Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Margot’s a busy single mom juggling teaching, parenting, and trying not to die alone. Dating apps? Total nightmare. But desperate times call for desperate swipes, even if they make her break out in stress hives. When she matches with a guy who looks too good to be true, she’s convinced he’s a walking red flag—or worse—a catfish.
Dex is hot, and he knows it. A quarterback with a killer smile and looks to spare, he’s a good guy looking for a long-term relationship. He wants what his friends someone to come home to…and if they’re naked when he gets there, even better. When he logs on for a casual scroll, he’s not expecting to meet her. One swipe, and suddenly he’s hooked.
Margot’s convinced he’s a catfish. Dex has zero dad bod and no dad energy. But their sizzling back-and-forth leaves them both thinking “what if.” After a surprise run-in leads to a mind-blowing (and soggy AF) kiss, their opposites-attract energy skyrockets. Can they find a way to make it last?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Dex
Swipe left.
Swipe left.
Always to the left . . .
I sigh, mindlessly trolling the dating app as if it were my job, my ass planted firmly in this reclining chair for the past hour.
Swipe left.
“Everything in a box to the left . . . ,” I singsong humorously, continuing on my dating journey, proud of myself for having the strength to go on.
I’m not one of those dudes who goes on a binge when scrolling; I do not swipe right on every living, breathing person with a pulse. I look at all the photos and try to get a vibe.
I read the biographies.
I’m picky—some would say a little too picky—but I have my reasons.
Pfft. What does picky mean anyway? I consider it having standards and not settling, but if you want to be an asshole and judge me for it, be my guest.
I take a slice of pizza resting on a plate on the side table and dangle it in front of my face, aiming for my mouth. Take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
Swipe.
Chew.
Swallow.
Swipe.
This is my new favorite Sunday-evening activity, since I don’t have to play in a game tonight.
See, that’s something you don’t know about me. Not to brag, but I play professional football and I’m kind of a big fucking deal.
It’s the offseason right now, which means I have time to fuck around and try dating—which I’ve been going hard at for months. And months. And months of me looking for love in all the wrong places, and those places include these damn dating apps.
I have four of them on my phone, including the new Kissmet app, which my buddy Landon’s girlfriend developed—sorry if that was a mouthful.
I think it’s great he’s dating someone who has her own thing going on—Harlow is a badass in her own right. The fact that she happens to be dating an old teammate of mine is a bonus.
I’m the least romantic guy you’ve ever met, but I have to admit, my best friend is one lucky bastard.
I figured it was time to join the club and be part of “couple goals,” but damn. It’s harder than it looks!
I stare at the profile of a woman named Madisson—yes, with a double s. From the looks of it, Madisson loves fishing, hiking, and new adventures. Has a golden retriever. Loves trying new food and traveling. And has several photos that are heavily filtered.
Already aggravated by the dumb way she spells her name, I swipe left to delete her.
Poof!
Just like that she disappears into oblivion, only to reappear once I run out of local matches. Ha fucking ha.
But the joke seems to be on me because finding someone I click with has been impossible. I’m fun, dude! It should not be this difficult to connect with a woman in person. Unfortunately, that has been my reality.
Landon, my best friend, called me a fucking idiot to my face because on the dating app I am there as myself. He thinks I should create a different profile with a nickname, using photographs that don’t reveal my true identity.
Which makes no sense to me.
Why shouldn’t I be me? Isn’t that what the ladies want?
And so, I use my real name, my real photos, my real age.
I even had my house manager, Ms. Dorothy, help with my bio, though Harlow and Landon offered to write it for me.
Ha. As if.
Dex, 25
Professional Football Player
Nice young man in search of a serious relationship.
Tall, dark, and handsome.
Funny. Sarcasm is my second language.
Loves eating but not cooking, unless you include frozen pizza.
Still discovering what it is I want.
No cat people. Dogs only (big dogs preferable).
The “serious relationship” part at the beginning of the bio? Still on the fence about including it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Dorothy otherwise. She’s old enough to be my grandmother, which means she’s old fashioned. The only real option with her reading over my shoulder was to write that I’m looking for something long term, even though I wouldn’t mind a friend-with-benefits situation.
Or just the benefits.
See? Mostly honest.
Why should I pretend to be someone I’m not? Why should I use pictures that aren’t mine to avoid gold diggers? Shouldn’t a woman know who she’s going out with before she goes out with him?
They should be so lucky! It’s not my fault I am who I am!
I jam the remaining hunk of pizza down my gullet and thumb to the messages within the Kissmet app, the little heart icon bursting with tiny pink envelopes to indicate I have mail. Or a message. Or whatever.
It’s like a party every goddamn time I log in, confetti and hearts and all that cutesy bullshit.
But it also gives me a confident feeling I don’t get with the other dating apps. I mean, come on—who doesn’t love confetti raining down on them? It’s as if the app is congratulating me for making the correct choice to log in.