The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(117)

“That explains the smell,” Carmen murmured.

“It’s a piece of history,” the Realtor crowed. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

Fabulous wasn’t quite the right word. Not back then.

Not now, either.

Alex never imagined, when they bought the house, that the underground bunker would ever be used for anything more than extra storage . . . and perhaps a conversation piece.

But then, there were a lot of things he had never imagined back then.

Online, you can be anyone you want to be.

That’s the beauty of these Internet dating sites. You can call yourself by another name, make up an exciting background and glamorous career, even use a photo-shopped head shot—within reason, of course. You don’t go and shave fifty pounds off your body or twenty-five years off your age, and you don’t claim to be a celebrity or a billionaire, because those are things you obviously can’t pull off once you meet someone in person.

But early on, when you’re trying to bait the trap, so to speak, you really have to offer something that will tempt anyone who comes across your profile.

The picture he just uploaded to his new page on the InTune Web site hasn’t been digitally altered, but it is a few years old. In it, he’s wearing a red sweater. He read someplace that a splash of red attracts the opposite sex when it comes to online photos.

The snapshot was taken a couple of Christmases ago. He was thinner and more handsome then, still hitting the gym every day and getting a good night’s sleep every night, back before all the trouble started. He had more hair and fewer wrinkles—issues that can be easily remedied with the right imaging software.

Expensive software—which he can no longer afford, thanks to her.

And thanks to her, he didn’t even consider taking new pictures for his new online dating profile. When he looks in the mirror lately, he doesn’t like what he sees. When he looks at old pictures, he does. Case closed.

He leans back in his chair and surveys his latest profile.

Any eligible female who stumbles across Nick Butler’s tall, dark, and handsome picture will most likely click through to read his questionnaire.

First, she’ll check out his age, thirty-one; his location, Upper West Side; his occupation, architect.

She’ll see that he’s never been married and has no children. That will most likely be met with approval because, really, who wants that kind of baggage?

Not me. Not most single people in their right mind.

With Nick Butler, a woman seeking an unencumbered man won’t even have to worry about pets. He lied that he’s allergic, to keep the crazy cat ladies away.

He couldn’t believe how many of those he found when he first entered the realm of online dating. It seemed like such a cliché until he started noticing all the single women who posted photos of themselves cradling kittens or managing to work feline-centric answers into their questionnaires.

Nick Butler’s questionnaire just covers the basic favorites in every category.

Favorite Food: Italian. Who doesn’t love Italian food?

Favorite Movie: The Last of The Mohicans. An oldie but not ancient; suitably rugged, with both historic and literary appeal, plus a romance.

Favorite Music—

Someone clears her throat behind him, and he jumps, startled. Turning around, he sees Ivy Sacks, one of the project managers, standing in the doorway of his cubicle.

“How’s it coming along?”

Ivy is referring to the spreadsheet that has, with a quick click of the mouse, replaced the dating questionnaire on his desktop screen.

“It’s . . . you know. Coming along.”

“When do you think it’ll be finished?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

“Good.”

For a moment she just stands there looking at him. Her expression is impossible to read.

“Anything else?” he asks, hands poised on the keyboard as though eager to get back to work on the spreadsheet.

“I was just wondering . . .”

When she trails off, he doesn’t prompt her to continue, afraid that she might be on the verge of asking him out. This wouldn’t be the first time, since the divorce, that he’s gotten that vibe.

Ivy is the only woman at the firm who happens to be roughly his age and single. But her facial features and build are far too angular for his taste, and her no-nonsense personality makes it impossible to imagine her ever kicking back and having the slightest bit of fun.

“Never mind,” Ivy says. “Just shoot that spreadsheet over to me when you’re done, okay?”

“Sure, no problem.”

He waits for her to leave.

The moment she does, he clicks away from the spreadsheet, back to his online profile.

Favorite Music?

Perhaps the easiest question of all.

Smiling to himself, he writes Classic Rock.