“Are you messing with me?”
The laughter she suppresses lights up her eyes, making the corners crinkle and her mouth curve. We’ve always teased each other—it’s what friends do—but everything feels different today, just that little bit off. It’s not bad—at least, I don’t think so. But it’s different and I’m not sure things are supposed to be different between us. Hazel is my constant.
“Not really. There are walking groups, running groups, hiking groups...but the sex groups are really strange. So I’d rather just have sex with a good friend. Someone I trust.”
I blurt out the next part without thinking. “Who is hot.”
“Well, yeah.” Her grin is incandescent. She has a lush mouth beneath the slick of bright red color. Usually, she’s talking, lips moving, hands flying to emphasize whatever point she’s making. It’s as if Hazel’s entire body is just punctuation for what she’s thinking. Normally, it makes me smile because only an idiot would underestimate Hazel’s intelligence. Today, however, it drives me crazy because now I’m looking at her mouth, her arms, her goddamn fingers...and I’m imagining exactly how she could touch me.
“I’m self-serving, not a saint,” she continues, as if I’m not burning up over here. “I’m just suggesting that, when we’re not in the office, we have sex until we don’t want to.”
She’s staring at me expectantly. I sort of feel like I should start stripping like a Chippendale dancer. “So rule number one—not in the office?”
She nods.
“And then we’ll just stop?”
“Rule number two,” she says. “When we’re done, we’re done—but we promise to still be friends. In fact, we should be friends first.”
I have no idea what that means.
“Think about it.” She hops up from my chair as the alarm on her phone goes off, reminding her she needs to be across town for a lunch meeting. Plus, the Salas Group people must be growing impatient by now. “And while you think about it, give Max’s hookup app a try. Find someone, go out for dinner.”
“Now you want me to hook up with someone else?” Somehow I’m moving across the room toward her, and not because I’m rushing to a business meeting. My voice is rough, as if I’ve been thinking really dirty thoughts.
She winks at me as she dances away. “I just want you to be sure I’m the best.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I’VE KNOWN FOR years that Max is either a sexual deviant or extraordinarily creative in bed—and, no, I don’t want to know which—but I’ve never actually used his apps before. It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with the user experience they promise to deliver—sex in all its dirty, delicious, fun variants—but I was in a committed relationship with Molly when he launched. My involvement with his product was limited to financial advising.
Hazel loaded both of Max’s apps onto my phone—the first is the now-infamous Billionaire Bachelors app that lonely boys and girls can use to find love, happiness and a relationship. As the name promises, it identifies billionaires in a twenty-mile radius, along with their likes, their dislikes and the spots where they can frequently be found. When I check my profile, I discover that I’m hot, filthy rich, pro-monogamy and most likely to be found on the beach. I’m not sure how I feel about having been reduced to a set of check boxes even if they’re not inaccurate.
The second app is Kinkster and it promises happily-ever-afters of a dirtier and much briefer duration. There are fifteen single ladies offering hookup sex, ten willing to go down on me in various exotic or public locations and an unspecified number who would like one or both of us to dress up and reenact some very specific fantasies. I actually consider it for a few minutes, but it’s not what I want, so I close the app.
But even though I’m not ready for love, marriage and happily-ever-after, I do want sex. I ignore the little voice in the back of my head that’s cackling gleefully. I mean, I really shouldn’t think about hooking up with a stranger. I did that a few times in college—before I met Molly—and it was fun but not terribly satisfying. Kind of like having a Twinkie instead of a Thanksgiving meal. It tastes good for the few seconds it takes to consume, but then you’re still hungry.
The minute Hazel put Max’s stupid Billionaire Bachelors app on my phone, I knew I was in trouble. Still, I promised her I’d give it a shot, and I keep my word. I’ve already knocked the five-mile run and bathroom cleaning off today’s to-do list, so that leaves find a date. Gingerly, I navigate away from my profile—Max is definitely going to pay for that—and tap the Find The One button. I guess that’s how I know I’m using the Billionaire app rather than Kinkster—one lover at a time. I’m pretty sure everything comes in multiples in Max’s dirtier app. I’m not a dirty-sex guy—I’ve never been a dirty guy—but it’s not as if I don’t have an adventurous side. I love sex and adventurous sex is awesome, but I’d prefer to trust the person I’m having it with.
My phone pings with an incoming text from Hazel. Do you have a date?
I text back: Working on it.
The more I scroll, the more I suspect there’s a whole lot of Photoshop happening because there can’t possibly be this many attractive single people in the San Francisco area. Hazel hasn’t responded to my last text yet, but I hit her with another message anyhow: None of this is real, right?
This time I get a response. I need a subject there, hotshot.
I don’t even have to think. Dating profile pics. Does Max screen this shit at all?
Hazel fires back, Max has people for that. Or an algorithm.
Whatever he has, it’s not working. It’s like picking a watermelon at the store.
I eye the
