Except—
That’s not a 1.
What?
At the end. That’s a 7.
Lori's stomach was clenching tighter than during her Pilates class. Okay, bad analogy, but the point was that she was trying not to laugh. Trying didn’t mean she succeeded. In fact, she failed miserably and missed the next three texts her mystery man had sent.
That’s a 1.
Oh my fucking God, that’s NOT a 1.
Kill me. Now.
By the time she could breathe again, or at least by the time her laughter had been reduced to giggles, several minutes had passed.
Then her phone buzzed again.
It’s a 7.
Lori grinned, almost able to hear the defeat in his tone, even though all she had was words on a screen. But this man, whoever he was, had personality.
I’m going to go throw myself off a bridge.
She paused, concern now mixing with amusement.
Is this joking or are you actually suicidal? Because, in the grand scheme of things, a dick pic isn’t the end of the world. I’m not emotionally scarred and plus, I deleted it.
A beat, then,
Too bad you can’t delete my unending shame.
But seriously, I’m sorry . . . about everything. The picture. The comments—that was insensitive. I’m not that kind of guy.
Hmm. Well, that was interesting.
Why type of guy are you?
No reply. For a solid three minutes. For long enough that Lori realized she’d clearly pushed the wrong button and no matter how pretty his dick or how interesting his text personality was, they were done. An hour of texting and strangely, she found that disappointing.
Sighing, she plugged her cell back in.
Well, another one driven away. Somehow that wasn’t surprising in the least. Too bad this time she hadn’t even known his name.
Her eyes slid closed, sleep finally welled up and surrounded her, and she fell head-long into darkness.
And missed the final buzz-buzz from the mystery man.
Missed him saying,
I’m . . . I don’t know who I am.
Chapter 2
Lorelai
Oh God, she was late.