Page 2 of Dad Bod Book Boyfriend for Christmas

“Exactly,” she says, her face breaking into a smug smile. “Yet.”

I heave an exaggerated sigh, knowing she won’t let up until I cave. “Fine, sign me up. But if I get chopped into tiny pieces, on your head be it.”

I toss my phone to her, and she squeals in delight, expertly thumbing through the app store like she’s done this a thousand times.

“It’s all going to go badly wrong,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I head to the kitchen to grab a pint of triple chocolate ice cream and two spoons. “Romances like Carter’s don’t come around very often.”

I pull my bathrobe tighter around my pajama-clad body as I wander back to the couch. I love having Christy over, but it seems like I end up doing something impulsive every time she's here. Sometimes, all I want is to melt into the sofa with a pintof ice cream, watching reruns ofGilmore Girlsand daydreaming about finding my own Luke Danes—someone dependable, warm, and quietly charming.

“No, they don’t,” Christy says, glancing up from my phone, “but it’s worth a try.”

I let her words sink in, realizing she’s right. I’ve never had a serious relationship, not one that made my heart ache in the best way or felt like forever. Now I’ve finished business school and started building my career, there’s a little empty space in my life that success alone can’t fill. I want that “something more”—the kind you find once in a lifetime. I want someone to celebrate my successes, share lazy Sunday mornings, and walk through life with me as an equal and a witness.

Christy peppers me with questions as she sets up my profile, her thumbs moving furiously over the screen while I shovel spoonfuls of ice cream into my mouth. The rich chocolate flavor is a comfort I’ve come to rely on in the past few lonely years, a small, sweet solace for the quiet nights when it’s just me, my work, and the flickering glow of the TV.

“There!” Christy announces triumphantly, punctuating her last thumb tap on the screen with a proud grin. “Now we wait for someone to chat with you.” She holds my phone expectantly, watching the screen like it’s a magic crystal ball. But the screen remains blank. No chat bubbles, no notifications. She frowns, a slight pout forming on her lips, and hands the phone back to me. “It won’t be long before you’re chasing them away with a stick,” she insists, trying to reassure me.

“Right,” I say with a skeptical smile, rolling my eyes. “Can I putGilmore Girlson now?”

Christy’s mouth quirks to one side, clearly disappointed that the universe hasn’t yet delivered my soulmate in the first few seconds. Finally, she shrugs, plopping beside me on the sofa,grabbing her spoon, and digging into the ice cream. As the opening credits roll, we sing along to the familiar theme song, our voices blending into an off-key harmony.

Jake

I fill out the form on the website, answering questions that feel almost invasive as they dig into my personality, quirks, and the kind of relationship I’m hoping for. Each question leads me a little closer to the category: “Dadbod Book Boyfriend with a Hint of Cinnamon Roll.” I’ve asked myself a thousand times why I’m doing this, but every time I hover over the exit button, I find myself pressing on, filling in each detail carefully as if this strange profile could somehow lead me to what I’m missing.

It’s taken a crash course in romance terms to get here, but thankfully, the website has a glossary to explain it all. I’ve learned about alpha heroes, cinnamon rolls, bad boys, and brooding types, each one a character trope I never realized had a whole fanbase. Who knew there were so many different heroes in romance fiction? It’s been eye-opening, to say the least, like stepping into a new world I never knew existed.

Once I pay the subscription fee and hit “enter” on my profile, a list of potential matches pops up. With a sigh, I start swiping. Some of the women seem suitable, but they live a million miles away, or their interests don’t align with mine. After the heartbreak of disappointing my ex, I know all too well the weight of letting someone down, of not meeting expectations. I can’t go through that again, and I certainly wouldn’t want to do it to anyone else.

Then I seeher—the woman who’s haunted my dreams for the past three years.

Riley.

What the hell is she doing on here?

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and my stomach twists. As far as I know, she’s never shown any interest in dating. She’s always been focused on school and launching her start-up. And now she’s on a dating app, of all things. A million other guys are going to see her on here and flood her with messages. The thought has my jaw clenching and my fists curling with the urge to protect her from every random asshole who thinks he has a shot.

But I quickly swipe in the opposite direction, trying to let the anger subside. There’s no point in getting worked up over this. She’s probably not interested in a guy like me, anyway. I mean, I’m her best friend’s brother. There are rules about that sort of thing.

Only, I can’t stop staring at her profile picture, the image already burned into my mind. She’s in her fluffy bathrobe, looking at a spoonful of ice cream with her eyes crossed, a goofy grin lighting up her face. In the foreground is a tub of triple chocolate, and the photo feels so… Riley. Fun, silly, and sweet. A snapshot that captures everything I love about her, even if I’m not supposed to feel this way.

Now, I have to wait for her to swipe yes or no on me. A knot forms in my stomach as I think about the possibilities. How long will it take? Will I be notified if she swipes ‘no’? The questions swirl around in my mind, leaving me restless and on edge.

I drop onto my bed, pulling out my laptop to distract myself with the latest news, hoping it’ll pull my thoughts from Riley. But the top story is bleak, another headline that does nothing for my bad mood. With a frustrated sigh, I snap the laptop shut and toss it aside. My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up, my heart skipping a beat—only to see that it’s a spam email. I throw myphone down with a groan, feeling like a fool for hoping it was Riley.

Pacing my room doesn’t help. I try diving into the latest sci-fi novel that’s been sitting on my nightstand, but the words blur together. My mind is filled with images of Riley—her laugh, the way she scrunches her nose when she’s deep in thought, the way she can go from goofy to serious in the blink of an eye. And that bathrobe…what’s beneath it… Damn, I’m done for.

Desperate to clear my head, I go to the bathroom and step into the shower, hoping the hot water will calm me down. But as the steam rises around me, my thoughts drift back to Riley, and the fantasy grows more vivid, more intense. I imagine slipping that bathrobe from her shoulders, tasting the sweetness of chocolate ice cream on her silky skin. My hand wraps around my cock, working out the tension with thoughts I shouldn’t be having. It doesn’t take long; I come hard, letting the water wash it all away. But the desire for Riley lingers, deep and aching.

Sleep feels like a distant dream when I finally towel off and return to the bedroom. I grab my phone, open my Book Boyfriend Dating Agency profile, and hover over the “delete” button. This was a stupid mistake. It’s not like I’m going to find what Carter did with Shelli. That kind of love—once-in-a-lifetime, fairy-tale stuff—doesn’t happen for guys like me.

Just as I’m about to delete my profile, a chat box pops up on the screen.

It’s Riley.

My heart slams in my chest, my thumb hovering over the screen. I stare at her name, at the little message notification blinking at me, my mind racing with a thousand possibilities.

This is it. This is my chance.

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