They’rerichrich.
But back to this guy marching his substantial self across my recently mowed lawn. The soaked man stops, slowly turns, and stretches his arms out wide. Holy hell, he’s exquisite. With his head angled downward, he’s staring at me through the wet ropes of his hair. The rain molded his black tank top to his torso, rendering it a second skin. Tattoos cover his arms from his neck to his fingers, and I ache to examine those black-and-gray designs up close and personal and…
…Charly, get your mind out of your unused vagina.
Clearly, it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid.
Also, it’s been too long since I’ve seen a man this good-looking.
Try twenty-eight years, to be exact.
Never in my entire life have I ever laid eyes on a man like him. He’s like a unicorn standing on my front lawn. And he’s apparently looking for me because he thinks I built him on an app.
Okay, it’s time to wake up now. This wacky dream got way too real for its own good.
“Done staring?” he shouts, and I can’t help the heat that blooms up my neck and settles in my face. He stalks back to my front door. “Let me the fuck inside, Charlotte.”
“I don’t know you,” I remind him as if that settles this entire matter.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, and I swear I can actually feel his frustration. “I don’t know you, either. Now open the fucking door.”
Not the greatest way to convince me he’s not a threat.
“You have exactly ten seconds to get your stranger-danger ass off my property before I really do call the cops.” I raise the cell phone. Shake it, hoping he sees it through the smoked glass. “One… Two… Three…”
He backs away.
“Four… Five…”
“Goodnight, Charlotte.”
I lower my arm and stop counting as this lunatic (or scammer) claiming to be Rhys Ravenstone marches his fine ass off my porch. Wish I was glad he’s leaving (although the view of his ass is spectacular), but I’m not. Actually, my stomach is tangled in a tight knot. My head aches, and while I should probably call the cops to be on the safe side, I don’t. Instead, I clean up for the night. Check every window to ensure they’re locked tight before I head upstairs to the bedroom.
I bring the bat with me.
This has to be a cruel, sick joke. Someone must either be laughing at my expense or… This makes zero sense. I built a man from scratch.Scratch. Put each component together from a series of random features. I could have made him short, blonde, and purple-eyed. I could have put him in a green hat, an orange shirt, and blue shorts. Instead, I selected a black tank top, jeans, and boots. Everything this man was wearing—down to the exact placement of his tattoos.
Perhaps it was makeup? Maybe stickers?
While I brush my teeth, I keep the bat and phone with me, then lay them next to me after I crawl into bed. I search The Book Boyfriends app but find nothing. No answers. Now thatI’ve matched, I’m met with the ridiculous screen of our overlapped photos encircled by that big-ass heart. Tossing my phone, I press a finger to my temple. The migraine from before is threatening a violent return.
This is ridiculous.
Absurd.
It can’t be.
Shit like this doesn’t happen in real life.
“Fuck you, Cupid. You don’t exist.”
And neither does Rhys Ravenstone.
Chapter Four
For seven years, the Wembleys had my Sundays scheduled down to the minute. Church was promptly at ten, with a formal brunch directly after. I sat among them, judged, and always found lacking. I hated Sundays. They were the worst days. Now, I enjoy a nice and leisurely breakfast and lazy afternoons, but after last night’s shitshow, I inch out of the house, wary that crazy fucker is lurking around.
Thankfully, it looks like the coast is clear.
