Ethan, 36. Looking for something fun, not forever.
The photo: bathroom mirror shot. Flash over one eye. Flexed arm. Towel riding strategically low.
The abs were… respectable.
One brief, shameful second of appreciation before swiping left.
Colt, 39. I like fishing, shooting, and women who don’t complain.
The photo loaded like a warning. Shirtless, clutching a fish bigger than his ego.
Swipe.
Read, 34. Looking for long-term commitment. I enjoy travel, Thai food, and good documentaries. Biggest inspiration: my mother.
No face. Just a photo from the neck down—an undone white button-up, sleeves rolled, throat visible. Olive skin against crisp fabric. Hands resting loosely on a desk, veins faint beneath the surface.
His bio was simple:I take great pride in my work, and it takes up a majority of my time. I’m looking for someone equally dedicated in their own life.
I read it twice, looking for red flags. Nothing flowery. No filters. On paper, he was infuriatingly perfect.
A brief spurt of interest hit my veins before I shook it off. “Nope,” I said under my breath. “We’re not doing this.” The phone landed beside me with a mutedthud—
Then buzzed.
CoreConnect: Match confirmed.
My stomach dropped. “What? No, no, no—” I snatched it back.
The screen glowed.
Read: Good morning, E.
“Oh, my god.” Mortification flooded through me, and I tossed the phone on the blanket.
This time it landed face-up, clock reading 5:56.
Two hours until Elion.
The kitchen greeted me in a haze of golden light and the scent of mushrooms and garlic.
“Morning, Ms. Sinclair.” Susan offered a knowing look—dark brown pixie cut, lean frame, and the kind of callused chef’s hands that spoke to years behind a stove. I’d hired her when Elion finally took off, a quiet way of telling myself I’d earned softness. “Rough night?”
My face twisted. “Is it that obvious?”
“Absolutely.” She laughed, then lowered her voice. “I saw the guest-room door cracked. I left her lemon water and Tums. I made her a mushroom, spinach, and green juice. And your usual avocado toast, egg, and microgreens.”
A meal prepared from experience. Candace was all about strict diets and clean slates. But after last night’s twelve-cookie spiral, I could already hear the apology tour winding up. I’d tell her it didn’t matter. She’d nod, pretending to believe me. We both knew the script.
By the time I’d eaten, packed, and claimed my seat in the car, the notification wall had rebuilt itself—three voicemails, twenty-seven flagged emails, two texts, and the CoreConnect icon glowing like an accusation.
Voicemails first, I told myself, mentally triaging.
Kevin: Minor redlines on Calyx positioning.
Sarah: Confirming the 10:15 with Kevin and Jennifer.
Next, texts:
