Page 89 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
It’s from a guy named Evan, whose profile says he’s a chef, and his first message is: “What’s your favorite thing to eat in bed?”
“Get out of here, Evan!” Delete. “Have some damn respect.”
Men are exhausting.
I blow out a frustrated breath and pick up my phone again, determined to just swipe for the mindless distraction and not overthink every man’s terrible attempts at flirting.
Left.
Left.
Right.
Left until my thumb has carpal tunnel.
Until—
I freeze.
There, staring back at me from the screen, is Turner.
When I helped him tweak his profile, I was the one who said, “Use that picture.” And, of course, the photo of him in the plaid button-down—he’s holding a glass of whiskey. So sexy, although I would never have the courage to say that to his face. But I’m admiring that face now.
The strong jawline and bright smile I’ve come to know so well.
I scroll through his photos, each one more annoyingly attractive than the last. The hoodie and bedhead. The post-workout, sweaty and shirtless. The one of him with Nugget, when the dog was a puppy.
Turner, 27.Perpetual hockey bro. Own my own laundry basket. Will buy you coffee and listen to your podcast recommendations without judgment.Six foot something. Can reach the top shelf and carry your emotional baggage.
I reread that bio three times, thumb hovering over the red dot. Green dot.
Swipe right or left.
What would he do? How would he react? The guy who already thinks I’m weird for running, screaming into his room because I thought Cash was a murderer. What would the harm be in swiping on him to get a reaction? It’s not like I haven’talready humiliated myself in front of him at least a dozen times since moving in. What’s one more awkward encounter?
Left to keep pretending that the tension isn’t there, that I don’t notice the way his eyes linger on my mouth when I talk.
Right to find out if he swiped right on me first.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and swipe. Seconds go by. One minute, then another…
My phone pings. A new match. A new message.
Turner.
I jolt so hard I almost drop the phone.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
Turner: Did you seriously swipe right on me?
My heart slams against my ribs, and I bite down on my bottom lip, fighting a grin. He had to have swiped right to know it was a match.
I can play this game.
Me: Did YOU seriously swipe right on ME?
Three dots. Then nothing.
