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)
He hands over his phone and together, we start swiping photos of woman in the area.
One after another, I see heavily filtered selfies of women puckering their lips. Snapchat selfies. Dog ears and tongue. Halo with crown. Women with dogs. Cats. Bikini pictures. Book worms.
“Has every single woman in America been hiking up Machu Picchu but me?” Sheesh! “Apparently, I am such a loser.”
My bio suddenly feels vastly boring. Lame.
“I’m not wearing make-up in half my profile pictures,” I whine.
Turner snorts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is! I look like a crusty, sleep-deprived goblin in one of them. Why didn’t anyone tell me my eyebrows do that weird ‘time to pluck’ thing?” I start swiping again, desperate to find at least one mediocre-looking woman to boost my ego.
“Maddie is in Santorini,” I mutter, squinting at one. “Where even is Santorini?”
He leans closer, our shoulders pressing again. “Greece.”
We scroll in silence for a beat before I sigh, dramatically. “Okay. I need to know. What are your top dating app dealbreakers? Lay them on me.”
Turner considers this, fingers still on his screen. “Mmm...? People who say ‘looking for my ride or die.’ Anyone who refers to themselves in third person. Or posts only group photos.”
I nod solemnly. Those are good.
“And you?” he asks.
“Bathroom selfies, especially when the mirror is dirty.” This is a no-brainer. “Shirtless gym selfies. Bios that say ‘Just ask.’ No thank you, Brad. I will not be asking—do the work!”
It’s not a good sign when they can’t be bothered to add two or three sentences about themselves in an app where you’re one goal is to GET TO KNOW SOMEONE.
Lazy.
Hard pass.
Turner laughs, his head tipping back against the headboard, exposing his neck and a patch of stubble I probably shouldn’t be staring at.
Then I poke him beneath the blanket with my toe. “Okay, your turn. What’s your opener?”
“My what?”
“Your opener,” I clarify. “Let’s say you match with someone. What’s the first thing you say by way of greeting?”
He groans. “I hate this question.”
“Because you don’t have one?” I grin smugly.
“No. Because I do have one, and it’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, now you definitely have to tell me,” I say, jabbing him, teasing him now because I am dying to know how he starts conversations with women.
Turner shifts, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Absolutely not.”
No can do.
He huffs a breath, then admits, “I usually go with… ‘Two truths and a lie?’”
I stare at him. “Turner—that’s brilliant.” Seriously. Why have I never thought of this?
“You think so?”
Hell yes. “It’s casual, it’s intriguing, it’s like… a sexy little nugget of an icebreaker.”
Turner lifts one brow. “Sexy nugget?”
“It’s not screaming ‘Hey, wanna sit on my face or blow me?’ but you’re also not asking what someone does for work or if they smoke like you’re conducting a job interview.”
He sits stunned, staring at me. I gather he wasn’t prepared for me to use ‘blow me’ or ‘sit on my face’ in a sentence.
Then he coughs into his fist, like he’s trying to stifle a laugh but also maybe re-evaluate every decision that’s led him to this moment. “Okay.”
“Give me an example of your two truths—and your lie.”
He exhales, then counts off on his fingers. “Here we go. One—I once got a concussion from falling out of a golf cart. Two—I can play piano. Three—I’ve been skydiving in Switzerland.”
I squint at him over the rim of my water glass. “All of those feel extremely plausible, which is honestly annoying.”
He chuckles. “That’s the point.”
I study him—hard. “Okay, skydiving feels real. I don’t know why, but I can totally picture you in a jumpsuit, strapped to some mountain man named Lars, screaming like a little girl as you plummet to earth.”
“That is oddly specific.”
“Thank you.” I point a finger at him. “Piano is giving me pause, though. Your fingers are too big. I feel like they’d crush the keys.”
He lifts a brow. “So you're saying I don’t have the finesse?”
“I’m saying it gives more linebacker than Liberace.”
Turner snorts, and I grin, smug. “Final answer: piano is the lie.”
He pauses. Smiles. “Wrong.”
I blink. “Wait—really?”
“I’ve never been skydiving,” he says with a little shrug. “The golf cart concussion happened at a charity event, and the piano thing was real. My mom made me take lessons until my junior year of high school when I refused to continue. I can play ‘Chopsticks.’” He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV to put all his focus on me. “Your turn.”
Shit. “Give me a second to think about this.”
Wrack my brain for the least traumatic facts I can think to tell him that are fun, and random. Nothing compares to the fact that Mister Baddie McBadderson plays the piano, but…
Here we go.
I count the facts on my fingers, mimicking him. “One—I once dated a guy for six months without realizing he had a girlfriend. Two—I was in a sorority for exactly one semester. Three—I’ve never been in love.”