the way.”
The real problem wasn’t Deus’s surprising domesticity or his commentary on my life choices. The real problem was that I couldn’t stop noticing things about him. The way his tattoos changed color slightly depending on his mood. How he hummed old songs I didn’t recognize while cooking. The fact that he never wore shoes and had strangely elegant feet for someone so masculine.
And I definitely couldn’t stop remembering the shower incident, which had led to several repeat performances of my shameful bedtime routine.
I was screwed. Possibly literally, if the heated looks Deus sometimes gave me were any indication.
“We should talk about your dating life,” Deus announced one evening, flopping onto the couch beside me while I scrolled through Facebook.
I choked on my beer. “Excuse me?”
“Your dating life,” he repeated slowly, as if I were dim. “Or lack thereof. When’s the last time you got laid?”
My face went nuclear. “That’s none of your business!”
“It is if it’s relevant to my favor.” He plucked my phone from my hands. “Let’s see what apps you’re using.”
“Hey!” I tried to grab my phone back, but he held it out of reach with an unfairly long arm.
“Tinder, Grindr, Bumble,” he read, scrolling through my phone with supernatural speed. “Ooh, you’re bisexual. Keeping your options open, smart.”
I sank deeper into the couch, wishing it would swallow me whole. “Can we please not do this?”
“Your profile pics are tragic,” he continued, ignoring my distress. “All bathroom selfies and weird angles. No wonder you’re not getting matches.”
“I get matches,” I protested weakly.
“Bot accounts don’t count.” He studied my phone intently. “When’s your last date?”
I mumbled something unintelligible.
“What was that?”
“Three months ago,” I admitted. “It didn’t go well.”
“Define ‘didn’t go well.’”
I sighed, accepting that this conversation was happening whether I wanted it to or not. “He spent the entire time talking about his ex, then asked if I would mind if he texted them from the bathroom. I said yes, I would mind, and he did it anyway.Then he suggested we split the check even though he ordered three cocktails and I had water.”
Deus made a disgusted noise. “Humans.”
“Says the demon who’s been eating my food for two weeks.”
“I cook for you!” he protested. “That pasta last night was restaurant quality.”
He wasn’t wrong. The man—demon—whatever—could cook.
“Anyway,” Deus continued, still scrolling through my dating apps, “your standards are too low. All these matches are garbage.”
“Thanks for the confidence boost.”
“I’m doing you a favor by being honest.” His fingers moved rapidly over my phone screen. “There. I’ve unmatched all the losers and swiped right on some better options.”
“You what?” I lunged for my phone, finally wrestling it from his grip. “You can’t just hijack my dating life!”
