Page 51 of Puck Block

I don’t joke about coffee.

I quietly laugh.

A man after my own heart.

Why exactly are you on this app, Taytum?

My heart jumps to my throat, and I hurriedly click my phone screen off.What the hell?I press the device to my chest and panic. I laser in on my brother, but he’s in the middle of a conversation with some girl I don’t recognize, and Ford is lazily leaning against the wall, watching the football game.

I slowly peel my phone away from my chest and stare at the message, when another comes in.

You could walk up to any guy in this crowded hall, and they’d fall to their knees for you.

My jaw slacks for a split second before I clamp it shut. I survey the hallway and scrutinize each and every male. There are a few that make eye contact with me, but none of them have a phone in their hand.

I’ll give it to him. I’m definitely intrigued now.

Are you some sort of stalker?

I don’t get a chance to search the crowd for someone typing on their phone because his message comes in too quick.

That depends. Does that sort of thing turn you on, or does it scare you?

Okay, who is this guy?

I relax into the wall again, right beside Claire’s closed door with a fuzzy scrunchie hanging off the doorknob.

It depends on what you look like I guess.

I bite the inside of my cheek and wait eagerly for his message.

I know your type.

How could he possibly know my type when I don’t even know my type?

Oh? Please tell me what my type is. Then maybe I wouldn’t be on this app.

I roll my eyes after I hit send.

Do that again. I love it when you roll your eyes.

My neck cracks from how quickly I snap to attention. I scan the crowd again, and it doesn’t take long for my beating heart to tell me that I’m more excited than I am irritated.

Who are you?

When you find me, you’ll know.

I exit out of the conversation and look at his name.Runner?Is that a nickname? Or a last name? A lot of athletes go by theirlast name, so that would make sense. I’m about to search the student directory, when he messages again.

Stop trying to figure it out and play the game with me.

I grin.

You don’t want to play a game with me. I always win.

I’d love to see you score.

My fingers pause over the screen because I can’t decide if it’s meant to be a sexual innuendo or if I’m just that messed up from the other night when Ford got me all twisted. I’m desperate for anything at this point–even dirty messages on a dating app from some guy that’s potentially a stalker.

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