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CHAPTER ONE
A 100 percent match.
That was what the screen showed as I stared at it, silently, my mouth so wide, my jaws hurt.
How in the hell had I achieved that percentage?
As one of the founders of Hooked, a hook-up app my best friends and I had launched just today, I knew that number was nearly impossible. While we were in beta testing, we’d run every possible scenario through Harvard’s database, trying to configure an average percentage among our future users. We’d learned 100 percent was statistically equivalent to the odds of winning the lottery.
The average would be in the eighties. An overly impressive number would be in the low nineties.
But 100 percent?
Shit, that almost couldn’t exist.
But it did.
With me.
And I was gazing at that number as it flashed in the center of my phone in twenty-eight-point green Garamond font—a font, size, and color my best friends and I had debated over for weeks—and underneath was the user I’d matched with.
SaarasLove.
All right, Love, who are you? And are you going to rock my whole world?
That was the reason we’d developed this app in the first place.
To be rocked.
And rocked hard.
With my friends and I nearing the end of our final semester of grad school at Harvard, we lacked two very important things—time and money. We didn’t want to spend hours at the bar every night, fishing for women, buying drinks, when we were after only one thing.
Hooking up.
After a late-night session of the three of us bitching about how tired we were of the relentless pattern of time, money, and courting, Hooked was born.
But never did any of us anticipate a perfect match.
If I logged on to the mainframe and checked the users who had already signed up, I was positive there wouldn’t be another with a number so high.
Unless ...
My heart began to pound, my throat tightening as I pushed myself off my bed and peeked out into what used to be our living room and was now our makeshift office. My best friends, who also happened to be my roommates, were on the couch. Grayson had his laptop resting on his legs, a beer in one hand, his phone in the other.
“Easton, you look like you just swallowed a fucking goat,” he said. “You all right, buddy?” His backward hat gave just enough slack that he could furrow his brows.
“Is there a glitch in the system?” I nodded toward his lap. “Check right now and make sure couples are matching at all different percentages.”
He dropped his phone and began to type one-handed. “We’re all good.” He took his hat off and ran his hand through his dark, untamed mop. “Jesus, you just scared the shit out of me.”
Holden was in the same position, but double-fisting two mugs with a set of headphones stretched across his head, cupping both ears. As though he could sense my fear, he glanced up from his screen, using his shoulder to free his ear. “What’d I miss?”
“Just Easton taking ten years off my life, that’s all,” Grayson barked. He held the bottle to his lips, guzzling until it was gone. “He thought there was a glitch.”
Holden shot up straight, setting both mugs down and knocking the other headphone off his ear, the headband crashing to the couch as he began to type. “Was there?”
“No,” I told him.
