Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1)

hair from its messy bun, remove a stray peppercorn from my incisor, and apply a bit of lip gloss. After a few awkward poses, trying to get that “oh, you caught me off guard” natural look down, my face smiles back at me on the monitor.
In the age of Photoshop and Facetune, I hope I win points for my non-filtered photo. I’ve never considered myself vain, but it’s impossible not to critique myself and find every flaw. How many strangers will see this image and based on it, decide whether they’d have sex with me? FriendsOfFriends needs a disclaimer box where I can explain that I hibernate in the winter, but now that it’s spring, I shaved my legs and made an appointment for fresh highlights.
“Should we take another?” I ask. Perhaps one Charlotte poses for.
“No. It’s perfect. You look like the girl next door.” She gives me the reassuring statistic that women who post a photo are twice as likely to get a response and tabs to the next section. “Job.”
I retrieve the wine and pour us each a generous serving. “Can we put what I’m supposed to be doing?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a potter. Not everyone is qualified to make pottery.”
“Yes, this is true.” But I’m supposed to be a director at an art museum, selling my own art on the side. And calling “teaching children how to make wobbly cups at It’s Clay Time” being a potter is overly kind. That unfulfilled dream is the entire reason I picked Boulder for college and am still here in Colorado. Oh, well. Van Gogh sold one painting during his lifetime, so there’s still hope for me if I do croak on my hill. Being a pottery teacher may not be my dream, but neither is this dating site. As we’ve established, we can’t always get what we want. “Okay, next.”
“What’s Your Idea of a Perfect Date?” Charlotte laughs. “Didn’t you once say the perfect date was going to Nathan’s Hot-Dog Eating Contest?”
“That was before I knew nap dates existed. Plus, I was hungry when I said it. And anyway, you still think a Tool concert is a good place to meet guys.”
We continue on, filling in details, and this is all so self-esteem draining. There’s a whole “Get To Know Me” section and what if no one is charmed by my fascination with tiny houses and passion for art? And on the flip side, what if I’m not charmed by any of them? Despite the churning in my belly, we continue on, until the profile is complete.
Charlotte looks over at me with her finger hovering on the enter key. “You ready to publish?”
“No.” Right now, my hill doesn’t seem so bad.
“Granny Mae would say it’s spring, the perfect time to plant some seeds and see what grows.”
“She’d also be planting those seeds to annoy her neighbor. Granny Mae is no angel.”
“And that’s why I love her.”
With a gleam in her eyes, Charlotte clicks submit.

Two
A wise art teacher once told me—if something isn’t inspiring you, find one detail to focus on and build from there. That’s what I’m now doing with Peter, one of twenty potential matches FriendsOfFriends has picked for me.
This site takes matchmaking seriously, y’all. Within thirty minutes of Charlotte creating my profile, the rocks started pummeling me. Now I have to sift through the rubble, and find someone that’s interesting.
Peter’s rugged face smiles at me from the computer screen, and I hone in on the dapper black beanie on his head.
“If you squint your eyes, he kind of looks like Austin in that hat.” I clink my wine glass against the beer he’s holding. “Cheers, Peter.”
“Stop.” Charlotte’s laugh tinkles in the room for a very long time, it seems. She’s a chronic giggler when she’s drinking, whereas I’m a melancholy mopey-head. Charlotte’s words, not mine. “You’re getting over him, so you can’t only date guys that remind you of him.”
“It’s my rebound.”
“...no it’s not.”
I choose to ignore her and instead highlight Peter’s interests with the mouse. “He likes cheese and ice-fishing. Does that go together?”
“Who cares? You love cheese.”
Fair enough. The beanie earns Peter a tentative rock. This site needs a variety of rocks to offer, corresponding to the level of interest. Pebble, stone, boulder. Marketing had one job. On a sigh, I swipe to the next guy. Hunter is an attractive accountant who enjoys cruising the open road on his motorcycle.
Charlotte loves him.
“Ooh, I bet he’s covered in tattoos under that button-down shirt.” She bumps her shoulder to mine. “Doesn’t the artist in you want to find out?”
“What if it’s something stupid, like...money? And then I have to pretend to love it?”
“You can draw something exciting for his next one.”
I’m not sure it’s fair to put that kind of pressure on poor Hunter. There’s no way he can compete with the Stairway to Heaven music notes ascending up Austin’s arm. However, I could get free tax help and he has dark eyes. The scales are tilting in Hunter’s favor, much like the room after all this wine. His bio says he’s spent so much time with his friends he’s forgotten how to meet people. I can relate.
“Okay, let’s give him a rock.”
We muddle through the next prospects, and they’re disappointing. Not one listed nap-dates in their interests. Now that I know that exists, I’m obsessed. I’m a champion napper. I’m sure Austin and Lucy are snuggled in a perfect spoon right now while he plays with her split-end-free hair.
“That guy mows my mom’s yard,” Charlotte exclaims, when I swipe to a beefy man with a bald head. “He’s so polite. And reliable.”
I shake my head. “No way. No rock for Yard Guy.”
“Why?”
“It’s too close to home. Think about it. If it didn’t work out, your mom’s yard would be the victim and she’d never forgive me. I adore your mom and don’t want to lose her.”
She agrees and we move on. The next candidate is another person that’s too close