CHAPTER 182: DOUBLE DATE

But tonight wasn’t about spreadsheets or sexting shorthand. Tonight was Madison. Tonight was her perfectly orchestrated double date.

Tommy and Mia were on their way, blissfully unaware that their lives were about to get an upgrade from basement-level chaos to cinematic chaos.

"They’re here," Madison said, spotting them before I did. "Holy shit, Peter. Look at Tommy."

I turned and nearly choked on my wine. The guy who’d worn the same anime shirts since middle school was strutting—strutting—toward us in a suit that probably cost more than his mother’s first car.

The twenty grand I’d slipped him wasn’t an investment; it was a masterstroke.

’From basement dweller to GQ model. Money really is the ultimate glow-up. Hogwarts couldn’t have taught this.’

Mia was lethal in red. Curves, confidence, and a smirk like she knew she could own the world—and maybe she would after tonight. Together, they looked like prom royalty if prom had a cinematic budget, lighting crew, and a subtle scent of chaos in the air.

"My guy!" I said, standing and yanking Tommy into a bro hug that doubled as a subtle reminder: I was still the alpha of this operation. "Looking like a whole CEO."

"You know I had to level up," Tommy grinned, immediately reaching for Mia’s chair like some polite romantic general. "Can’t have my girl looking like she’s at a red carpet while I’m a mid-budget indie film."

Mia blushed, a soft, dangerous glow that made the restaurant suddenly feel like our personal stage. "Tommy, stop."

"Never," he said, settling beside her like he owned the place—or at least owned his newfound swagger. "You deserve to be treated like the queen you are."

’My boy’s been reading my recommended romance novels. Or just quietly stealing my playbook.’

"Mia, you look absolutely stunning," Madison said, and the warmth in her voice was genuine. "That dress is perfect on you."

"Tommy picked it out," Mia admitted, glancing at him with obvious affection. "He has surprisingly good taste."

"Surprising?" Tommy clutched his chest in mock offense. "I’m wounded."

We settled into easy conversation, the dynamic comfortable despite being our first official double date. Madison and Mia fell into their own discussion, leaving Tommy and me to catch up.

Madison caught Mia’s eye and nodded. That subtle, terrifying universal female communication that men are biologically incapable of decoding. "So, Mia, you have to tell me about Tuesday as you promised."

Tommy’s face collapsed faster than a poorly constructed souffle. "No. Absolutely not. That’s classified."

"Classified?" Mia laughed, sound ricocheting off the marble. "Baby, you tried to confess using a PowerPoint."

"I did not—"

"You absolutely did! Transition effects. Background music. Probably a clicker with laser pointer!"

Madison was already crying. "You can’t be serious."

"I wish I wasn’t," Mia purred, savoring every drop of Tommy’s mortification. "Slide one: ’Why Mia Santos Deserves Better But I’m Shooting My Shot Anyway.’"

"It was a compelling argument!" Tommy protested, the color of his face matching Mia’s dress. "I had charts!"

"Charts?" I leaned in, because someone needed to roast him properly. "What kind of charts?"

"Compatibility metrics," he mumbled. "Shared interests, communication styles, mutual attraction indicators."

’This beautiful bastard literally tried to quantify love. Graphs. Data. Pie charts. And somehow, it worked.’

"You made a graph of our attraction." Mia teased.

"A pie chart, actually. Very colorful. Very accurate," he said, trying to keep dignity alive.

Mia was wiping tears from laughing. "Slide fifteen killed me."

"Fifteen slides?" Madison shrieked, barely holding it together.

"Twenty-three, actually," Tommy shot back, wounded. "But she stopped me at fifteen."

"Because that’s where he included testimonials!" Mia said, doubling over. "References. Like a damn job application!"

"Peter said I was ’husband material despite appearances!’" Tommy glared at me.

"I was high when I said that!" I protested, hands up, fully embracing my chaos energy.

Mia howled. "Best part? The slide froze on ’Physical Assets: A Realistic Assessment.’"

"Oh my god," Madison whispered, eyes wide. "Please tell me—"

"He rated himself!" Mia confirmed, like she’d just uncovered a human-level anomaly. "With subcategories! Face: 6/10. Body: 5/10 but trending upwards. Hygiene: ’Recently upgraded to name-brand deodorant.’"

"I was being honest about my market value!" Tommy insisted, puffing up like a LinkedIn profile in human form. "Under-promise and over-deliver!"

"You over-delivered, alright," Mia said, her tone softening like she was stroking a rare animal instead of a spreadsheet enthusiast. "The presentation was absurd, but the effort? The honesty? The fact that you spent almost a week creating a multimedia PowerPoint just to ask me out? That’s why you won."

And just like that, Tommy transformed cringe into romance. Dude’s operating on some Wall Street-level emotional arbitrage I didn’t know existed.

"Plus," Mia added, that wicked grin painting her like the villain in a teen rom-com, "slide eighteen’s projections for our future were... surprisingly detailed. Did you seriously calculate the optimal number of kids based on our combined genetic markers?"

"Two to three," Tommy said immediately. "With a 67% chance of inheriting your beauty and my compulsive need to quantify feelings."

"Unnecessary?" I laughed. "Bro, you made spreadsheets for your emotions. Excel called; it wants royalties."

"And it worked!" Tommy gestured at Mia like she was a proof-of-concept startup. "She’s here, isn’t she?"

"Against all logic," Mia agreed, her eyes still glued to him, "I am here."

The waiter arrived, appetizers in tow, and my peripheral vision pinged.

"Our drama queen at three o’clock," Madison murmured, already clocking Lea.

Lea looked our way her parents and the Columbia pre-law boy who looked like he memorized The Economist so he could seem clever at brunch. Peak sorority mixer material—destined to spend his thirties reminiscing about that one time he almost peaked.

"Your former crush looks thrilled," Madison whispered. "Her boyfriend keeps looking at us too. Lea has such a taste, because apparently learning numbers is more important than character."

"Riveting," I said flatly.

"Look at her face." Madison pointed. "That’s someone realizing they’ve bought the wrong emotional stock."

Tommy snorted. "Lea who publicly roasted you for daring to shoot your shot is watching us now?"

"The very same," I confirmed, sipping my drink like I was narrating The Bachelor: Apocalypse Edition.

"And now she’s stuck with Dollar-Store Patrick Bateman while you’re living your best life?" Tommy shook his head. "Karma’s not just a bitch—she’s a full-on HBO miniseries."

"Speaking of reality shows," Mia chimed, "what’s this thing about interviews tomorrow that I saw in our group. You said you’re not with us tomorrow?"

Madison and I exchanged a look. Cover story in place, but saying it out loud still felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

"Career development opportunities," I said smoothly. "Hospitality and client services."

"That’s a fancy way to say something sketchy," Tommy noted. "You joining the mob?"

"More like freelance consulting," Madison supplied, smirking like she was about to drop the mic. "Very exclusive clientele."

"Like sex work," Tommy stated flatly, like he was reading the instruction manual to life aloud.

Silence. Then Madison burst out laughing. "God, I love how your brain works. No filter, just straight to the point."

"Am I wrong?" Tommy looked at me like I was supposed to veto his truth.

"You’re not not wrong," I admitted, leaning back like a talk-show host ready to deliver the next punchline. "But it’s more complicated than—"