Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  Second, I realize you’ve been burned a time or two, but who hasn’t? We’ve all got our stuff, but that doesn’t mean every damn person from here to eternity is now bad. It doesn’t mean you should never try again. Because you know what believing the worst in people gets you? A lifetime of being alone. And forgive me, but I don’t think that’s how things are supposed to go for you.

  My lips slide apart. I drink in a cool breath.

  It sucks, getting hurt. It sucks that things got messed up between us because you’re afraid of that happening again. But guess what? Your trying to avoid it hurt me too.

  And that’s the end of the message.

  I read it again and again, each time flummoxed—flattened—by his words.

  God, I’m an idiot. I mean, I knew this, but wow.

  An itch spreads behind my eyes, through my chest, down my arms. I’m trying to pull myself out of the spiral that’s about to swallow me whole, but I’m helpless. Hopeless. He’s right. And I need to go splash some cold water on my face—get some air—before the panic attack that’s brewing actually strikes.

  I leap from the table, knocking over a half-empty water glass or two, and bustle through the people dancing (“Now, only couples who have been married ten years or more!”). Oomph my way to the one portal of escape. Light from the hallway pours in through the outline of the door like a beacon, like a miracle, and I’m just passing the cake table when—

  Clamp.

  An arm catches about my middle, electricity sparking out everywhere it touches me.

  I gulp when I come face-to-face with him. Rotate into his solid frame, suit clad and daunting in its beauty.

  My mouth agape, throat suddenly parched, every nerve ending doing pirouettes beneath my skin.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Nick. I—”

  “It’s my turn to talk.”

  His eyes are menacing. Intense. He still has me in his rough hands, both of them now, fingers coiled tight around either side of my waist. He ensnares me with his stare, with his tone, and I’m entranced. I couldn’t speak now even if I tried. My chest thunders beneath the satin bodice of my gown, and I struggle to push down a swallow.

  “I said you hurt me—but that’s because you’re under my skin,” he says. His jaw is set. Hard.

  “Like a disease?”

  I can’t help it. Why do I talk, ever?

  He clasps me firm, and I close my mouth.

  He has to be able to feel my pulse. Hear it. Even over the sumptuous croon of the slow song.

  He lets his fingers slip free, and he runs his hands up my torso, sending upsurges of sensation through me as he finds the slope of my neck, the curve of a cheek. Traces a thumb over my bottom lip. He stares at it.

  “Like a tattoo,” he says. And, finally, his face warms with the hint of a smile.

  He moves closer, my face still cradled in his hands. His breath warm upon my skin.

  “You can’t get rid of me. Not that easily. I know it’s hard for you to accept, hard for you to believe because of the past, but you’re going to have to.”

  His gaze ignites mine, unadulterated fire swirling behind his dark eyes like savage storms. I’m teetering on the edge of losing all sensibility when, at once, he shows mercy and closes the space between us.

  His lips, my lips, demanding to be heard. Tongues fighting to tell their stories. Each yearning to have the last word. Each wrestling with frantic desire.

  He steals my breath—snatches it right from me. I beg, plead for it. My lungs threaten to burst as he buries his face in my neck, the delicate skin at the nape tingling against his kisses.

  We remain enraptured in this world, where no others are permitted, where no one else dares step foot no matter their physical proximity. We remain for a time that transcends all earthly measure. We—Nick and I—are somewhere else entirely. On my kitchen floor. On the moon. Occupying everywhere and nowhere all at once. And when we finally do break, it’s not for want of stopping; it’s for need.

  “I’m stubborn too,” he says, resting his forehead against mine.

  We both laugh and it’s in this laugh that we return to earth. Return to the wedding. And Quinn materializes as if from nowhere. How long she’s been standing there, I’ve no idea.

  “I see you found him.” The tweenage giggle she’s been unable to suppress all day bubbles out of her.

  “I have,” I say, sliding a hand into Nick’s suit jacket. And I too am unable to withhold fizzy laughter.

  “Thanks for the invite,” he says to her with a wink.

  “Well, we did have that last-minute cancellation…” She scrunches her face and sets her stare on me. “You know, because of Rae’s poor choice in wedding dates.”

  “Yeah—what’s with that?” he teases, glancing down, and shakes his head.

  “I guess it’s back to the drawing board,” I say, pretending to fumble through my phone.

  I lay my head against him now and scroll through my apps, making dramatic gestures with my thumbs, ensuring he can see the screen.

  “Let’s see…Where’s that trusty old Spark app hiding?”

  “I have a better idea.” His voice vibrates against my cheek. And then he snatches the phone from my fingertips. “How about you forget this thing for one damn night?”

  I twist in his embrace. Wrap his arms about the front of me and lean into him, into the music.

  “Deal. And now on to the next phase of dating politics…” My tone is playful. Blithe. It waltzes right along with the rest of the guests. Reaching up behind me for the back of his neck, I gently tug his face near mine, my mouth grazing his cheek as I speak. “I’ll delete my account—when you delete yours,” I whisper, softly, and then I laugh.

  Compel his lips to mine.

  I take the offending device from him and slip it into his pants pocket with a thunk.

  And I lead him out onto the dance floor.

  Acknowledgments

  Just like love, writing is a matter of persistence. Of learning humility. Being tenacious. In order to find “the one,” you have to become smitten with projects, to make bad decisions in order to realize what good ones look like, to fall in love with ideas, to put yourself out there. You have to get your heart broken, and then you have to bounce back. To learn. To grow. To evolve.

  None of that would have been possible for me to do without a slew of wonderful people whom I’m incredibly lucky to have in my life. People who listen, who offer advice, and—most importantly—who believe in me.

  At the top of that list would be my badass agent, Barbara Poelle. When I think of your unwavering support all these years, it’s actually staggering. I couldn’t have done this without it—or you—so thank you from the bottom of my heart, B. I’m incredibly fortunate to have you in my corner.

  Likewise, this book could not have become a reality without my amazing editor, Lindsey Rose. Your unending enthusiasm for all things Rae as well as your keen eye have given me the tools to shape this thing into the best book it can be, and I’m proud to have it out in the world.

  Additionally, I am honored to be with Grand Central and so lucky to have such an insanely talented team of folks helping me make MR-S really shine! Thank you to Jordan Rubinstein, Tiffany Sanchez, Emily Chen, Nancy Wiese, Nicole Bond, Brigid Pearson, Beth deGuzman, Tom Whatley, Abby Reilly, Dianna Stirpe, and Yasmin Mathew. I owe you all a coupla thousand rounds of drinks!

  To my writing besties, Renée Ahdieh, Sarah Nicole Lemon, and Sarah Henning, I am eternally grateful for your friendship and guidance. I could not have stayed (relatively?) sane without all the phone dates, writing conferences, Snapchats, or old-fashioneds.

  To those special folks who took the time early on to show me the ropes of publishing or to be another set of eyeballs on one of my first manuscripts, including Wendy Toliver, Copil Yanez, Chuck Sambuchino, Alison Miller, and Marice Kraal, thank you for giving me advice and for supporting my creative endeavors such as The Write-Brained Network.

  And l
astly, to my parents, thank you for putting up with me and thank you for a lifetime of love and encouragement. I can’t even begin to articulate how much you mean to me.

  About the Author

  Although she’s originally from Cleveland, Ohio, and has spent the most time there, Ricki has also lived in Georgia and Virginia. (She promises she’s not a drifter, though.) In addition to writing, she has molded the minds of tweens and teens as a middle school and high school teacher in both the CLE and the ATL—and she also spent a year teaching writing and communications at the college level. She’s back in Atlanta now, and she owns the cutest beagle ever (Molly).

  Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.

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