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“No, no, no.” I slap the screen with my palm, but the hello, hello, hello, hello has been sent, and he’s read it. Shit. This fucking app is retarded, sending messages on its own like that. No wonder people hate it so much. I just wanted something other than Tinder and Bumble because neither of those are fast apps, unless you want a quickie, if you know what I mean.

Hello, Avril.

It’s been a long time.

Huh? I squint at his photo — he’s hot, I won’t lie — but none of his features look familiar, so why does it feel like he knows me? Even via a message, the way he said my name is familiar. And damnit, it sends a shiver down my spine, between my asscheeks and into my vag. Men I’ve been on dates with, like real dates, couldn’t even achieve that half the time, and this guy does it on a fucking app that should really be called Plenty of Shit. Before I can conjure up an appropriate response, he sends another message:

When would you like to meet to discuss details for your father’s Christmas Gala?

My eyes just about bug out. I didn’t mention that much in my bio, so he does know me. But the question is how? I scrutinize his photos as best I can, but my eyes are bleary from exhaustion, and staring at a computer screen all day. My vision is heavily impaired as a result, and I’m sure my good judgement isn’t far behind. I nibble on my lip, debating what to do. Under normal circumstances I’d call Penny, she’s my call a friend, but it’s way past her bed time, and with my luck I’ll call and her and Luke will be busy. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve called her mid-coitus, but in my defense, who answers their phone while they’re taking the midnight express to pound town? Certainly not me. Unless he’s doing something wrong, obviously.

Gah! I should just say never mind, I found a date, but now I’m curious, and Curious Avril tends to get herself into trouble. Especially when she’s tired, which I am. Again, he sends another message before I can:

How’s Wednesday evening?

Pushy much?I type back. And how do you know me? Or my DAD? Or that it’s his event? Just what?

If it were possible to appear unflappable on a dating app, he’d be unflappable. Or maybe undeterred? I don’t know, he’s something.

Have dinner with me on Wednesday, and find out.

No. He. Didn’t. It’s as if he knows I like a challenge. Damnit, I need to call Penny because I’m sure she will give me better advice than I’m about to give myself, and I’m certainly not about to wake Choccy and ask her. She’ll be furious if I disturb her beauty sleep.

I puff out a breath, pray to Odin, Thor and Loki that this man is not a murderer, and reply:

Fine. But I get to choose where.