25
Present Day
If I thoughtthat West’s truck smelled like him, it hasnothingon his bed. My head is on his pillow, and I might as well be drowning in West Emerson pheromones.
It’storture.
A message to anyone looking for cruel and unusual forms of punishment: Drop your subject into the bed of their smoking-hot ex who is also a professional rival and sometimes asshole. For maximum agony, do it after he’s rescued them in the middle of the night. Bonus points if he’s been holding on to an artifact from their past.
Waffle House is looking pretty good right about now.
I punch West’s pillow, annoyed that it’s the perfect amount of squashy. His sheets feel clean, his blankets soft, his bed comfortable. This is a nightmare.
I’m overtired, overstimulated, and can’t stop tossing and turning, my mind switching between the hunger in West’s eyes when we stood on the threshold to this room and the email that I saw on his phone from the one person who heknows would hurt me the most. Either West is playing games with me, or I tragically misunderstood the look on his face earlier. His expression could have been exhaustion or frustration or annoyance. Or maybe my own hormones were clouding my judgment, making me see phantoms where none exist.
I cross the room and crack the door open, hoping to hear the sound of West’s deep, even breathing in the room directly across the hall. Instead, his door is also propped open, and I hear him fidgeting on the air mattress. Startled, I sprint back to bed, mortified by the idea that he can likewise hear my erratic breathing and comically loud heartbeat. He’s going to think I’m getting hot and bothered in his sheets, and he’ll be half-right. I’m bothered, but I won’t let myself get hot for him. Not when it’s less than twenty-four hours after finding out he set me up.Again.
I unlock my phone and mindlessly open the same dating app from earlier. I’m mindlessly swiping left after left after left when I stop myself just in time. I sit upright, my heart pounding.
West, 32
I zoom in on West’s profile picture and slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing at how bad it is. West in real life is melt-my-clothes-off hot, but it’s impossible to tell that from this faraway, slightly out-of-focus picture of him hiking. He’s squinting into the sun, half his face covered in shadows from his hat.
Whoever told him this picture was a good choice is praying on his downfall. I’ll send a gift basket.
My thumb hovers over the screen, indecision pulling me inboth directions. In the end, curiosity about the rest of his profile threatens to eat me alive. I swipe right.
We match.
Across the hall, West curses just loud enough to reach my ears.
I’m drenched in endorphins as a chat bubble appears on my screen. As always, any clever thought I’ve ever had evaporates. There’s nowhere that I’m less charming, less funny, less knowing-how-to-put-words-together than a first message. There’s also nowhere I’m more judgmental; I half hope that West sends me a genericHow’s your day been?or an even worseHi, because it will be my solemn and sworn duty to unmatch him.
I lick my lips, waiting.
He’s taking too long, and I get impatient. My fingers fly over the keys. Before I can hit send, a message appears.
U up?
I laugh loud enough that he must hear it.
I respond with my prewritten message.
Congratulations on your first match!
How’d you know?
Your profile picture.
Ouch.
Move your third picture to the top spot.
The one in the sweater?
In the third picture, he’s alone at a table with a stack of papers in front of him. He looks like a sexy, disheveled English teacher. Hair in his eyes, red ink on his hands. I’m blindingly jealous of whoever took it.
I don’t want to stroke his ego too much, so I keep my reply simple.
