Page 5 of Hollis (The Moore Men #2)

Three

Ford

D octorDickedDown: Trying to meet up and fuck tonight?

CrownJewels: Let me set the scene for you, big guy: You.

Me. An epic horror movie marathon. Couple of beers.

Maybe we pop an edible or two, depending on how frisky you’re trying to get.

Then we spend the night seeing who can make the other cum the most before tapping out.

All I need to know is, your place or mine?

SirDicksALot: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, sexy. ;)

“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble, tossing my phone on the bed beside me before scrubbing a hand down my face.

This app is a fucking joke. It’s barely been two days, and so far, almost every message I’ve received is way too forward for my liking, creepy, or downright disturbing.

How are people finding anybody actually worth meeting?

A relationship isn’t exactly what I should be searching for, but this no-emotion, damn near clinical, quick fuck hook-up culture that seems to be prevalent these days isn’t what I want either.

If I wasn’t still so hellbent on Remi not finding out about this, I’d chew his ass out for giving me such a god-awful suggestion.

But no, I can’t tell him, nor would I want to even if I could.

Not only is it wildly unprofessional for me—his superior—to share personal information in regard to my dating life, but this experience has already been dreadful enough.

The last thing I need is to add humiliation on top of it when he finds out I am horrible at this.

My phone lights up with what I can only assume is either another wildly perverted proposition or a random, unsolicited nude from the most piss-poor angle.

As I stare at the notification, I consider, not for the first time, deleting my profile altogether.

While I’m sure Remi was right when he said there are tons of men my age on there, the more I swipe, the more I truly don’t think this is for me.

I’m not cut out for the modern technology aspect of dating.

Call me old-fashioned, or just plain old, maybe, but meeting somebody in person and getting to know them the way I used to back in the day sounds exponentially better than this crap shoot I’ve managed to land myself in.

It’s not like there aren’t ample opportunities to meet somebody organically in my line of work.

Not only have I known several colleagues on the force who have found their partner through work, but it’s also how I met Trent.

Back when I was a relatively fresh face at the Wolf Creek Fire Department—way before I made captain, or even lieutenant—my crew responded to a call about somebody stuck in the elevator at the doctor’s office Trent worked at.

He didn’t join the force until a few years later.

A couple of days after the call, he brought a batch of snickerdoodle cookies to the firehouse as a thank you, and the rest is pretty much history.

While our situation isn’t a glowing example, it’s at least proof that it’s possible to meet somebody without the help of a goddamn useless app that was probably created by some horny frat bro just looking to get laid.

Heaving a sigh, I unlock my phone and pull up the app, mentally deciding to call it quits if this is another weird message.

KnockinBoots: Hey, I swear I’m not one of those douche-canoes who match and never make an effort to talk or meet up. It’s just been one hell of a couple days over in my neck of the woods. *sweating emoji* But I’m here now and more than a little intrigued by you, Fire Daddy.

KnockinBoots: Or should I say, Grandaddy Fire? *wink emoji*

My nostrils flare as I huff out a chuckle, remembering how he managed to make me blush and feel ancient in the span of a couple of messages.

I really shouldn’t reply. It’s bad enough that I wound up at his house responding to a fire right after messaging him back, and he was practically naked when we showed up.

It took all my effort to not check him out.

Yet my fingers move across my screen, typing out a response anyway.

FireInMyVeins: You really shouldn’t. *face with raised eyebrow emoji*

KnockinBoots: *yawn emoji* if you’re boring, that’s all you gotta say, baby.

Rereading the last message, it’s not until several seconds later that I realize I’m grinning down at the phone in my hand, feeling more amused than I have in weeks.

Which is pathetic, considering Hollis is the last person I should enjoy talking to.

We’ve only exchanged a handful of messages but, like he said a moment ago, I’m intrigued for some unknown reason.

Since creating my profile, I’ve gone back and forth about whether swiping right on him was really a simple slip-of-the-finger accident I’ve been telling myself it was.

My first instinct is to lean into it being a drunken mistake.

It’s the easiest answer, the logical and simple answer.

And it’s the answer that would likely help me avoid a mid-life crisis, because it’s not lost on me that this is exactly what that is.

I’m newly single for the first time in over two decades, and the only person I’ve matched with is Hollis, Remi’s best friend and somebody nearly half my age.

That said, he’s the one and only reason I’ve been hesitant to delete the app.

It’s not like he knows who I am anyway, so who cares if we exchange a few innocent messages?

Before I have a chance to respond, another message comes in.

KnockinBoots: So, gotta ask… what’s with the vague as hell profile?

FireInMyVeins: Why not?

KnockinBoots: Ah-ah, that’s not an answer. I asked, you must answer. Rules are rules. *smirk emoji*

FireInMyVeins: Rules, huh? Must’ve missed those during the HR enrollment briefing.

KnockinBoots: Well you’re in luck! I’ve got the rules typed up, printed, and hung up on the wall in my bedroom. You can find me kneeling in front of my bed, reciting them bad boys like a prayer every single night at 8:15 sharp. As a matter of fact, I am HR—surprise!

My chest rumbles with a chuckle as I toss the phone beside me and roll out of bed.

The conversation is ridiculous, yet I can’t help but want to keep it going.

It’s been too damn long since I’ve had a conversation with somebody new that wasn’t about work or the divorce.

Sure, we’ve barely exchanged a handful of messages containing hardly any substance, but it still feels…

nice. Even though it can never go anywhere.

But they’re just innocent messages from an anonymous face, right?

Padding barefoot across the dark room, I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water before cracking it open and guzzling it down.

Staying at the firehouse is getting old.

It’s like living in a college dorm all over again, except this time, I’m middle-aged and pathetic.

I need to find a place to rent, and fast, before I go crazy.

This isn’t sustainable, and at this point, I wouldn’t even care if my next place was a small studio loft above somebody’s garage. I just need something that’s mine.

Trent and I have our first court date in a couple of days.

I’m ready to get this over with and get my name off the mortgage.

Knowing I’m paying for a house that I’m no longer living in, and will continue doing so until the divorce is finalized, is a special kind of insanity.

Regardless of who’s the most at fault for the split—and playing the blame game is pointless—I was raised by a very southern mama, and she would kick my ass into next week if she knew I wasn’t keeping up on my responsibilities.

Leaving Trent the home was the right thing to do; he’s always loved it more than me, but that doesn’t make forking out the money to pay for it any easier.

It’s easy to fall into a pool of bitterness and anger if I think too hard about the situation, which is why I prefer to stay busy as much as I can.

And hell, that could be why I’m enjoying the silly back-and-forth banter with KnockinBoots, aka Hollis .

Maybe talking to somebody I shouldn’t through the phone without any expectations or preconceived notions is the exact type of distraction I need.

Maybe it’s simply about finding companionship with someone who doesn’t know me, or at least, isn’t aware that he knows me.

Whatever the reason may be, it has me grabbing my phone as soon as I climb back under the covers.

I reread our last few messages again, laughing at how absurd they sound, before thumbing out a response.

FireInMyVeins: Kneeling… Reciting rules like prayer… HR? Yikes. *wince emoji* And you say I’M boring? Think the call’s coming from inside the house, cowboy. *cowboy emoji*

His response is instant, which I like. Having somebody’s whole attention. Well, either that, or he’s already on the app talking to other people. Admittedly, that makes more sense, but for whatever reason, I don’t like that option.

KnockinBoots: Clearly, you’ve been kneeling with the wrong people if you included that in your description of boring. Ain’t nothin’ boring about that around me.

My face heats, and like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, I drop the phone and stare up at the ceiling for a minute, my heart a steady drum in my chest, beating so damn hard I can feel it up in my throat.

Christ, Ford, relax!