Page 11 of Love to Hate You

Summer let out a semi-defeated sigh. “Going on Tinder would feel like giving up. I don’t want a hookup. I want a connection.”

“I met Hunter on Tinder and we connected. All over the kitchen, workout room, and patio. We’re going out again this Saturday and I’m hoping we connect multiple more times.” Cleo stared at Summer. “When was the last time youconnectedwith someone else physically in the room?”

Without looking up from her window display, Summer flipped Cleo off. “I don’t need an app to help me find a date. I do just fine on my own.”

“Maybe, but you need help landing a second date.”

“That’s not true. I went out twice with, uh, what was his name? The podiatrist.”

“And he started talking about proper foot care and parenting methods.”

“Parenting is an important topic.”

“Yeah, if he already had kids.” Cleo picked up a steampunk romance from the stack and handed it to Summer. She lovingly placed the book on a stand that was covered in metal gears and had a pocket watch hanging from the corner. She’d been inspired at three in the morning when she’d finished rereadingShadow and Bone.

“You know what your problem is?” Cleo asked.

“Probably, but I know how much you like to be right, so go on.”

“You date guys who are exactly like you. Studious, housebound, who live in a book and have companions with four legs that tend to drool when in the vicinity of bacon.”

Summer shrugged. “So I date guys I’m compatible with.”

“You date boring guys, who think banter is asking about your favorite color.”

As Summer met her friend’s gaze, her own narrowed. “Great, so you’re saying I got friend-zoned by a boring doctor who thinks I’m a dog sitter?”

“You got friend-zoned because you think with your head and not your heart. For a romantic, you’re pretty slow when it comes to relationships,” Cleo said. “You have to ask yourself, what do you really want? A funny story to tell at parties or someone who lights your fire?”

Summer wanted all the things every hopeless romantic wanted—a perfect meet-cute, followed by insta-love, and finally the dream wedding, ending with a honeymoon in Paris. She wanted two kids, twins—like her and her sister—a house in the suburbs, and the kind of marriage romance novels were made of.

First though, she needed to find herself a qualified candidate. She thought she’d found the one once, a gentle, caring fellow booklover who worked as an editor for a Los Angeles paper. They had similar habits, so much in common, and were perfectly compatible. He’d checked all the boxes—except the passion box.

Gah, she hated being incorrect, but Cleo had a point. Maybe she was going about this all wrong.

“Fine,” she said, handing over her phone. “You get one app and not Tinder. Make it one where people aren’t just looking for meaningless hookups.”

“Meaningful hookups. Got it.” Cleo snatched up Summer’s phone like it was a slice of chocolate cake. “I know just the app. RoChance. There’s this extensive questionnaire to ensure you’re paired with compatible people who share the same hobbies and interests.”

Compatible. Hobbies. Interests. That didn’t sound so scary.

“Plus, there are photos so you can accept or reject from the comfort of your own couch.”

“No dick pics.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “I don’t see how you can adequately vet a guy without a proper dick pic, but it’s your love life so I’ll check the No Dick Pic box. Whenever a potential soulmate is in the vicinity it will ping you, and then you have the choice to approach him or not.” Cleo’s finger flew over the screen of Summer’s phone, and a few minutes later she handed it back. “Done.”

“I thought you said it was extensive.”

“I didn’t overthink it. I just went with the first answer that came to mind.” Cleo wiggled her fingers like exploding fireworks. “Plus, these babies are like lightning. Give it a few minutes and then you should start getting some matches. I give it a day tops before your DMs are overflowing.”

“I’d be happy with a nice, sweet, local guy.”

Cleo made the sound of a buzzer. “You’ve done nice, sweet locals. You need something different. Maybe a caveman type or a mafia boss who is set on making you his bitch because your baby brother wronged him.”

“I don’t have a brother. You do.”

Cleo smiled. “Right, so I get the mafia boss. You get the billionaire bad boy who falls for the small-town bookshop owner and is into ear play.”

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