The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(43)

“If you do text them, they leave you on read for, like, days,” her friend chimed in.

“Oh yeah, he totally has his read receipts on, even though there’s no reason for such a thing in this decade.” The woman shook her head. “He also bails on plans with you, but gets pissed off if you have a genuine reason why you can’t see him at the spur of the moment.”

“They regularly use the phrase ‘bros before hoes.’”

“He posts a million mirror selfies of himself but makes fun of women who do the same thing.”

“He sends dick pics, and they’re never framed well.”

“You can text him something hilarious and witty that you spent a lot of time thinking up, and he’ll respond four hours later with haha.”

“He’s shallow.”

“Egotistical.”

“And he always comes crawling back.”

The girl in white clapped. “Al-ways.”

Her friend scowled. “Says all the right things.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You give him a second chance. And then blam. The whole thing starts again. Ghost or most, rinse and repeat.” The women sneered.

“Well.” Rhiannon cleared her throat. “Uh, thank you, ladies. That was extremely . . . thorough.”

The pair waved and left, and Rhiannon looked at Samson. His eyes were wide. “My God,” he whispered. “That’s so much.”

She snorted a laugh. “So don’t be that guy. Unless a woman wants you to be that guy, in which case, be up front about how you’re that guy and have fun.”

He nodded but seemed preoccupied. “What did that young woman mean when she said ghost or most?”

“Ah, mosting. That’s a newer one. You know how ghosting is when a person disappears, no contact on a person? Mosting is when a person disappears, no contact, and does it after making the other person feel . . . special, in a very short period of time. Sweeps them off their feet. There’s no good reason to do either, but at least you can recover from a so-so date when someone disappears. Harder to get over a person who takes you on a magic carpet ride and then vanishes.”

His skin grew lighter, and she realized why when he made a rough noise. “Rhi.”

Just that, only her name, and she realized he thought she was talking about him. Them.

Maybe she was, she didn’t know. But she didn’t want to do it on camera. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “Let’s switch gears and talk about how you communicate with your matches,” she said brightly, eager to get them off a topic that was so close to home for them both.

Samson rolled his shoulders. For a second, she thought he might object, but he followed her lead. “Again, no dick pics.”

“Right, yes. No being a jerk either. Try to find something in their profile to talk to them about, whether that profile is short, like on Crush, or long, on Matchmaker.”

“One thing I like about Matchmaker is that you only get a small number of matches, based on the personality test, and you can really focus on—”

“My God.” A visibly drunk man stumbled up to them. He grabbed Samson’s arm and leaned in really close. “Are you—are you Samson Lima?”

Rhiannon didn’t like the look of this. She turned the camera off, stuck her mini tripod and her phone in her pocket, and balanced on the balls of her feet. She hadn’t brought her pepper spray with her. A mistake.

Samson disentangled the man’s grip from his arm and took a step to the side. “I am.”

“Ugh. Fucking hate the Brewers.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Samson subtly positioned himself so he was between her and the guy.

Rhi stood on her tiptoes to look over Samson’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but we are in the middle of something here.” She gasped when Samson gently reached behind himself and placed a hand on her arm, pushing her farther behind him. What the hell?

Was he . . . protecting her?

“Used to love them, but they all got fucked up after you turned traitor. Haven’t won a Super Bowl since.”

“You’ll want to walk away now, sir.”

The man’s face contorted and he curled his lip at Samson. “Lima Curse.”

Samson went entirely rigid. “Say that again.”

Whoops. What was that? She’d never heard that rough whisper from her smiling, sweet colleague. Worried now, Rhiannon made eye contact with the huge bouncer by the elevators and jerked her head. The man immediately started jogging over.

“Curse,” the drunk fool hissed, and Samson took a step toward him.

Rhiannon tugged at Samson’s arm. She’d always assumed if she was ever in a bar brawl, she’d be the one starting it, not playing the role of an anxious girlfriend. “Come on,” she said as she scanned the rooftop. Her gaze lit on the egg-shaped cabanas on the other side of the roof.

The bouncer arrived and took a firm hold of the drunk.

When the guy started walking, Samson allowed Rhiannon to lead him away, too, but he balked when she got inside the pod. The hard plastic had openings on either side, and a cutout on top, to look at the stars. It was large and could probably fit like five or six people. It was also weird. “What is that thing?”

“It’s a cabana.” She gestured at the pool not far away from them, the water lit blue and green.