Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I go to give him more pets but he lets out a soft sneeze and hops off the couch—clearly over my pity party. Gio trots to the other end of the room, his bald stick legs barely making a sound, before flopping onto his blanket.
“Never mind. I take that back.” I didn’t need a dog’s support anyway.
I glance back at my phone, debating whether to swipe on another profile or just delete the app altogether.
Curiosity wins out and I continue scrolling; mindlessly, thumb hovering over a man’s profile named Blake. Five years older, well-dressed, and posing with a golden retriever in front of a hiking trail.
“Hmm,” I mumble, narrowing my eyes at the screen. “Are you really outdoorsy, Blake, or did you borrow your cousin’s dog for the photo?”
I tap on his bio.
It goes on and on, blah blah blah, “lover of coffee, live music, and spontaneous road trips.”
Okay, Blake.
A little generic, but nothing offensive. No shirtless selfies, no fish photos—already an improvement!
I glance over at Gio, who is now snoring softly on his blanket.
“What do you think?” I say to no one. “Swipe right or no?”
The dog’s ears don’t even twitch.
“Fine. Swipe left,” I say, swiping past Blake and moving on to the next profile.
It’s a guy holding a sword. Not, like, a fencing sword—an actual sword. In his living room.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, swiping left so fast I nearly drop my phone.
The next guy is a little better: a cute smile, some pictures with friends, and no immediate red flags.
The bio? Looking for my queen. Must love adventure and tacos.
I groan. “Must love tacos? What does that even mean? Everyone loves tacos, Kevin. You’re not special!”
Left.
My thumb freezes over the next profile, though, because the guy looks… familiar? No, not familiar. He looks exactly like my childhood dentist. Same slightly unnerving smile, same weirdly perfect hair, but grayer than the last time I had a cavity, which was over ten years ago.
“Nope,” I say aloud. “You are a creep!”
I flop back on the couch, staring at the ceiling as Gio lets out a tiny snort in his sleep.
“This is it,” I tell him. “This is my life now. Me, you, and a never-ending stream of weirdos on the internet.”
I’m doomed.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Then.
I see another profile that looks familiar.
I freeze, holding the phone closer to my face than necessary, my heart skipping a beat as I stare at the bio of Luca—as in Luca Babineaux, my brother's teammate and the guy Austin and I had been gossiping about months ago…
“No way,” I whisper, my brows furrowing as I study his profile.
Luca’s profile picture is exactly what you’d expect from a good-looking athlete: standing on a beach, shirtless, with a volleyball tucked under one arm and a smug grin that could rival Gio’s on a good day. His bio? Goal-oriented. Literally. Bonus points if you like dogs and can handle trash-talking during game night.
Well.
That’s snarkier and more clever than I would’ve given him credit for, considering I’ve always considered Luca Babineaux boring as fuck.
I squint at the screen; something about it doesn’t sit right.
Where are the hockey pictures? The gear? The action shots from their games?
Not a single one.
Instead, I’m greeted with more photos of Luca on a beach or on a catamaran, laughing with his arm slung around Paulie Osborne—a famous comedian, of all people.
“Okay, what?” I mutter, flipping to the next photo.
There’s one of him in a flannel, holding a coffee cup during what looks like the holidays. A random mountain range looms out the living room window, majestic and snowy and gorgeous.
Then there’s Luca on a motorcycle, looking like he just strolled out of a movie poster.
“Who the hell is this guy?” I ask no one, my voice dripping with suspicion.
I keep scrolling.
I’m so fascinated.
Him standing with two young women that resemble him—sisters? Cousins? Another photo of him snorkeling, his face half-hidden behind goggles and a snorkel tube.
And then there’s a selfie of him hiking with that black lab puppy he had six months ago—only now, the dog’s mostly grown, its floppy ears framing an adorably derpy face.
I set my phone down for a moment, rubbing my temples.
It doesn’t make sense. Luca’s life isn’t this…glamorous. Is it? I mean, he plays hockey, hangs out with my brother and his teammates, and from what I know—goes home and sleeps. None of this beach-and-motorcycle nonsense fits the image I have of him.
Unless…
I glance back at the screen, narrowing my eyes.
Could someone be pretending to be him? It wouldn’t be hard—there are hundreds of photos of him on the internet and he has a face only a mother could love.
“What do you think, Gio?” I say to the dog, asking for his advice. “Is this him, or is someone out there pretending to be Luca freaking Babineaux?”
Gio yawns, showing off his tiny, uneven teeth, and turns his head away, clearly over my dramatics.