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

by Lauren Blakely

  It sounds impossible to me.

  2

  Herb

  “Hey there, little Cletus. You’re doing great, and you look swell,” I tell the teacup chihuahua with the burnished brown coat. He whimpers as I stroke a hand down his soft back. Cletus is resting in a cage after the five-month-old had a very important surgery today. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “You won’t miss them.”

  My vet tech snickers behind me. “Bet he will.”

  I roll my eyes at David as I turn around. “I see you’re suffering from neutering sympathy. Shall I get him a pair of neuticles to make you feel better?”

  “That would help me a lot, come to think of it.”

  “You do know he doesn't miss them?”

  David grabs his crotch. “I’d miss mine.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not neutering you, isn’t it?”

  At twenty-three, David is still young, and his age might be why he still feels that associative pain that men often experience when a dog is neutered. At age thirty-four, and after thousands of spays and neuters, I’m well beyond that. I don’t get emotional over removing that particular part of a dog’s anatomy. And I don’t get weirded out.

  It’s all in a day’s work.

  David gives me a salute. “Yes, boss. Also, Cletus’s foster mom is here.”

  “Great. I’ll go chat with Evie.” She’s a regular foster for one of the city’s nearby rescues, bringing in little dogs for their nip and tucks as they’re getting ready to be adopted.

  Gently, I scoop up the pup and carry the coneheaded boy to the lobby of my practice on the Upper East Side.

  Evie waves brightly at me. “And how is the sweet little boy?”

  “He did great.”

  Evie laughs. “Now, I always thought it was kind of funny to say that an animal did great during a surgery. Because, really, isn’t it you who did great during a surgery?” She taps my shoulder affectionately.

  She has a point.

  And I concede to it, blowing on my fingernails for effect. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. No one snips dog balls better than this guy.”

  “Put that on your business card, Herb.”

  “It’ll be my new tagline.” I shift gears. “All right, you know the drill. Give him plenty of rest, make sure he takes it easy. He might not want to eat right away. And whatever you do, keep that lampshade on him.”

  Evie drops her face into the dog’s tiny cone and gives him a kiss. “I won’t let you get out of your cone, I promise, Coney Boy.”

  “Give me a call if anything comes up, okay? Day or night. Doesn’t matter.”

  “That sounds perfect.” But before she turns to leave, she gives me a look. It’s a look that says she has something on her mind. “Dr. Smith, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  “I can see the wheels turning in your head.”

  She smiles, acknowledging that I’m right. “Have you started dating again? It’s been more than a year or so since Sandy left.”

  “Yes, I’ve dated,” I say, a little defensively. “I just haven’t met the right person.”

  “It’s hard to meet the right person. I hear you on that front.” Her tone is sympathetic.

  “I thought I had met the right person.”

  The thing is Sandy was a fantastic woman, and I can’t fault her for leaving. She was offered a fantastic job in Beijing. She accepted and boarded a flight two weeks later without any fanfare or discussions about us continuing.

  We’d been together for a year. We’d started making plans. And then her plan was to move halfway around the world, so that’s what she did, ending us in one clean slice.

  “But you can’t let it get you down,” Evie adds. “You are a prize.”

  I straighten my shoulders and flash an over-the-top smile. “Thank you. I always thought I’d look really nice paraded around onstage, perhaps given away at the end of a blue ribbon ceremony.”

  “We’ll enter you in a dating contest.” She sighs thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing a bit as she taps her chin with her free hand. “But I have other ideas for you.”

  “Fess up. Are you trying to enlist me into your stable again?”

  She swats my arm affectionately. “Of course. I’ve only been trying to get you in my stable for ages. You know that. Smart, single, sweet as anything, clever, hot vet who does free spay and neuter clinics for the city’s rescues? You are going to be in demand.”

  Since she’s a premiere matchmaker, Evie’s broached the subject before. I’ve been reluctant though. Maybe I’ve been nursing my wounds since my ex took off with barely a goodbye kiss. Or maybe a part of me figures if I can put myself through vet school, open a successful practice, and make it in Manhattan, I ought to be able to find a woman without a little assistance. “Honestly, I figured I’d meet someone the old-fashioned way, like how I met Sandy. We bumped into each other at a coffee shop. She nearly spilled her hot chocolate on me.”

  “Ah, the old rom-com meet-cute.”

  “Well, yeah. I suppose it was. So I assumed I’d meet someone new in a similar fashion.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  I scratch my jaw, considering her question. “Badly.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Do I detect a note of mockery?”

  “No. I simply agree that it’s as hard as differential calculus to hope to meet someone in person in a random, swoony, just-like-the-movies way.”

  “I’ve been on dates. Mostly setups from friends.”

  “And?”

  I wince, shaking my head. “Dreadful. I’d rather bathe in molasses than go out with another oh, Tonya knows so-and-so and so-and-so knows so-and-so. And what it truly amounts to is this—your one single friend was pressured by his girlfriend or fiancée to set up her one single friend, and it doesn't matter if you have anything in common.”

  She nods sympathetically as she strokes Cletus’s head. “That is indeed the problem with friends setting up friends simply by virtue of their relationship status. I, however, have a long list of lovely single ladies, and I only connect people I think—no, I’m sure—will go together like gin and tonic.”

  “I do like a good gin and tonic.”

  She smiles impishly. “I know. All my clients are vetted and interested in the real deal. And I know you’re interested in that too.”

  “How do you know?” I’m curious why she says that, but truth be told, she nailed it on the head.

  “That’s what you wanted with Sandy. You’re not somebody who goes out and plays the field, Herb.”

  She’s right on that count. “That’s true.”

  She stares at me, determination etched in her blue eyes. “So, what’s it going to be, Mister Meow?”

  I groan. “No. That nickname is unacceptable.”

  “I promise I won’t call you that again if you’ll let me match you.”

  “So it’s coercion now, eh?” The woman is relentless with her cheer and optimism.

  “Call it coercion, or call it kismet. Whatever you call it, I have the perfect woman for you.”

  I raise a skeptical brow. “What if she’s boring?”

  She shakes her head. “Not a chance.”

  I toss out another concern. “What if she’s shallow?”

  “She’s bright and thoughtful.”

  And one more hurdle. “What if she, I dunno, smells?”

  Evie leans in closer and taps my nose with her finger. “She smells pretty, you silly man.”

  Then the deal-breaker. “What if she doesn’t like dogs?”

  “Give me some credit. As if I’d set you up with someone who doesn’t like dogs. The woman I have in mind is lovely. She’s been looking to adopt just the right three-legged dog.”

  And my heart melts a little bit. Wait, wait. I can’t. I can’t fall for her that quickly, I don’t even know her. “I suppose one date can’t hurt. But I don’t want to do dinner.”

  “Dinner is off the table.”


  “I don’t want to do a wine tasting.”

  “Just say no to the vino.”

  “I don’t want to do a beer tasting, and I don’t want to do something that’s like super hipster-y, like a mayonnaise tasting or pickle tasting.”

  “Got it. You probably don’t want to do a carrot tasting either, then. Do you?”

  “Do people really have carrot tastings?”

  “Have you been to Brooklyn? They have everything these days.”

  “True that.”

  “You want to do something totally unconventional. Something that will let you know if you have chemistry.”

  That’s the thing. I’ve done the whole typical three dates thing a handful of times ever since Sandy left, and I don’t want to get on that merry-go-round again. “I just want to get on the merry-go-round once for one date, and I’ll know after one date.”

  “Then it needs to be one spectacular date. Do you still like bizarre, oddball, quirky modern art?”

  “Damn, you have a good memory.”

  “I have a memory for matches. Would you like to meet a smart, sarcastic, tech-savvy art lover who likes to discover all the interesting things about New York and who loves puzzles?”

  My ears perk up. “I love puzzles.”

  3

  Olivia

  “How do I look?” I ask my brother on the other side of the phone via video chat.

  His green eyes light up with laughter and, admittedly, a whole ton of mockery. “How do you look?” he echoes.

  I bristle. “I need a guy’s opinion.”

  “And you asked me?” He points to his chest.

  “I’m pretty sure you’re a guy. Is there something you want to tell me? Did you swap your parts?”

  “No, but my point is, I’m your brother. It basically disqualifies me from ever commenting on your appearance.”

  I huff. “Can you just tell me if I look good?”

  “No, I actually can’t tell you. I couldn’t function any longer as a man in any way if I tell my sister she looks good. Fine, empirically, yes. You look good. But you also look stupid because you’re my sister, and I have to think that.”

  “You legitimately cannot think your sister looks nice in something? I’m thirty, you’re twenty-seven. We’re not children anymore.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Certain things can never change. You look fine. Sisters always look fine. I can’t give you any other opinion than that.”

  I stare daggers at him. “Flynn, it’s a good thing I like you. And you know what? I like myself too, so I am going to assume that I chose wisely in the fashion department.”

  He flashes a smile. “There you go. That’s the confident sis I know and love. You did choose wisely. Now go out and have a great time. I’m so psyched that you used Evie. I have a good feeling about this. Don’t sabotage it.”

  “Who, me?” I ask ever so innocently. “I would never do that.”

  His expression goes stern. “I mean it, Liv.”

  I hold up my free hand in oath. “I promise. I installed an anti-sabotage shield on myself tonight. And I am going into this with eyes wide open.”

  We say goodbye, and I give myself a final once-over in the mirror.

  Jeans look good, boots look sexy, cute top that slips off one shoulder is pretty, with a hint of something more. My brown hair sports a little wave as it curls over my shoulders.

  “You are a thumbs-up,” I tell my reflection.

  I head downtown to Tribeca to meet Herb, the hot vet.

  I arrive right on time, expecting him to be late. Most people usually are. But when I see a tall, trim, toned, handsome, as in the most handsome in the entire universe, man standing in front of a light installation at the Helen Williams Gallery, my breath catches.

  There’s no way that’s him.

  That guy in the dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt that hugs his muscles has to be somebody else. I bet he was flown in, shipped in from some foreign country that grows good-looking men in meadows. He was paid to stand around and simply radiate handsome. He has to be a model. There’s no way that’s actually Herb, the hot vet, standing under a fuchsia-pink light, exactly where Evie said to look for him.

  Herb is probably in the restroom and this stepped-out-of-a-magazine-ad man is holding his spot.

  But then Mr. Too Handsome for Words catches my gaze. His lips quirk up in a lopsided smile that puts all the other lopsided smiles in the entire universe to shame. Because that is the crooked smile that defines why crooked smiles are absolutely delicious. Already my stomach is flipping, and I haven’t even talked to him.

  “What do you think? Is pink my color?” he asks from a few feet away, glancing up at the light.

  God, I hope it’s him. I walk closer. “I see you as more of a magenta.”

  He gives me a thoughtful look. “That’s too bad. I was actually hoping perhaps I would be a periwinkle.”

  I laugh. “Do you know what periwinkle looks like?”

  “No, isn’t it a shade of, let me guess, blue?” He extends a hand. “I’m Herb Smith.”

  Praise the Lord. “I’m Olivia Parker.”

  Herb Smith is the most handsome man I’ve ever met, with his dark hair, square jaw, and blue eyes the sapphire color of perfect Bora Bora ocean. The man is to die for, and I don’t believe in playing games. If I’m going to be up-front with the duds, I’ll be direct with the un-duds.

  “I didn’t think the man standing under the light was actually going to be you,” I admit, going for full truth.

  “Why’s that?”

  I gulp, and then I bite off a big chunk of honesty, since what’s the point in anything else? “You look like you were imported from the land of hot men.”

  He blinks. His eyes widen and sparkle, and then he says, “Wow. I didn't know that country existed.”

  “It’s right between Goodlookingvia and Stunninglandenero. Just north of Beautifulcountria.”

  “I’d like to see your map of the world.”

  “I have it at home. But was that too forward? Calling you good-looking and objectifying you from the start? Want me to rewind and go again?”

  “Hold on a second. You just complimented me for being too handsome, and you think that was too forward?”

  “In case you think I’m only evaluating you based on your appearance,” I say, since I had the impression from Evie that her services are more of the soul mate variety and less of the hop-on-the-hottie style.

  He runs a hand lightly down my arm. “Judge me some more. I should be so lucky.”

  He drops his arm and I smile, the kind that stretches across my whole face. “In fact,” he adds, “I hope you have a long list of traits you’re going to be evaluating me on, like a checklist?”

  I wave a hand dismissively. “I have that list on my smartphone. I’ll fill it out tonight. After we see how this goes.”

  “How long is that list?”

  I stare up at the ceiling, pretending I’m deep in thought. “I’d say it’s about five or six pages.”

  “You’re a woman after my own heart.”

  “Do you have a long checklist?”

  “I do, and it’s incredibly long.” He takes a beat, his baby blues strolling up and down my body. “Lots of things are incredibly long.”

  “Who’s forward now?” I ask, acting all aghast, but I’m not aghast at all. I like long things.

  “What can I say? It seemed apropos. By the way, I’m not imported. I was actually locally grown.”

  “Ah, so you’re a farm-to-date man?”

  “Yes, I was homegrown within a fifty-mile radius. Raised in Westchester. So you’re really able to tick a ton of boxes tonight. Presuming farm-to-date is on that long checklist.”

  “I’m adding it now and checking it off,” I say, and inside I am punching the sky.

  This is the best date ever.

  As the pink glow from the neon light installation flickers behind him, I decide to opt for more honesty since it seems to be w
orking so far—and way better than sabotage, it turns out. “I probably shouldn't say this, but dating can seriously suck, and in the first ten minutes, you’re more fun than anyone I’ve gone out with in a long time, and on top of that, you’re an insanely handsome guy.” I park my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He heaves a sigh. “Fine. I’ll admit it. I’m terrible at following IKEA directions for putting furniture together. I know, you just follow the steps. But it’s hard, and I am bad at it. Can you live with that?”

  I frown, scrub a hand across my chin. “If I have to.”

  He steps closer, his eyes taking a tour again. “Also, you beat me to it. You’re beautiful. But honestly, even if you were average looking, that would be fine too, because looks aren’t the most important thing, and these first few minutes are my favorite too. In a long time.”

  Holy shit. He’s a breath of rarified air. I’m smiling, he’s grinning, his eyes are sparkling, and my insides are shimmy shimmy bang banging. “I agree. Looks aren’t all that.”

  “So we’re good, then? If you bore me, I’m gonna be out of here in like a half hour.”

  “That long? I’d have thought sooner. But I’m glad that the challenge is on, and it goes both ways. You better keep up with me, Herb Smith.”

  “Oh, I intend to. I absolutely intend to keep up with you.”

  We wander around the gallery, checking out the bizarre installations made of neon lights, and as we go, my skin warms, my heart squeezes, and my hope skyrockets. I like this guy, I like his ease of conversation. I like the way he snaps, crackles, and pops when he talks.

  I bet there’s something wrong with him though.

  Except I can’t go looking.

  I need to maintain the anti-self-sabotage shield.

  We stop in front of a bright yellow pair of neon lights that look like a balloon animal at certain angles. “Also, can we get one thing out of the way real quick?” he asks.

  I slice a hand in the air. “There’s not going to be any sex tonight.”