Page 9 of The Swiping Game
“No specific reason,” she says, though I don’t buy that for a second. My sister always has a reason for everything. “Just feels like the time for a change.”
I could press her, but I’m sensing she’s not in the mood to talk about it, so I let it go. If she does move out here, maybe then she’ll want to open up about it.
“Hey, I have to get going,” Hazel says abruptly. “I’ll send you my itinerary to see if we can meet up.”
“Sounds good, sis.”
We hang up the phone, and I take another pull of my beer as I listen to the sounds of the Nashville nightlife. Something I will never admit to my mother, or anyone for that matter, is that nights like tonight, I do, kind of, in the most minuscule way, wish I had someone in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love hitting new restaurants and bars across the city. I love having the power to pick up and go whenever I want to. If I need to go entertain a new client with a night of debauchery, it’s nice not having to answer to anyone.
But then there are nights like tonight when I need to unwind. When the batteries need recharged. It would be nice to sit inside, curl up with someone on the couch, and find a new documentary on Netflix to watch. Or to even sit outside and have someone cuddled on my lap as we soak in the city.
But those nights are few and far between.
“One day, you’re going to realize that your contracts can’t keep you warm at night.”
Hunter’s words from earlier today decide to come back through my mind as I head inside and turn on the television. I know he’s right. Then again, the few women I have on standby and my down comforter do just fine in that department.
I flip through the channels, and of course, the second I stop on one, there’s an ad for Left for Love.I can’t help but laugh at the irony of just getting off the phone with my sister and now seeing her creation, which millions of people use.
Though I don’t use it, I have an account on the app. And not just any account—one of the very first accounts ever created on Left for Love. When Hazel and her best friend, Jesse, developed the app, they wanted to use real people from all over the country to test accounts on. I reluctantly agreed, but only if they used my real name, James, and a picture that didn’t directly show my face. I only ever logged into it when they asked me to. I wonder if it even still works.
I swipe my phone on and download the app. Somehow, I still remember my username and password, and no shit, there pops up a picture of me standing and looking over a cliff from a hike Hazel and I took once when I went to visit her in California.
I don’t have any matches, and that isn’t surprising. The whole thing about this app is that you can’t message someone until both parties swipe left for love. And even then, they have to meet a compatibility score as well. Jesse and my sister basically took what every dating app was doing individually and put them together to make a mega dating app. And based on her net worth and how many millions of people are using this, they hit the jackpot.
“Oh, what the hell,” I say, kicking my feet up on my ottoman. I start filling out the profile and answering the personality questions. I would normally forgo this process, but until you fill out the profile and answer the ten questions, you can’t even see any possible matches.
“How am I supposed to know what my fucking love language is?” I grumble. Seriously, what man knows this? Hell, I have to Google what the hell a love language even is before I decide on physical touch. And that’s only because the others were hard passes.
Finally, after what feels like taking the SAT, I’m shown the first picture of a woman in Nashville. And damn, she’s fucking hot. Hell, if I knew this kind of woman was on here, maybe I should have booted up the ole app a long time ago.
I’m not sure how much time goes by, but I spend at least the next hour looking at profiles and swiping left for yes or right for no. And some I match with. I don’t start a conversation with any of them, because that would make this too real. Now, if they message me? Well, then maybe I’ll think about it.
Just when I think I can’t go through any more profiles, one pops up that makes my eyes go wide and my jaw hang to the ground. This woman is gorgeous. She’s wearing a tight red dress that hugs her in every one of her right places. I can’t tell where this photo was taken, but it looks like she’s having the time of her life.
I scroll down, needing to know more about her.
Tara, 32, Executive Assistant, Nashville
No. It can’t be...
I scroll up to the picture again, because no way—no way on God’s green earth can that be my Tara from the Fury offices.
But the more I look at the picture, the more I realize it is.
OnlythatTara is not the one I love giving shit to. Whenever she’s in Fury mode, she’s usually wearing some sort of drab pantsuit and black-rimmed glasses. Her hair is usually pulled up in some sort of messy knot on top of her head, and I would bet my commission she never wears any makeup.
But this woman? If I were to describe my perfect woman, this is it. Petite with just enough curves for me to hold on to. Brown hair that is plenty long enough for me to wrap around my fist. Eyes I want to get lost in—brown with just a little fleck of gold.
Then I read her profile, and holy hell, I never would have thought in a million years we had anything in common. Yes, I know that makes me an asshole, but never would I have guessed that we both geek out over documentaries or that if she had a superpower, it would also be invisibility.
“Who are you, Tara? Because right now, you are a conundrum wrapped in a sexy riddle.”
I look back over her profile, and I still can’t believe that this woman here, looking sexy as hell in a red minidress, is the same woman who gave me shit today about taking a donut as she was wearing a pair of leggings with a hole in the knee.
I also can’t believe what I’m about to do. But I do it anyway.
Swipe left.
