Something Real is all about the kind of commitment I’m looking for—people who want babies and forever and old-age handholding. Only, River wasn’t on there looking for love. He’s someone who had an opportunity to invest in the program. He wanted to try it out and explore the user experience before ponying up the cash the developer needs to take the site to the next level.

River doesn’t want any of the things I do, and he’s been clear about that from the start. But we hit it off anyway.

Over the last two months, we’ve gotten into the habit of sending each other messages throughout the day, and I anticipate each one like an addict waiting for her next hit. I like him, but after all this time, as far as I can tell, the only thing he wants from me is to tie me up and make me come.

Not so different from what Sam Bradshaw once said he wanted from me.

My phone vibrates in my hand as his next message comes through.

Riverrat69: You can do better than that guy anyway.

How does he know? I sink my teeth into my lower lip. Is that just a generic thing someone says, or does he know whom I was with tonight? I glance over my shoulder back to the table where Sam is sitting. Max is on the phone and William is gone, and Sam has his phone is in his hand, and he’s typing something. My heart shimmies in tandem with my girl parts, and I tell both to calm the eff down.

Sam lifts his head and his eyes lock with mine. When my phone buzzes in my hand again, I jump.

Riverrat69: I have a confession.

Tink24: What’s that?

Riverrat69: I can’t stop looking at that last picture.

I close my eyes and try to imagine my faceless friend looking at the picture I sent him before work this morning. After rereading last night’s texts left me hot and bothered, sending a picture of my hip was the best outlet for my sexual frustration.

From the beginning, we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we’d keep it anonymous, but I’ve sent him pictures. My bare legs stretched out in bed from the knees down, my toes after a pedicure, my ass in a new pair of black panties—pieces to an erotic puzzle I desperately want him to solve.

Tink24: I’ll confess, I hoped you’d have that problem.

Riverrat69: I can’t talk right now, but message me when you climb in bed tonight.

Suddenly, climbing into bed alone again sounds better than it has in weeks. I reread his message. Can’t talk right now.

Snapping my head up again, I see Sam sitting with his phone under his hand. I was so absorbed in River’s messages I forgot to watch to see if Sam was typing before each new one.

I don’t know if my online friend lives in New Hope, but I know he lives in the area and that he went to New Hope High School. I know he has a big family and that he’s in finance, like Sam. I know he’s been burned by love and doesn’t want commitment.

I know he dirty-talks like a pro and wants to tie me up—and so began my suspicions that the anonymous stranger I’ve been talking to isn’t a stranger at all. Every clue points to Sam Bradshaw, God’s gift to women everywhere. The suspicions started early in our exchanges, but I disregarded them as wishful thinking. However, every clue pointed to him, and for as long as we’ve been swapping dirty messages, I’ve been picturing Sam.

I force myself to turn away from him. My only problem now is that I can’t decide if River is really Sam or if I just want him to be.

Okay, that’s not my only problem. If River really is Sam, that presents a whole new list of problems. On the top of that list? Since my Super Summer Screw-Up, Sam hates me.

When I look over again and see he’s left, relief washes over me. Because I’m a coward, and I’m not ready to admit to myself how much I want Sam to be the man I’ve been talking to online.

* * *

Sam

“Hello there, Mr. Bradshaw.”

The sound of that voice makes me go cold, but I refuse to let my body tense.

Asia Franks is sitting in the glow of my front porch light. Her dark hair is cut in short little wisps that lie close to her scalp and give full attention to her big blue eyes. She’s wearing a skimpy skirt not at all appropriate for the weather, and a cigarette hangs from her fingertips.

With the exception of the occasional cigar with my friends, I’ve never been a smoker. But the sight of her alone is enough to make me want to steal the cigarette and smoke it down to the filter.

“Asia,” I reply, my voice cold.

She cocks her head to the side and gives me one of those looks she uses to so skillfully manipulate the men around her. “Now why can’t you act happy to see me? It’s been so long.”

“Not long enough.”

She sticks out her lower lip in a pout. I can’t believe I once fell for that. “Fine. Be that way.”

I cross my arms and give her a pointed look, waiting.

“Baby, it’s cold out here. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near my house, let alone inside it.”

As if I flipped a switch, her face hardens, all that affected sweetness disappearing in a blink. “Some things never change, and I see you’re still a dick.”

“Tell me what you want. I don’t like being this close to you.”

She stands carefully, dropping the cigarette to the porch floor and stomping it out with the toe of her red high heel. “I need some money.”

“Not gonna happen.” I pull my keys from my pocket, ready to go inside and lock her out. I don’t need to hear whatever sob story she has for me. I’ve fallen for her shit before, and I won’t again. Not this time.