Page 2 of Tempted to Touch (Straight No More #1)

THERE ARE SOME weeks that just fly by and you barely even notice—you know, when you're busy or in the flow or lots of random things are happening all at once.

Well, my week has been the exact opposite of that. Not only did nothing happen, my brain has been rehashing last Thursday's events a million times per day, keeping me stuck in a groundhog day I still don't know how to escape from.

I sigh and roll to the other side, my afternoon nap eluding me once again. If I could file a restraining order against my own thoughts, I would.

And the worst part is, I have absolutely nothing to do.

Post-Hayden—because somewhere along the way I started to divide my recent past into two categories: pre-Hayden and post-Hayden—we'd changed locations and I'd done my peacock dance on Ivy's behalf once more, and this time, it worked like a charm.

Which would have been the perfect happily ever after if it weren't for the fact she's currently on her third date with a guy named Jamie—handsome, straight, with perfectly boring eyebrows—leaving me alone with the stew of my own thoughts. Which she had caused, all things considered.

Totally fucking unfair.

I have absolutely no reason to be thinking about Hayden, anyway. And frankly, I'm not. It's not the man that's been keeping me up at night—and during the day for that matter—it's how the man made me feel .

I've been chasing that feeling ever since, like it's crack and I'm withdrawing. Which is fucking tragic, considering I don't have his phone number, last name, or any other scrap of information that would bring me closer to another hit.

Obviously— obviously —I wouldn't... do anything, but maybe the mere want in his eyes would be enough. Maybe we could even be friends or something. Casual. Platonic. Obviously .

I run a palm across my face, sleep deprivation making my eyes sting. Then, it hits me. Like a metric ton of bricks, right in the face, the absolute worst, most ridiculous idea I've ever had.

No. It's dumb.

I'm not doing that.

I stay in that conviction for about point three seconds before my hands move on their own accord as I grab my phone and open the app store.

Totally fucking moronic. I don't need to do that. I don't want to do that.

Damn, why does it take so long to download?

Don't do it .

Install.

Don't do it .

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 word vers , 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.

I flex this time, assuming the slightly-sideways pose I've seen at least fifty times in the span of the last three minutes and try again.

That's... better. Not perfect, but my pecs are not one with the rest of my chest this time, and there's even a trace of abs showing.

And because I know any second now I'll finally realize what a terrible, ridiculous idea this is, I send it to Hayden before I can talk myself out of it.

I spend the next few minutes pacing around my bedroom, staring at the screen like an absolute imbecile.

Well, then. I guess he hates it. Maybe I'm not jacked enough for him. Or not hairy enough. Or not—

"McClaren's, 7PM?"

I stop in my tracks and my eyes widen. Is that... it? This is the entire courting in gay world?

Not that I'm fucking trying to court him, Jesus.

Get a grip.

"Tonight?" I type back, correcting five typos in the single word, my fingers all over the place for some reason.

The response comes quicker this time.

"Preferably. There's someone I've been trying to get out of my system. You in or not?"

This time it's me who leaves him waiting. For ten whole minutes. Not because I don't know what to say. I typed the message right away. It's because the rest of my sanity keeps screaming at me not to do it.

Then, I press send anyway. "See you at 7."