Dating Mr. Right: A Collection: Four Standalone Romantic Comedies

by Lauren Blakely

  16

  Kristen

  The next morning, I hit the roller rink at the crack of dawn, working out on my skates. I have an hour before I need to be at work, so I skate then return home, ready to shower.

  Grams pounces on me the second I walk through the doorway.

  She grabs my wrist. “Tell me everything.”

  I clasp my hand to my chest, flutter my eyelids, and do my best starry-eyed impression. “Oh, it was magical, and I’m in love.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “You are?”

  The funny thing is . . . it doesn’t feel far from possible. Not today, but down the road. Maybe in a few months, I could honestly see myself falling for Cameron.

  That’s what doesn’t add up.

  It’s illogical. It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous.

  But it’s also why my heart weighs heavy.

  Grams stares at me, studying my hands. “Where’s your ring?”

  I walk inside, drop my bag on the couch, set my phone on the table, and turn around. I don’t have the energy to keep up the prank anymore. I’ve pulled her leg and gotten her goat. It was a blast, and yet, I’m sadder than I want to be.

  I shrug. “It was a joke. We didn’t go to Vegas to get married. We spent the evening running around Miami, taking pictures under palm trees and then photoshopping them to look like the Vegas sign, an airplane, and so on.”

  Her eyes bulge. “What? How?”

  “We bought champagne and glasses, went to the monorail, parked ourselves in the seats, and toasted on it.” I don’t add that we kissed on the monorail and that it was some kind of magic that didn’t need an ounce of retouching in a photo. “Then Cameron photoshopped it to look like we were on an airplane.”

  Her jaw clangs to the floor, cash register–style. “You didn’t.” Her tone says she can’t believe she’s been had, yet she’s also wildly impressed.

  “We did. Then we snagged the Elvis impersonator on the beach and went to a chapel here on South Beach, and we pretended to get married.”

  “Why did you do all that?”

  I park my hands on my hips. “Why did you catfish me?”

  She tuts. “I would hardly call it catfishing.”

  “I would precisely call it catfishing.”

  She squares her shoulders. “I knew he was right for you.”

  “He’s great,” I say, unable to mask the affection I feel for him. “But I want to make my own choices. You had me going. You made me feel . . . a little foolish.”

  Her expression falters, and she frowns. “But you liked him.”

  “Yeah, I did. And I do. But I also felt kind of stupid when I learned it had all been a ruse.”

  “It wasn’t all a ruse. You loved chatting with him during poker, didn’t you?”

  I squeeze her arm. “I did, but don’t you see? I want to make my own choices, and I want you to respect them.”

  She exhales, nods, and licks her lips. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just thought he was a good man for you, and it was the only way I could get you to meet him. Plus, I didn’t make anything up—everything I told you was from conversations I’d had with the real Cameron over poker. So technically, you were talking to him—just through me.”

  “Like you’re a medium now?”

  She snaps her fingers and grins. “Exactly. I was channeling him.”

  “You made it sound so real,” I say, a little sad. “I wished it’d been him. And I wish you’d just asked me to go on a blind date.”

  “After the pickle embalmer and the cheesy cheesemaker, you’d have said no.”

  “True,” I admit.

  “Aren’t you glad you said yes?”

  I scoff. “I didn’t say yes!”

  “You can’t think of ThinkingMan as me. He was Cameron. It was all him.”

  I shoot her a skeptical look. “It was actually all you.”

  “Technically, but the profile was based on him, and when I knew the two of you actually liked each other after your poker chat, I figured it was fine to set you up on a date.”

  “What if I hadn’t liked him playing poker?”

  “But I knew you would.”

  “What if I hadn’t?” I press.

  “Well . . . I don’t know,” she admits. Then she reaches out, wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry if I was out of line. I want you to be happy and to find the right person. I thought you’d like him.”

  I rest my cheek against her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the rose in the vase, fading after only one night, as roses do. “I did like him, and you were right. But here’s the trouble.” I separate and meet her eyes. “He’s gone. He doesn’t live here.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “What’s distance when love’s involved?”

  “One, we’re not involved. Two, it’s a big thing. Three—”

  “Just get on a plane and see him.”

  I raise a finger. “Do not secretly book me on a flight. Or him. Do you understand?”

  She laughs and raises her right hand. “I promise.”

  Then she mutters, “For now.”

  Later that night, I open my tablet, and I’m tempted to check out the online dating site. But the guy I want to talk to isn’t there.

  The next morning I find a text on my phone.

  It’s not from ThinkingMan.

  It’s not from LuckySuit.

  It’s from Cameron.

  17

  Cameron

  I’m not over it.

  Not over her.

  Not interested in getting over the best date of my life.

  I have no agenda, no notion of what’s next. But as I walk down Sixth Avenue, the warm summer breeze wrapping around me, I picture the montage of moments I want right now.

  And all the shots are of Kristen.

  I decide to stop thinking about texting her . . . and text her.

  Cameron: Question. When you skated, were you as feared on the rink as you were at the blackboard?

  Kristen: But of course. I made opponents cower.

  Cameron: I’m not in the least bit surprised. Do you still skate, and when you do, do you wear those socks that go to your knees?

  Kristen: You mean . . . wait for it . . . knee-high socks?

  Cameron: Yes, those.

  Kristen: I do. Got a thing for knee-high socks?

  Cameron: Interesting question. I’d love to find out. It would be helpful if you could send me a photo of you in full skater regalia, knee-high socks and all, and then I could answer you honestly.

  Kristen: All in the name of research and learning, of course?

  Cameron: Of course.

  I wait patiently, threading through the morning crowds as I head to meet Lulu. Two blocks later, my phone buzzes and I’m rewarded with a photo.

  There. Is. A. God.

  It’s a picture of Kristen—legs only. She’s wearing white knee-high socks with purple stripes.

  Those legs in those socks. Kill me now.

  Cameron: Do you realize you make socks sexy?

  Kristen: Why, thank you. You make . . . polo shirts sexy?

  Cameron: You remembered what I wore. :)

  Kristen: Or maybe I’m looking at some of the photos we took . . .

  Okay, now I have a city-wide grin stealing the real estate on my face.

  Cameron: Maybe I’ve been doing that too. Good thing we took so many pictures.

  Kristen: Do you have a favorite?

  I stop at the crosswalk, click over to my photo folder, and find the last shot. The one I snapped at the airport. I didn’t photoshop this picture. It’s just us, before the night ended. I send it to her.

  Kristen: Ah, I like that one too. And now I have one more to look at.

  Cameron: I might have looked at it a few times already.

  Kristen: I’m catching up to you right now on that tally. By the way, what are you doing today?

  Cameron: Contemplating chocolate, business deals, and how to grow wings and/or learn to Apparate.

&n
bsp; Kristen: And what exactly would you do if you could Apparate? Inquiring minds want to know.

  Cameron: Take you out, pretend we were at the Taj Mahal, maybe add Mt. Everest or a Buddhist temple behind us, possibly even the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Or we could visit Monkey Jungle and mock up a picture of us in a barrel testing the baseline of fun. Other options—take you to a bookstore and get lost in books on philosophy. Go to a concert and decide whether indie is better than pop, or just debate it all night long. Take you to a roller rink and watch you skate in those knee socks, then take them off . . .

  Kristen: Where do I sign up?

  Cameron: You good with all that?

  Kristen: With every single thing. But you know what I like most?

  Cameron: Do tell.

  Kristen: Talking to you as you.

  Cameron: I like that too. More than I want to.

  But now I have to end the conversation. I say goodbye and head into the shop, feeling both better and worse.

  18

  Kristen

  I text him the next afternoon.

  Kristen: Today my hair is purple. I ate eggplant for lunch.

  Cameron: I’ve got an eggplant right here for you.

  Kristen: *facepalm*

  Cameron: You did walk right into that.

  Kristen: I did. I totally did.

  That night he texts me.

  Cameron: By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask about the Orion Nebula.

  Kristen: IS THIS YOU?

  Cameron: YES. WHY?

  Kristen: You know this is how I was catfished! The Orion Nebula was the bait.

  Cameron: I’ll prove it’s me.

  I wait, and his picture appears on my phone. His face. Then his . . . feet? Is he actually wearing . . .?

  Kristen: Are you wearing Crocs?

  Cameron: Yes.

  Kristen: Why would you show me Crocs and, more importantly, why would you wear them?

  Cameron: To answer the latter, they’re comfortable. To answer the former, to prove it’s me.

  Kristen: That proves this is you?

  Cameron: It proves I’m me because if I were someone else impersonating me, he’d never humble himself by showing Crocs. I’m showing you who I really am.

  Kristen: A Croc wearer?

  Cameron: Yes, do you still like me?

  My smile is contagious. They’re grinning in the next county, and they caught it from me.

  Kristen: Yes. But for the love of pi and the golden ratio, please never show them to me in person so I don’t have to bleach my eyeballs. Deal?

  Cameron: Deal. Especially the in-person part.

  Kristen: Also, is it so obvious l like you that you knew even Crocs wouldn’t ruin it?

  Cameron: Call me crazy, but I like obvious on this count. In fact, I like it a lot. And I like you—a whole helluva lot.

  Kristen: Same . . . it’s totally the same. Even in Crocs.

  Cameron: Now, back to the Orion Nebula. Evidently, the first me, who wasn’t me but rather based on me, talked to you about it. But I wanted to look at it tonight, and since you’re a stargazer, I was hoping you could give me some guidance.

  And my heart goes thud. It falls to the floor, beating for him, like a silly, lust-struck fool.

  Kristen: I’d love to. But it’s easier to talk it through on the phone.

  Three seconds later, my phone rings.

  “What a cheap excuse to get me to call,” he teases.

  “But it worked.”

  “I’m easy like that.”

  I go to the deck, stare at the night sky, and tell him how to find the constellation. When we’re done searching millions of miles away, we talk about music and our friends. I learn about Lulu, and I tell him about Piper, and the ache in my chest grows.

  But so do the feelings.

  They balloon.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  He sighs, a little sadly. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t be calling you like this. It makes everything harder.”

  “I know. Talking to you till all hours makes it harder.”

  “It makes me wish I were there.”

  I lean back in the chair, closing my eyes. “What would you do if you were?”

  “Kiss you.” His voice is a sexy rumble.

  I hum. “Where?”

  “Your lips, the hollow of your throat, your earlobe, where you like to be nipped.”

  I shiver. “Do I like to have my earlobe nibbled on?”

  “Oh, you absolutely do. And I’d kiss you for hours.”

  “I’d squirm for hours,” I whisper.

  “I like all the sounds you make when I kiss you. I’d like to know what other sounds you make.”

  Flames. I go up in flames. “I suspect you’d be cataloguing a whole lot of noises.”

  A soft chuckle comes from his end of the line, followed by a sexy sigh. “I’d like to kiss you everywhere, Kristen.”

  And I die. From the visual my brain helpfully assembled. From the shiver that rushed down my belly thanks to that image. And from the possibility of his mouth exploring me everywhere.

  When we hang up, I’m lonelier than when we started.

  It would have been smarter to stop, but we don’t. We keep going over the next few weeks, as I work and see my friends, as he works and travels more for business.

  Every night, we talk.

  Every day, we text.

  Every time, the math geek in me craves a solution. We are one side of the equation, and I don’t know how to solve for x with all these miles between us.

  I long to know what’s on the other side of the equal sign.

  One day when I return home from work, I find a package waiting outside my door. Bending, I pick up the padded manila envelope. Once inside my condo, I slide open the envelope, then I shriek.

  Oops.

  I’d shrieked so loudly that Grams opens her door seconds later.

  “Cockroach, gator, or dragonfly?”

  Laughing, I shake my head, clutching the package to my chest. “Neither. It’s Cupid. DVDs of Cupid.”

  “That Jeremy Piven show? Who sent them?”

  I can’t wipe the dopey grin off my face. “Cameron.”

  She arches a brow knowingly. “Told you so.”

  I pluck the card from inside, opening it. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I tracked these down for you. I hope you enjoy every single second of them. The only thing better would be if you were wearing knee-high socks and curled up next to me on the couch.”

  He’s right.

  That’s the only thing that would make this better.

  The next day I send him a gift. One that lets him know how much I like this one.

  19

  Cameron

  “What do you think? Great name for the new line?”

  I blink up at Lulu. Shoot. What did she just tell me was her idea for the new line of chocolate?

  I was too busy replaying last night’s conversation with Kristen, when we listed all the things we could do in either a Ferrari or a Bugatti.

  News flash—driving wasn’t that high up.

  Still, Lulu deserves an answer, and since she’s aces at names, I take a wild guess that she’s devised a fantastic one. “Brilliant name,” I say, leaning against the counter in the shop. It’s quiet right now. There’s a lull in the afternoon traffic.

  She shoots me a thumbs-up. “Fantastic. Toe Jam Chocolate it will be.”

  I adopt a straight face, though I cringe inside. “Excellent.”

  She shakes her head. “You are so busted.”

  “Please, I knew you were putting me on.”

  She shakes her head, poking my chest. “You. Did. Not.”

  “Did. So.”

  “You lie.”

  I shrug. “Fine, you caught me. I was drifting into Daydream Land.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time in Daydream Land since your Miami trip with Kristen.”

  I sigh heavily. “I know, I know.”

&nb
sp; “Heck, that weekend you guys took me to the Hamptons, you were texting her the whole time,” she says, reminding me of the trip a bunch of us took Lulu on when she needed to sort out the complexities of her love life. I might have been talking to Kristen a whole lot that weekend. And the next week. And the next one. And telling Lulu about her. “Which makes me wonder,” she adds, “why are you still here?”

  “Where should I be?”

  Lulu stares sharply. “Not here.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not doing something crazy.”