Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
But I swear that red emoticon mocks me.
As well it should.
I roll my eyes at myself. I’m not a teenager. I’m not a fucking twentysomething. Yet here I am, posting goddamn emoticons for a woman.
I don’t even like social media. I only got an account to flirt with her. Since, well, I fucking love flirting with her.
Still, this heart shit has to stop.
Except, algorithms love engagement. I ought to know. I made the money to start my VC firm with an app I created—an app fueled by a sorting algorithm. I went on to sell it for many, many figures.
Engagement matters in this digital world, and Lola’s vying not just for relevance, but dominance. With some reluctance that it’s come to this, I add a smiley face to the heart.
But that’s enough.
A pack of men in suits march onto the train at the next stop, while I click over to DM her. It’s become our thing these last few days.
DistractibleGuy: Hey, you…I’m on the tube surrounded by bankers. I know they’re bankers because they’re wearing navy.
She’s a busy woman, so I don’t expect her to reply right away. I toggle to my email and check some contracts Kyle just forwarded to me. But as the train rattles underground, a notification from her pops up.
Lola: What are YOU wearing, though?
DistractibleGuy: Is that your shameless attempt to get me to send a selfie?
Lola: Is that an option?
DistractibleGuy: Probably not, but points to you for effort.
Lola: I want more than points.
DistractibleGuy: I’ll give you a visual instead.
I peer down at my get-up and tap out another message.
DistractibleGuy: Charcoal slacks, a dark green shirt, a light blue tie.
Lola: Mmm. I do like a sharp-dressed man.
DistractibleGuy: Lola. There seem to be a few typos in your last DM.
Lola: Well, I don’t know if I’d like you sharp-dressed, Nick. I didn’t see you in clothes very much.
She makes an excellent point. And I’m not sure I want to rectify that no-clothes situation with her.
A few weeks later, as I’m boarding a flight to Vienna to meet with a former colleague of mine who I often trade ideas with—a scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours deal—my phone pings with a very welcome notification.
Lola: I’m leaving Krav Maga, wearing pink workout pants and a sports bra.
Damn, that’s sexy, taking a bad-ass self-defense class. And wearing pink while you land punches.
I focus on the pink, though, not the punches. The way the fabric hugs her curves…I’m already assembling an image. Savoring it. Planning to use it later.
Lola likes to play.
I do, too, and write back:
DistractibleGuy: I don’t believe you.
Lola: Why would I lie?
DistractibleGuy: Maybe you’re home wearing nothing.
Lola: I’m walking past construction workers. I’m definitely not wearing nothing.
DistractibleGuy: Prove it.
The proof arrives one minute later. A photo lands of men in hard hats. I laugh, then I reply in kind.
DistractibleGuy: I’m on the plane, sitting in first class, wearing a tailored suit.
Lola: Pics or it didn’t happen.
I give her a shot of the galley, then put the phone away, my smile a little wistful. Lola is addictive. Such a damn shame about the whole “Atlantic Ocean between us” thing.
We flirt across the ocean for the next month. In July I catch up with Finn while he’s in town. We’re having dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant when my phone pings with the chime I’ve assigned to Lola. My dick jumps like the fucker’s been trained. Pavlov’s dick.
I hit ignore so I can give my brother my entire focus. “Have you thought any more about my proposal?” he asks, just as I take a bite of the eggplant bharta.
He has to wait while I chew. Finally, I answer, “I have.”
“And?”
Setting down the fork, I take a beat, exhale. “It’s tempting.”
He grins. It’s a precursor-type smile, one that says he likes where this is going. “It’s always been your goal, Nick.”
“It has.” His proposal aligns with my big plans. Not much holds me back, but I like to do my research.
“So? What do you think?” he prompts, picking up his fork to snag a bite of chana masala.
My phone pings again before I can answer.
Finn arches a brow, glancing at the device. “That’s definitely a hookup.”
I do my best to keep a straight face as I silence my alerts. “It’s nothing.”
He snorts. “Bullshit.”
But I don’t want to give him an opening into the topic of Lola. Not now. Not when the ammunition is too good—me unable to stop thinking about a woman I saw once.
Ha. You’re doing more than thinking. You’re texting with her. A LOT.
“It’s nothing,” I say crisply, shutting him down with the tone our dad used to end a conversation when we were kids. The one my brother and I both use in business now.
Finn acquiesces with a nod. “Fair enough. We’ll stick to the proposal.”
I focus on a particularly appealing aspect. “I think I could convince my son to work with us,” I say. “I’ve been talking to him about doing some marketing for the firm.”