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I realize how much I genuinely like Wes. He’s probably the most decent guy in thisbuilding.
“So about the test results,” I say at last, thinking back to the email he sent me as I lean in. “Tell me I acedit.”
“It’s not that kind of test,” he informs me crisply. I can’t hide the smile, which has his brows pulling together. “Why are you trying to get under myskin?”
“I’m not. I’m trying to make yousmile.”
“Why?”
“Not everything has to have an explanation, Wes. Now, what happensnext.”
He looks as if he’s going to protest, but in the end, he goes along with it. “The algorithm uses that data to match you with potential male—or female—candidates through a privatewebsite.”
I unlock my phone and hold it out. He takes it, his fingers flying over the keyboard. I shift over to his chair, dropping onto thearm.
“That’s a terrible website,” I inform him because that much I can say with confidence. “It’s not even a little user-friendly. And there’s no call toaction.”
“Thanks for that,” he replies dryly. “If you were actually looking to meet someone, you’d upload some basic info, including your preferences, social media information—if you want to improve your matches—and aphoto.”
He walks me through, and I realize this might be more complicated than I thought. He’s not selling a standardized product. The product is different every time and probablyuncontrollable.
Which makes it hard, but alsointeresting.
“Okay. Load meup.”
He looks startled. “You want to date someone fromhere?”
“I want to understand the experience. Besides. I went out with you sightunseen.”
“It wasn’t adate.”
“And I didn’tknowthat,” I say for what feels like the millionthtime.
“You wouldn’t have gone out with me,” hechallenges.
“Whynot?”
“I’m anerd.”
My gaze works over him, the planes of his face, his jaw. It takes willpower not to keep going to his shoulders under that crisp button-down, his chest, his abs. “You’re ahotnerd,” I point out. He raises a brow but doesn’t react other than that. “See? That was a compliment and you barelyblushed.”
He passes me back the phone with a shake of his head. I scroll through for an appropriateselfie.
I pick one, and Wes makes a noise in histhroat.
“What’s the matter with thatone?”
“It doesn’t look like you.” I stare at the image. “Your hair’s down. And your lipstick is wrong.” He takes the phone from me and scrolls through. I lean in, distracted by the smell of his shampoo. His hair’s still damp, making it darker, almostcaramel.
“There. That one.” He adds it to the site with a flourish, oblivious to the fact I’m still hung up on the way he thinks he knows me. “And then you’d access your matches.” He showsme.
Disappointment sets in as soon as the page loads. “But… the pictures areblurry.”
“That’s by design. You shouldn’t pick someone onlooks.”
“Then what does it matter if my hair’s down and my lipstick’s wrong?” I tossback.
He freezes, and I get a hit of satisfaction knowing I’ve stumped him as I tuck the phone away and shift off the arm of the chair and back to myseat.
