Swallowing, I bit back the sudden urge to tell her not to tempt me. Dating didn’t seem like riding a bike, like I’d been told in the past. It seemed more like falling off a bike into a ravine only to get back up and do it again. While bleeding profusely from a compound fracture to the collarbone.
“Really though, you seriously babysit your clients like this?” I asked.
“I would have explained it all to you when you arrived—on time—for your own date. But, yes. I would do anything to support my clients and make this process as comfortable as possible. I’ll be in the wings in case it’s not going well or if you need a little push.”
“In the wings, huh?” I wasn’t sure if it made me more or less comfortable to know that Amy, in that striking blue scoop-neck shirt, would be in the wings while I was on a date with another woman.
“Yes. And right now, I’m supposed to be focusing on my other client and how well his date is going, not over here talking to you.”
I turned to scan the dining room of the restaurant from my seat at the ornate bar along its edge. There were couples everywhere. A few four-tops, one larger family celebrating a birthday, but for the most part, the dark steakhouse seemed to be a prime date-night joint. Just as I was about to give up on figuring out who her other client was, I saw a guy with thick-rimmed glasses knock his water glass right into the lap of this date.
I nodded in their direction. “I hope that’s not your client.”
She whipped her head around and made an exasperated squeak. “Oh, Simon.”
Simon’s date leaped from her seat with a shrill cry. “Oh. My. Lanta. Are you serious right now?”
“I’m so sorry,” Simon yelped, his voice cracking.
He crossed to the sopping-wet blonde and attempted to pat her down with his white cloth napkin, causing white lint to cling to her black dress. Her eyes grew wide and she swatted his arms away, telling him he was making it worse. She struck me as the type who would never want a dog because the shedding would be unacceptable. She probably carried a lint brush in her purse. And stashed one in every room of her house, too. And in her car. She looked fussy like that.
I tore my gaze away from the spectacle in the center of the room and looked at Amy. She was partly mortified, partly amused. Her delicate hand covered her mouth in shock and embarrassment for her client, but I could see the corners of her lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh.
I cleared my throat and leaned closer to her. “You know, you should tell your clients to request black napkins from the servers if their dates are wearing black.”
Amy’s eyes flew to mine. “What?”
She hadn’t moved away when I’d leaned in, so her lips were only a breath away from mine as she stared at me. The flecks of gold in her brown eyes glittered in the bar’s ambient lighting, and one of her brows arched as she waited for me to answer her. My heart picked up speed and I swallowed, frantically trying to remember what we were talking about. Right, lint. Napkins.
“Um, well, nice restaurants like this usually have both black and white napkins because of the lint factor,” I said.
“I know that, but I’m surprised you do.”
“You haven’t met my parents,” I chuckled. “I was just thinking it would get the guy some brownie points if he was the one who requested the napkin change. My dad always did that for my mom when she was wearing black.”
Amy’s mouth hung open slightly in response, but before she could reply, Simon’s soaked date made a show of picking up her clutch and stomping over to us. Amy’s posture instantly changed to the perfect professional as she slipped from her barstool and stood to face the woman.
“Courtney, I’m so sorry,” Amy said, holding her hands out to the waterlogged woman before her.
“Amy, do me a favor. Next time you want to call me for a guy like Simon … don’t.” She started to turn away, then did a double take as she looked at me. She tipped a hip toward me and met my eyes with a flash of hunger in her own. “That being said, if you’re a client of FCL, I would love to go on a date with you.”
I felt Amy stiffen beside me. Courtney gave a flirtatious wave and then turned away with a toss of her hair. My eyes zipped to Amy’s face, her nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed at her soggy client’s retreating form. I chuckled, then smothered it with a hand over my mouth as I watched Courtney tromp toward the door. Water dripped from her dress like a drooling Bernese mountain dog, leaving a trail of droplets on the floor behind her.
I wanted to look at Amy. I wanted to see if my eyes had been deceiving me or if her eyes had really flashed a little green when Courtney had turned her attention on me. What did that mean? She was like a puzzle I needed to solve. Why the heck did I have to leave her and go on a date with another woman? Oh, right, because my mom didn’t think I was capable of finding my own women, so she’d hired this one to do it for me. Too bad Amy couldn’t just clone herself.
Eager to distract myself from that dangerous line of thinking, I looked back at Simon. He’d slumped into his chair, head in his hands, shoulders sagging in defeat. My heart went out to the guy. This whole dating thing was rough on the nerves. I wasn’t a professional by any means, but spilling ice water all over the girl? I shuddered. High school me probably would have done that. If I’d been lucky enough to share a meal with a girl in the first place, that is.
“I’ll be right back,” Amy said over her shoulder as she rushed to Simon’s side.
She knelt beside him, one hand on his shoulder, no doubt whispering words of encouragement. I knew I should mind my business. Everyone else in the restaurant had turned back to their own meals after the Ice Queen made her exit, but I was still riveted to the scene. To the girl. To the way her face softened as she spoke to her client. She may have been about to laugh when it first happened because—let’s be honest—Courtney’s reaction was pretty funny. But now, as she crouched beside Simon, the empathy was plain in her eyes. She genuinely cared about him and his happiness. Maybe it wasn’t about meddling in people’s love lives.
Amy stood and Simon followed suit. She put her hand in the crook of his elbow to lead him out of the restaurant, and when they approached me, I quickly turned away and pretended to be very interested in reading the label of one of the bottles of liquor on the bar in front of me.
A few moments later, she dropped onto the vacant barstool beside me. “This is why it’s bad that you arrived so early.”
“Well, I didn’t realize I’d get dinner and a show, so I’m glad that I did.”
“Hilarious.” She rolled her eyes and flagged down the bartender. He nodded and began preparing a drink for her as if he already knew what she wanted.
I scowled at the back of the guy’s head as he grabbed the ingredients he needed. I found myself irrationally jealous of him, which was dumb because knowing a person’s drink order didn’t mean you knew everything about them. But he clearly knew more than I did. And I didn’t like it.
In gaming, every player-controlled character has a mission. Accomplishing the mission is the goal for the length of the game and completing various tasks is crucial to getting a reward. Knowing Amy had become my quest. And every interaction with her was the equivalent of completing a task. The only question was, what would be the reward?
“I can’t believe I’ve witnessed two calamities like this in one week,” she said, shaking her head.
“What do you mean?”
“My assistant, Claire, dumped an entire bottle of carrot juice in her own lap the other day.”
My lips twisted up in disgust. “Carrot juice? Who drinks carrot juice?”
“Oh, she’s doing this juice cleanse thing. She has to drink six bottles of juice every day and they’re all different flavors. You know, for variety.”
“Right.”
“It’s making her really weird, though. She’s super forgetful and jittery. Who checks their watch while they’re holding an open bottle of juice? Oh, and her mood swings are like something out of a ho
rror movie. I can’t wait until she’s done with this thing.”
“When is it over?”
“I don’t remember,” she lamented. “And I don’t want to ask because I don’t want her to bite my head off. But I’m telling you, Dex. My ordinarily on-top-of-it assistant is making me want to crawl under my desk and hide every time she comes into the room. I love her, but she scares me right now.”
I laughed as she rested her head on her arm on the bar. She looked tired. Not like in the haggard, dark-circles-under-her-eyes kind of way, just in the way that suggested she worked her butt off and left little time for herself. Against my better judgment, I reached out with one finger and moved a strand of hair off her face. She blinked up at me for a second before righting herself, tugging on the blue shirt to straighten it.
“So,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck, “is this what I have to look forward to? Do all of your matchmaking attempts go so smoothly?”
She glared at me with mock fury. “Oh, absolutely. I’m the best of the best because my clients throw water on their dates and cause them to storm out. That’s just step one of my master plan at a love connection.”
I snorted. “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Really, though, you’re the best now. But I bet you weren’t always the best. You have to have some funny stories from the beginning.”
She sniffed. “I might.”
“Well, it would help me relax before my date to hear something funny.”
“Oh, really?”
“Anything for a VIP, right?”
“One story,” she said, holding up a finger.
I nodded. “Fair.”
“As you know, I stack my dates. The couple on the first date of the night was a really, really bad match. They were bickering like crazy. There was even some thinly veiled body shaming going on.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ugh, I don’t understand guys like that.”
“It was the woman,” she replied. The bartender brought over her drink, she thanked him, and took a sip. “Mm. Refreshing. Anyway, the date was going from bad to worse, so I was pacing at the back of the restaurant, trying to figure out a way to end it. Right when I walked by the kitchen, the door swung open and hit me in the back of the head. Knocked me out cold.”
“Oh no,” I breathed, my eyes wide.
“Oh, yes. And it gets worse. The guy who’d slammed the door into my head was carrying a tray of desserts. One of which was cherries jubilee.”
I stared blankly at her, not understanding.
“Cherries jubilee is a cherry sauce you pour over ice cream. Then you add brandy and set it on fire,” she explained. “Once he hit me with the door, the tray went flying, and the curtains nearby went up like a dead Christmas tree. Or so I’m told.”
“There was a flaming dessert on his tray when he came out of the kitchen?”
“I’ve heard that they wait until they arrive at the table to set it on fire now. Just in case.”
I shrugged. “Well, at least you figured out how to end the bad date.”
“Yeah, well, they closed the restaurant for repairs, and I forgot to notify the next couple. So, they showed up to find an empty restaurant and their matchmaker sitting in the back of an ambulance with an ice pack on her head,” she finished, taking a sip from her martini glass with a roll of her pretty brown eyes.
“What’s your drink?” I asked, trying not to stare as she licked her lips.
“A Manhattan.”
I raised a brow. “A Manhattan?”
“What? Are you going to analyze my drink now?”
I sat up straighter, zeroing in on the red drink in its dainty martini glass, her fingers lightly resting against the base. I didn’t believe a person’s drink order revealed anything about them, however, taking a stab at guessing and then learning based on their answer seemed like a worthwhile task in this quest of mine. Especially if I could sneak in a little teasing, because I was starting to enjoy the way my skin warmed when she glared at me.
“I think it says you want to look grown-up,” I said, “but you still like having the reassurance of a cherry on the bottom of the glass.”
She snickered. “Okay, Mr. Beer in a Bottle.”
I picked up my beer. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, it’s just as no-frills and straightforward as your black coffee.”
“At least I’m consistent,” I said with a wink. “Do you always share a drink with your clients while prepping them for their date?”
She sat up straighter and cleared her throat. “You’re early.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I do not ever share a drink with my clients while prepping them for their date. Which is why I’m going to take my well-deserved cocktail to the other end of the bar and relax after a long day and a disastrous match. You. Are. Early.”
And with that, she picked up her drink, gracefully stepped off the barstool, and strolled away.
What were the chances that the date she’d picked out for me would get my heart racing the way she did? As I sat on my barstool—dumbfounded and alone—I realized just how much I hated to see her leave … but I loved to watch her go.
8
Amy
I watched from my seat at the bar as Dex stood and greeted his date. I’d just taken a sip of my Manhattan when I realized that the blonde woman who stood before him wasn’t who I’d chosen for the date. She was not the woman I’d spent ten minutes talking up to Dex when it was finally time to prep him. And she was absolutely, one hundred percent, the wrong match for this Marine.
Alarm bells went off in my head—not just a friendly-alarm reminder, we’re talking a five-alarm fire situation. I scrambled to set down my drink and pull out my leather-bound notebook. I unzipped it, my fingers shaking, and flipped to the section that held Dex’s date card. Sure enough, Lindie Miller was on the card for tonight.
I frowned. I always wrote out my plans by hand because collecting pretty notebooks and planners was kind of my thing. It was admittedly redundant since we stored everything in the office computer network, but if I didn’t actually use my notebooks, then I’d have to stop buying them, and that just wasn’t going to happen.
I scanned the pages and tried to make sense of the wrong woman sitting across from Dex when the right woman was listed in the pages of this book. If I wrote it here, it should have been what was stored on the network, too. And the network was what Claire used as her guide when sending the date info to both parties. She’d said everything was all set for tonight. How had she mixed things up? That freaking juice cleanse better not be the reason. Scary mood swings or not, I’d kill her.
I whipped out my phone and logged into the cloud network for First Comes Love. Holy guacamole. This can’t be right. Frustration flowed through me like lava and my hand shook as I stared at my phone. Instead of Lindie Miller, the client I was convinced would be perfect for Dex, the name Ania Sewell was right there in black and white. Which meant that Claire had called Ania for tonight’s date. And unless she’d swapped the names in a juice-induced frenzy, that meant it wasn’t a mix up on her part. So, did that mean I’d entered in the wrong client? What was this, amateur hour?
I looked up at Dex and Ania, my brows so tightly knit I was sure I’d permanently give myself a deep set of eleven-shaped wrinkles between them. This was so not good.
Ever the gentleman, Dex pulled out Ania’s chair and gestured for her to take a seat, then pushed her chair in behind her. So far, so good. He took his own seat across from her, and even though I couldn’t hear them, my countless hours of watching dates told me he was asking her if she’d been here before. Ania looked around the restaurant and then shook her head, indicating that she hadn’t.
My nostrils flared. Liar. I’d set Ania up on a date with a guy at this very same restaurant last week. And one of the reasons I knew she wasn’t a good match for Dex was her tendency to fib whenever the mood struck her.
&nb
sp; “What do you do?”
“I’m in accounting.”
Lie. She was a bartender.
“Where are you from?”
“Portland.”
Lie. She was from Tallahassee.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Pink.”
Lie. It was black. Like her soul.
I’d heard it on date after date. Between that and her inability to hide her gold-digging nature, the woman couldn’t get a second date to save her life. It was like the men intuitively knew she was full of crap and wanted out of there as soon as humanly possible. Dex was no dummy. He’d see right through her. And he valued honesty over most traits in a woman, so this would not go over well.
I bit my lip and bounced in my chair. Should I march over there and put an end to the date before it’s even started? Would this doomed encounter even count as a date if I stopped it before they got their drinks? Belinda was a tough competitor, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole competition ended with only one or two dates difference between us. The last thing I needed was some kind of computer glitch to cause me to lose the company to her.
Having decided not to let this date continue, I hopped off the barstool. But before I made it two steps from my seat, the server approached Dex and Ania. Her appearance gave me just enough pause to realize I hadn’t given any thought to what I would say when I arrived at their table. I’d need to come up with something good if I planned to put the kibosh on this date without making a scene.
Should I go over and tell Dex there had been a mistake and Ania wasn’t the right match for him? Would that make me look completely unprofessional and put a bad taste in his mouth for the whole process? What if Ania copped an attitude—as she was so prone to doing—and embarrassed me even more?
I sighed, shifting my weight from foot to foot. No, there probably wasn’t a good way to interrupt the date without making a fool of myself and the company. And that was not the kind of thing a CEO would do. If I wanted to be the boss, I needed to act like one. WWJD—in this case, what would Julia do?
A Match for the Marine: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 1) Page 5