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Orchid Mantis:Depends on how young. App is supposed to have an age limit, but I don’t want to meet Chris Hansen.
Purple Puppy:Bahahahah
Purple Puppy:No, I completely understand and agree. Over 18. Not particularly young but not old?
Purple Puppy:Also, not so sure if I’d be interested in someone significantly older. Some silver foxes are like hot damn, but… yeah. No offense.
Orchid Mantis:Do I text like I’m that old?
Purple Puppy:Well, you use full sentences. Which is really impressive. To me, at least.
Purple Puppy:And… yeah. You have that vibe.
Orchid Mantis:I’m not old yet. At least, I don’t think so. Neither was my boyfriend.
Orchid Mantis:Sorry, I didn’t mean to go there again.
Orchid Mantis:I understand what you mean about not being made for this. Maybe it shouldn’t feel embarrassing, but it does. Being out there and looking again after I found someone. I don’t know if I can put the real me out there to be judged yet.
And as a testament to my youth, I end with a sad emoji this time.
Purple Puppy:Yeah, all the guys on apps only want to meet up and fuck.
Purple Puppy:Which isn’t an issue most of the time, but… it would be nice to find someone who wants to talk. Get to know you. Form an actual connection.
Orchid Mantis:I feel the exact same way.
Maybe thirty seconds left on the timer, and he’s still typing. He’s not fast enough and the conversation grays. Then the pop-up prompts me to make my choice. I slam the thumbs-up button so damn fast. He is exactly what I need right now. Questionable self-esteem. Possibly dependent. Eager to please. And just so sweet.
Not even a minute later, the phone chimes to let me know it’s a match. Puppy wants to play with me. I smile at my screen. Maybe it’s beginner’s luck. Or maybe I already found that special someone I’m looking for—the one.
The next guy I’m going to kill.
Chapter two
Will
Sigh. Bailey Bee. So sweet. So sexy. I can stare at this man all day and still find new things to obsess over. He has this way of smiling at people and instantly putting them at ease. Oh, and his hair… rose gold. It’s an actual hair color, and I even did an internet search just to figure out the name of his shade. Rose gold. And if that isn’t enough, he’s close to my age and built about the same, too. Not ripped like a gladiator or perfectly lean, but the achievable kind of sexy with some muscle definition and visible veins and… I need to stop there while in public. To put it more concisely, he is the Rocky to my Dr. Frank-N-Furter. If I were building myself the perfect man, that would be Bailey.
Except Bailey doesn’t know I exist, so every Sunday, I pine at a distance while watching him work his stand at the farmer’s market. Sometimes I wonder if his name is really Bailey. His last name certainly isn’t Bee. Or is it?
“Just go talk to him and get it over with. This is getting kinda sad.”
“Fuck off, Jess,” I mutter without looking back.
I don’t even need to turn my head to know Jesse’s glaring at me. He gets so annoyed by my pining a.k.a. slacking. I’ll bet money that if I look right now, he’s scowling at my back and disturbing his black hair by scrubbing his scalp before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his work sweatshirt. I’m wearing mine too, with the name of the farm on the back and my name embroidered on the front. Cold as hell in the early morning this time of year in Massachusetts, and my buzz cut doesn’t help.
“Can you at least help me unload the rest of this?”
I don’t so much as glance back at him, just lift my arm in his direction and give him the middle finger. Shoppers will arrive soon, and then I’ll have to focus on working. He can handle unloading the last box when almost everything else has been done.
I don’t expect Jess to understand. The idea of a classic romance with handwritten love letters would probably make him break out into hives. He’s a good friend and an excellent co-worker. And regrettably, attractive to boot. Not romantic, though.
Jesse and I met working at the same farm. Not out in the fields or anything, but in the little store that sells produce and sometimes other goods made by our boss’s daughter, Cheryl. I’ve worked there for a few years, but this is my second year selling for the store at the farmer’s market. And Bailey Bee’s Honey is only two stands down and across from ours this year. Getting a space this close to him feels serendipitous.
“Don’t spend another year gazing at him from afar, then kicking yourself once the market ends for the season in a few weeks.” Jesse sets a crate next to me and smacks my arm. “And at least unpack while staring. Would ya?”
“You know, I don’t heckle you for ogling women,” I grumble.
