Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Our eyes meet.
Silence stretches.
I notice he hasn’t shaved in a day or two, stubble beginning to fill in his face. The sexy five o’clock shadow—it’s the kind of rugged scruff that looks like it should be illegal on someone this wholesome.
The jawline is jaw-ing.
I toss the phone onto his stomach. “You’re welcome. You could add something about LEGOs too. Everyone’s into those right now,” I offer, reaching for the water glass I brought with me and pretend I’m not scrutinizing every sharp line of his face.
Turner nods, nibbling on his bottom lip.
He hums like he’s actually considering it. “How about… ‘Can build a replica castle by hand, but can’t figure out how to start a conversation on dating apps.’”
Aww. Poor guy.
“You’re not terrible. Give yourself some credit.”
“That’s what you should lead with,” I say, settling deeper into the pillows. “Hockey player is expected. Tall is implied. But patient enough to find a 1x1 tan tile at two in the morning? That’s swoon-worthy.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “What does your dating bio say?”
I laugh. “You don’t want to know…”
“Oh yes I fuckin’ do. Let me see it,” he prods, wiggling his fingers.
“Absolutely not.”
Turner leans over, reaching for my phone like he’s about to snatch it right out of my hands. I clutch it to my chest and twist away from him, grinning.
“Boundaries!” I protest, squirming.
I do not need him seeing my stupid bio and my dumb photos. No. Absolutely not.
No.
“I’m going to end up seeing it anyways,” he informs me. “Since you’re in the radius of my search.”
True.
Still, I roll my eyes at the same time my stomach flutters deep inside my vagina. “I’ll take my chances.”
“I can’t even imagine what kind of douchebags are on those things.”
So many. Soooo many douchebags.
So many red flags.
“Right?” I grin, tipping my glass toward him. “You want to see for yourself? I’ll let you scroll, but you have to promise not to swipe right on anyone unless I specifically approve it.” I lift my phone and waggle it in front of him. “Just a little peek at the douchebags—for science.”
We scoot a little closer, shoulders brushing now, and I hand it over like I’m surrendering state secrets. His thumb hovers above the screen like it’s a detonator.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” he murmurs.
“Just try not to cry,” I warn. “The bar is set really low. Like—deep depths of the ocean low.”
Turner is going to fly off the market the second his profile goes public.
He shifts closer to me still, arm brushing mine as he stares down at the screen of my phone with pure concentration etched on his face. "Go. Let’s see what horror awaits."
“Buckle up,” I mutter, taking a sip from my glass and watching his thumb swipe through the first few profiles.
“‘I’m an alpha looking for my omega,’” he reads out loud, face twisting. “Nope.”
“Hard no,” I agree.
Another swipe.
“‘Dog dad. Gym rat. Six feet tall.’”
My roommate snorts. “Six feet? Is that supposed to be a flex, bro?” He glances sideways at me, amused. “This one says ‘if you don’t like pineapple on pizza, we won’t get along.’”
“Because men are idiots—no offense.”
“None taken.” His big thumb swipes again. “Whoa—this guy’s bio says ‘emotionally unavailable but I’ll rock your world.’”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Lots of married guys too. Or, like—they’ll say ‘in a relationship but consciously open.’ It’s hard to know who is being honest and who isn’t.”
Sigh.
Turner grimaces. “Jesus. What the hell happened to dinner and a movie?”
“It died sometime around the third unsolicited mirror selfie—but these days, I’d rather not be subject to a full meal. If there’s no chemistry, I do not want to be trapped at a table.”
Been there, done that, one too many times…
“Good point.” He shakes his head. “Brutal out here.”
“You have no idea.”
Another swipe. Another disaster.
“This one has three shirtless photos, a gym mirror pic, and one of him holding a fish.” My roommate’s eyes widen as if the guy in the app has offended him.
I groan. “Of course he does. I call that the Holy Trinity of douchebaggery.”
“Ew,” Turner says and we dissolve into laughter, our knees brushing under the covers. He angles the screen toward me again. “What about this guy? Says he’s an ‘entrepreneur.’ No job title, just… entrepreneur.”
I roll my eyes. “I hate when they do that. What does that even mean? That he sells supplements from his garage?”
Turner laughs. “You sound so irritated.”
“I am.” Then a thought strikes. I tilt my head. “Okay, your turn. What do the women on these apps look like?”
Turner groans, mock dread in his voice. “Do we have to?”
“Yes. This is an equal opportunity environment—tit for tat.” I hold out my hand, wiggling my fingers. “Let me see my competition. I want the filters. I want group photos where you can’t tell whose profile it actually is. Gimme.”