Page 14 of Snatched

---

A “God no.”

A forehead-only picture.

A man holding a fish. Always a fish.

“Why does every guy think posing with salmon proves masculinity?” I mutter.

“Because men are weird,” Harper says. “Keep going.”

I swipe right on a guy named Mark, thirty-four, looks normal, possibly owns a vacuum. Within minutes, he messages:

Mark: Drink Thursday?

I blink and describe him to Harper.

Thursday…

That’s after my next session.

“Say yes,” Harper insists. “You need practice.”

“Yes?” I type back.

Mark: 8 PM?

I tell Harper. She claps like I just passed the bar exam.

“Perfect. You’ll already be hot and extra glowy from your workout.”

“Wow.”

“Own it. Now let’s talk about the real issue at hand.”

I pause, mid-forkful. “What real issue?”

She arches an eyebrow. “You know exactly what real issue.”

I do.

I really, really do.

Because the moment I walked into my apartment, I typed his name into Google.

Colt Evans.

And now I’m staring at my laptop—the screen paused on a YouTube thumbnail of an even younger, sweatier, helmeted version of the man who adjusted my hip with two fingers today and nearly made me see God.

“I shouldn’t,” I whisper.

“You should,” Harper counters.

“I’m not going to.”

“You already pulled up the video, didn’t you?”

I cover my face. She, apparently, googled Colt Evans as well. “Yes.”

“Play it.”

---