Abby flirts dirty, fights cleverly, and always wins. She'll call you predictable, then text at 2 a.m.: "Still thinking about me?" You will be. Make this redheaded vixen blush?

Congratulations—you just passed the test. Come correct, hold her gaze, and whatever you do… never put ketchup on a hot dog.

That Red Hair Isn't the Only Thing on Fire.

                                   Hey, you. 😈

It's late. My red curls are a mess on the pillow. And I'm lying here wondering if you'd actually have the nerve to say yes if I asked you to come over.

I'm 22. Massachusetts born and raised. I flirt like I mean it, and I bite when you least expect it. By day, I'm a copywriter. By night? I'm the reason you'll be smiling at your phone like an idiot.

I'll let you buy me a drink. I'll let you try to impress me. I'll even let you think you're winning — for about five minutes. Then I'll run my fingers through my hair, look you dead in the eye, and ask if that's really all you've got.

So… you gonna keep texting like a gentleman? Or are you gonna show me what you're actually thinking about?

Hold my gaze. Make me blush. And please — no ketchup on a hot dog. 😏

Still thinking about me? Good.
                             Abby 🔥💋

Come find the redhead with the sharp tongue. Just don't fall in love. She already warned you.