Love at First Swipe

Love at First Swipe A Secret Billionaire Romance Allie Hayden Copyright © 2023 by Allie Hayden All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contents Find Allie Hayden on Social Media Chapter 1 (Aurora) Chapter 2 (Tristan) Chapter 3 (Aurora) Chapter 4 (Tristan) Chapter 5 (Aurora) Chapter 6 (Tristan) Chapter 7 (Aurora) Chapter 8 (Tristan) Chapter 9 (Aurora) Chapter 10 (Tristan) Chapter 11 (Aurora) Chapter 12 (Tristan) Chapter 13 (Aurora) Chapter 14 (Tristan) Chapter 15 (Aurora) Chapter 16 (Tristan) Chapter 17 (Aurora) Chapter 18 (Tristan) Chapter 19 (Aurora) Chapter 20 (Tristan) Chapter 22 (Aurora) Chapter 22 (Tristan) Chapter 23 (Aurora) Chapter 24 (Tristan) Epilogue (Aurora) Find Allie Hayden on Social Media Find Allie Hayden on Social Media Join my Mailing List Amazon Author Page Goodreads Instagram Chapter 1 (Aurora) Sunbeams of rose and marigold streamed through the blinds in my tiny studio apartment. The pile of boxes in front of me had slowly dwindled, and I was grateful to almost see the floor again after weeks of living out of boxes. I picked up my old high school yearbook with Aurora Dalton emblazoned on the front and caressed the soft leather binding. You should have left that back at Mom and Dad’s house, I thought to myself. It wasn’t like I was going to need it here in San Francisco, but at the same time, I couldn’t part with it. Mom had always told me that she loved my sentimental heart. "God, I miss her," I whispered into the dim light of the small room, trying not to allow my emotions to get the better of me. After all, I moved here for a reason. The last box doesn’t have much left in it: a couple of souvenirs from childhood vacations, a copy of my favorite movie Winter’s Bone, and a half-used candle. Once I finally placed them around my apartment, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least now, I’ll come home to an actual apartment instead of a warzone of cardboard and parcel tape. Especially since work also feels like a bit of a battlefield right now... I hadn't realized how much more demanding my new job would be at Bayside Marketing, but I had always liked a challenge. Once I finished putting the cardboard in the dumpster, I returned to my little quirky apartment and reached up to finally release the claw grip from my head. My short, shoulder-length hair fell around my face in straight, brunette tresses, and I threw it aside with contempt, watching it bounce on the couch as I let out a sigh. My head had been killing me. I was probably going to get some kind of tension headache, and I was not looking forward to it. I need a drink, I concluded as I rubbed at my temples and made my way toward the basic kitchenette. The refrigerator was bare, aside from a singular carton of orange juice and some leftover pasta. Damn, I forgot to pick up a bottle of wine on my way home. Well, there went my evening plans. Instead, I cast my eyes around my new little home and smiled. Sure, it was tiny; my double bed was completely pushed up against one wall, and the TV and sofa barely fit into the remaining space. Others might have thought it was cramped, but it suited me just fine. Especially with the cost of rent on anything other than a studio here in San Francisco, I reminded myself. Besides, the place had its own unique charm. The décor was definitely stuck in the '70s, but I enjoyed the bright green paint job that matched the jungle-style wallpaper on the accent wall. Every door came with a bright gold doorknob that matched the old retro floor lamp tucked into a corner, and it somehow pulled the whole place together. I checked the time. It was already 8 p.m., and I hadn't had a chance to truly relax yet. Soon, I'd have to go to bed ready for work in the morning, but... I really didn't want to. With a sigh, I stretched my arms into the air, feeling a little tired and sore from all the unpacking. Just as I sat down on my comfy couch, however, there was a knock at the door. I furrowed my eyebrows. I wasn't expecting anybody, but there was one person who had already stopped by a few times, and... "Knock, knock!" a familiar voice called cheerily from the hall. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and I hurried to answer the door. As soon as it swung open, I was greeted by the very welcome and familiar sight of my landlady, Mrs. Rosaline Beekman. She was 79 years young - by her own admission - and dressed in handmade floral cardigans every time I saw her. Her hair was grey but long, which I thought was unusual for an older woman until she had told me on our second meeting all about her youth in the '60s — apparently, she had been a wild one. "Aurora, sweetheart," she greeted with a wide smile, showcasing her porcelain veneers. "Mrs. Beekman, it's lovely to see you again," I told her, beaming at the woman who had made me feel so welcome in this big, lonely city. "Is everything okay?" "Oh, everything is just fine, dear," she said with a wave of her hand. "I won't stop long; one of my dramas is about to start, and I can't miss it or the ladies at the bridge club will have nothing to talk about tomorrow!" She lifted a small canvas tote and held it out toward me. "Oh, Mrs. Beekman, you didn't have to—" The older woman rolled her kind, brown eyes. "Oh, enough of that.