Page 40 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
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 doesyourdating 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.”
