Page 12 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

My roommate snorts. “Six feet? Is that supposed to be a flex, bro?” He glances sideways at me, amused. “This one says ‘if you don’t like pineapple on pizza, we won’t get along.’”

“Because men are idiots—no offense.”

“None taken.” His big thumb swipes again. “Whoa—this guy’s bio says ‘emotionally unavailable but I’ll rock your world.’”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. Lots of married guys too. Or, like—they’ll say ‘in a relationship but consciously open.’ It’s hard to know who is being honest and who isn’t.”

Sigh.

Turner grimaces. “Jesus. What the hell happened to dinner and a movie?”

“It died sometime around the third unsolicited mirror selfie—but these days, I’d rather not be subject to a full meal. If there’s no chemistry, I do not want to be trapped at a table.”

Been there, done that, one too many times…

“Good point.” He shakes his head. “Brutal out here.”

“You have no idea.”

Another swipe. Another disaster.

“This one has three shirtless photos, a gym mirror pic, and one of him holding a fish.” My roommate’s eyes widen as if the guy in the app has offended him.

I groan. “Of course he does. I call that the Holy Trinity of douchebaggery.”

“Ew,” Turner says and we dissolve into laughter, our knees brushing under the covers. He angles the screen toward me again. “What about this guy? Says he’s an ‘entrepreneur.’ No job title, just… entrepreneur.”

I roll my eyes. “I hate when they do that. What does that even mean? That he sells supplements from his garage?”

Turner laughs. “You sound so irritated.”

“I am.” Then a thought strikes. I tilt my head. “Okay, your turn. What do the women on these apps look like?”

Turner groans, mock dread in his voice. “Do we have to?”

“Yes. This is an equal opportunity environment—tit for tat.” I hold out my hand, wiggling my fingers. “Let me see my competition. I want the filters. I want group photos where you can’t tell whose profile it actually is. Gimme.”

He hands over his phone and together, we start swiping photos of woman in the area.

One after another, I see heavily filtered selfies of women puckering their lips. Snapchat selfies. Dog ears and tongue. Halo with crown. Women with dogs. Cats. Bikini pictures. Book worms.

“Has every single woman in America been hiking up Machu Picchu but me?” Sheesh! “Apparently, I am such a loser.”

My bio suddenly feels vastly boring. Lame.

“I’m not wearing make-up in half my profile pictures,” I whine.

Turner snorts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is! I look like a crusty, sleep-deprived goblin in one of them. Why didn’t anyone tell me my eyebrows do that weird ‘time to pluck’ thing?” I start swiping again, desperate to find at least one mediocre-looking woman to boost my ego.

“Maddie is in Santorini,” I mutter, squinting at one. “Where even is Santorini?”

He leans closer, our shoulders pressing again. “Greece.”

We scroll in silence for a beat before I sigh, dramatically. “Okay. I need to know. What are your top dating app dealbreakers? Lay them on me.”

Turner considers this, fingers still on his screen. “Mmm...? People who say ‘looking for my ride or die.’ Anyone who refers to themselves in third person. Or posts only group photos.”

I nod solemnly. Those are good.

“And you?” he asks.

“Bathroom selfies, especially when the mirror is dirty.” This is a no-brainer. “Shirtless gym selfies. Bios that say ‘Just ask.’ No thank you, Brad. I will not be asking—do the work!”

It’s not a good sign when they can’t be bothered to add two or three sentences about themselves in an app where you’re one goal is to GET TO KNOW SOMEONE.

Lazy.

Hard pass.

Turner laughs, his head tipping back against the headboard, exposing his neck and a patch of stubble I probably shouldn’t be staring at.

Then I poke him beneath the blanket with my toe. “Okay, your turn. What’s your opener?”

“My what?”

“Your opener,” I clarify. “Let’s say you match with someone. What’s the first thing you say by way of greeting?”

He groans. “I hate this question.”

“Because you don’t have one?” I grin smugly.

“No. Because I do have one, and it’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, now you definitely have to tell me,” I say, jabbing him, teasing him now because I am dying to know how he starts conversations with women.

Turner shifts, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Absolutely not.”

No can do.

He huffs a breath, then admits, “I usually go with… ‘Two truths and a lie?’”

I stare at him. “Turner—that’s brilliant.” Seriously. Why have I never thought of this?

“You think so?”

Hell yes. “It’s casual, it’s intriguing, it’s like… a sexy little nugget of an icebreaker.”

Turner lifts one brow. “Sexy nugget?”

“It’s not screaming ‘Hey, wanna sit on my face or blow me?’ but you’re also not asking what someone does for work or if they smoke like you’re conducting a job interview.”

He sits stunned, staring at me. I gather he wasn’t prepared for me to use ‘blow me’ or ‘sit on my face’ in a sentence.

Then he coughs into his fist, like he’s trying to stifle a laugh but also maybe re-evaluate every decision that’s led him to this moment. “Okay.”

“Give me an example of your two truths—and your lie.”

He exhales, then counts off on his fingers. “Here we go. One—I once got a concussion from falling out of a golf cart. Two—I can play piano. Three—I’ve been skydiving in Switzerland.”

I squint at him over the rim of my water glass. “All of those feel extremely plausible, which is honestly annoying.”

He chuckles. “That’s the point.”

I study him—hard. “Okay, skydiving feels real. I don’t know why, but I can totally picture you in a jumpsuit, strapped to some mountain man named Lars, screaming like a little girl as you plummet to earth.”

“That is oddly specific.”

“Thank you.” I point a finger at him. “Piano is giving me pause, though. Your fingers are too big. I feel like they’d crush the keys.”

He lifts a brow. “So you're saying I don’t have the finesse?”

“I’m saying it gives more linebacker than Liberace.”

Turner snorts, and I grin, smug. “Final answer: piano is the lie.”

He pauses. Smiles. “Wrong.”

I blink. “Wait—really?”

“I’ve never been skydiving,” he says with a little shrug.

“The golf cart concussion happened at a charity event, and the piano thing was real. My mom made me take lessons until my junior year of high school when I refused to continue. I can play ‘Chopsticks.’ ” He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV to put all his focus on me. “Your turn.”

Shit. “Give me a second to think about this.”

Wrack my brain for the least traumatic facts I can think to tell him that are fun, and random. Nothing compares to the fact that Mister Baddie McBadderson plays the piano, but…

Here we go.

I count the facts on my fingers, mimicking him. “One—I once dated a guy for six months without realizing he had a girlfriend. Two—I was in a sorority for exactly one semester. Three—I’ve never been in love.”

Turner’s smile falters a little. “Yikes, these are tricky.”

“Good,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Let’s see how your lie-detecting skills really hold up.”

He studies me, eyes narrowing like he’s reading a scouting report. “You’re too smart to fall for a cheater, so I’m going to say… the sorority thing is the lie.”

I smirk. “Wrong.”

“Damn.”

“One semester,” I confirm. “I was bribed with a vast amount of cupcakes, liquor, and matching sweatshirts. It didn’t last.”

“So the lie was…?”

I sip my water slowly, dramatically. “I’ve definitely been in love.”

His gaze lingers on me a little longer than it should, and my heart picks up speed.

“Who was the guy who had the girlfriend?” he asks quietly.

I shrug, like it doesn’t still sting. Pride is a fickle beast. “Some idiot from my hometown. High school crush turned college boyfriend. I was young. He was dumb. It was doomed.”

“You deserve better.”

I meet his eyes. “Agree.”

There’s a pause.

“I’d never do that to someone.”

My chest tightens as I nod. “I know.”

His brow tics up. “You know ?”

“I mean…” I wave my hand vaguely in his direction. “You’re like, ridiculously respectful. You don’t interrupt people when they’re talking. You’re polite. You listen.” I roll my eyes. “You probably return your grocery cart.”

He gives me that slow, warm smile that should be illegal. “I do return my grocery cart.”

“Knew it,” I say, smug. “Most men would leave it rolling into traffic.” I shrug. “Have any tattoos?”

“Several.”

Turner hooks a thumb under the hem of his T-shirt and lifts—just a little—revealing clean black lettering low on his side. I lean closer before my brain can vote.

My eyes go saucer-wide. “ Score early, score often ?” I screech. “Stop it right now.”

He nods, deadly serious.

“That’s your tattoo?” I jab a finger at his side. “You—willingly—branded yourself with that?”

“Sure did,” he says, proud as sin. “Got it my senior year. Some people get meaningful quotes or a tribute to their family. I got a motivational hockey phrase and absolutely zero fucks given.”

I collapse against the pillows, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. He lounges back against the headboard like a centerfold of bad decisions and grins at me.

“Hey, it worked,” he adds. “Scored a full ride, didn’t I?”

“That is so cheesy.” I snort and give his shoulder a shove. “You should definitely add it to your dating bio.”

“You think?”

I lift a brow. “Maybe. Although…do you really want to advertise you’re a professional hockey player?”

“I don’t think a slogan on my app screams ‘plays professionally.’ It just makes me sound like a douchebag.”

“True,” I admit, trying not to smile.

He tilts his head, all innocent. “So we’re in agreement that my bio is good? I can keep it and start swiping?”