Page 5 of Tempted to Touch

Insert name... Hmm.

Don't do it.

Nicholas. Technically not a lie—it's my middle name.

Yep. It's official. I have gone clinically insane. On a totally unrelated note, I'm now on Grindr.

It's a long fucking shot, but what other options do I have? I don't even know if he's on here. And if he is on here, I don't know if he's anywhere near "my area," whatever "my area" is.

And after about thirty seconds of scrolling, whatever enthusiasm has just been fueling my fingers evaporates, as it becomes apparent that even if he is on the app, and even if he is in my area, I'll never fucking find him. Not in the sea of bare, headless chests and initials, because apparently that's what you do on Grindr.

I sigh like I've spent a day working construction in July heat and promptly ignore the four private messages my pictureless account receives in the first five minutes and scroll. Well, at least I tried. I'll just skim through the end of the options and call it a—

Holy mother of luck.

I almost drop my phone on my face when my eyes lock with Hayden's. There's his chest, alright—and lots of it. But there's also his face, staring straight at the camera lens, black brows hanging low above his eyes as if communicating, "That's right. I'm not ashamed. Come and get it if you dare."

H., 26

I sit up on my bed, my heart pumping overtime and click on his profile. There are no more pictures. Not that he needs more, the one he's got doing the job and then some. There's also no additional description save for the wordvers, whatever that means.

I open up the messages window and hover my thumbs over the on-screen keyboard. Now what? Shit. I didn't think so far ahead.

Do I just say "Hi"? Why am I suddenly forgetting how to text? Damn, I hate dating apps.

Wait.

Wait.

This isn't a dating app. Not for me, anyway. I'm just trying to make friends with the guy. Finally, I settle for, "What does the H. stand for?"

I hold my breath and wait. If he's not online, I guess I'll just suffocate.

And it's very fortunate my lungs are empty, because I'm sure I'd just choke on air when the response comes.

"Hung."

Jesus. TMI. I'm not interested in that. Like, at all.

With shaky fingers, I type "How's your day going?" and immediately delete it. It's dumb, try harder. "What's cooking?" No, that's worse.

What do I fucking say?

Before my brain can conjure anything remotely usable, another message comes.

"No pic, no convo."

Right. Fair. Of course.

Fuck.

I scramble out of bed and sprint to my bathroom, shedding my t-shirt on the way, suddenly grateful faces are optional on this app.

Overhead lighting is far from ideal, but it's the only one I've got. I angle my phone, strategically keeping my head out of frame and snap a mirror selfie.

I cringe when I see it.

Again.

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