I start a short, spicy audiobook on my library app, enjoying the narrator for the guy. His seductive rasp is perfect for all the dirty things he tells the heroine. I forget how his appearance wasdescribed, picturing thick dark hair, green eyes, and a chiseled jawline like I do for most romance book heroes.
My thighs slide together. The thrum of arousal burns through me, tingling across my skin. I pause the audiobook to take a sip of wine, then end up distracting myself when I see a notification from the Love Struck app at the top of my screen.
Settling back against the tub, I browse through profiles it pulls up in my area when I open it. A few promising ones make me pause, but most have cleared the pleasant haze I was enjoying while listening to the romance book.
Fictional men will always be superior to reality.
The hazardous thing about online dating apps when you’ve lived in the same town your whole life is that you know every one of the guys in the pool.
You know Peter who picked his nose and smeared it on you on the playground in elementary school.
Swipe.
You know Zach who asked you to Homecoming only to disappear five minutes after arriving so he could make out with his ex-girlfriend.
Swipe.
You know?—
I freeze at the profile picture.
No way.
No fucking way.
You know your brother’s best friend from high school. The same hot hockey player who definitely was oblivious to how much he owned my heart before he moved away. The same guy who just moved back to Heston Lake to work as assistant coach…under your dad.
Cole’s photo stares back at me with a handsome smile, green eyes crinkled at the corners. At least he’s not holding up a freshly caught fish like most guys on dating apps.
Unlike them, he’s laughing genuinely at something. It easily makes him even more attractive, drawing me in with his natural magnetism.
Swipe, I tell myself. Swipe now.
The more I want to swipe away, the more opening it is the only thing I’m thinking about. Licking my lips, I drum my nails against the edges of my phone to ride out the temptation.
Looking wouldn’t hurt, right? He doesn’t have to know I saw him on here. We’re both just two people avoiding singlehood.
Impulsive curiosity wins out over logic. I tap into Cole’s profile.
His bio is briefer than mine, but I smile at the photos of his travels. He looks happy surrounded by kids in hockey gear. Coaching looks good on him.
Then again, everything about him looks good.
The match notification jumpscares me.
“What?” Water sloshes when I jolt upright.
The Love Struck app has our photos framed in pink hearts, declaring that he’s only 1.4 miles away from me in Heston Lake, Connecticut. It gives me options at the bottom of the screen to start a conversation, send a heart, set up a date, or unmatch.
My face heats when I realize we’re both wearing Heston U Hockey fan gear in the pictures we picked. Mine’s a striped long sleeve shirt in Knights’ colors that I made myself with a heat press to add the logo. His is a heather gray t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest beneath a shearling-lined utility coat that looks damn good on him. It gives him a rugged vibe to go with his athletic build.
I bite my lip, rubbing my thighs together beneath the sudsy bathwater. A shiver runs down my spine from the silky feeling of the salts I added.
Maybe he didn’t get a notification. I hope this app doesn’t work that way. I’ll just unmatch him.
New message from Cole K.
There goes my hope that the dating app wouldn’t notify him that it thinks we’re a good fit. How do I tell this app he’s off-limits—no, double off-limits?
