Too Good To Be True: A One Love novella

by Blakely, Lauren

  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 dealbreaker. “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, since he stopped by to pick up a book. Perfect opportunity to nab his opinion.

  His green eyes light up with laughter and, admittedly, a whole ton of mockery. “How do you look?” he echoes as he tucks Why We Sleep under his arm.

  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 as he claps my shoulder. “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.”

  “Be good,” he says as he heads for the door. I say goodbye, then 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 obj
ectifying 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 working 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.”

  Laughter seems to burst from him. “That’s not what I was going to say, but it’s good to know your ground rules. Just so we’re clear, are all types of sex off the table?”

  Twin spots of pink form on my cheeks. “Probably.”

  He steps closer, and I can smell him—his aftershave is woodsy and intoxicating. “What about kissing, can we kiss? Let’s say that I meet some of the marks on your checklist, do you want to have a kiss at the end?” he asks, and I’m nearly drunk on him already.

  I want a kiss right the hell now. “That seems reasonable,” I say a little breathy. Then my mind trips back to his comment. “What did you want to get out of the way, then?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Yes, Herb is my real name.”

  “I didn’t think it was a fake name.”

  “Who would pick that as a fake name, unless you were trying to scare somebody off?”

  “Your name doesn’t scare me,” I say, because I’m 100 percent unperturbed by his old-school name.

  “Are you sure?”

  I point to the light sculpture on the white wall. “I’m still standing here under this weird, bizarre, twisty-turny collage of rainbow neon lights. I’m sure.”

  He glances up at the art installation in question. “Isn’t that the coolest thing?”

  “It’s so weird, it’s like the perfect weird piece of art. I want to hang that in my apartment and have people come over and say, ‘What is that?’ And I’ll reply with ‘my innermost thoughts,’” I say, all haughty.

  “You’re devilish,” he says in admiration.

  “Perhaps I am.”

  I stare at him, amazed that it’s already going this well. “By the way, why did you mention your name?”

  His tone is softer, more direct. “I guess because I’m surprised you didn’t. Most dates bring up my name, since it’s unusual. They want to know if it’s a nickname, if it’s real, if it’s a family name that my mom had to give me. Or a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Why would someone think it’s a mistake?”

  He shoots me a steely glare. “Herb? Let’s cut to the chase. It ain’t Chase. It isn’t Hunter or Bennett or Foxface, or whatever cool names dudes have these days.”

  A smile crosses my lips, warming me from the inside out. “I don’t give a foxface if your name is cool or uncool. But is there a story behind it?”

  He chuckles in a self-deprecating way that’s thoroughly endearing. “Herb was my granddad’s name. It was supposed to be my middle name. But he passed away a few days before I was born, and well, my sentimental parents made it my first name.”

  “Aww. That’s touching. A very sweet story.”

  “I’m stuck with it, but he was a great man, so it’s all good. And I have the world’s simplest last name, so go figure.”

  “I like both of your names. The juxtaposition of the old-fashioned next to the familiar is a refreshing combo. It makes you even more unique, like this date.”

  “Normally on dates I count the seconds until it’s going to be over.”

  “Ouch. The seconds, really? Is it usually that bad that you have to count the actual seconds?”

  He nods vigorously. “It’s usually that bad.”

  “What’s the shortest date you’ve ever been on?” I query as we stroll through another hall of the art gallery.

  “I would say about twelve minutes and fifty-two seconds. We had nothing to say to each other, and it was evident when she wanted to talk about how to do her nails, then she showed me an Instagram video of how to do nails, and there was like sponges and glue, and it was Instagram. Have I mentioned it was Instagram?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and admit it. I do not get the fascination with every single life hack for every single thing, for every type of makeup or every type of possible decoration you could put on your body or face, but it seems like everyone in a certain age range wants to do everything they’ve learned from Instagram.”

  He smiles. “Is it too early to say this is the best date I’ve been on
in a long time?”

  My grin matches his. “I don’t think it’s too early at all, but I think we really should reserve judgment until we finish the main attraction.”

  “Are you ready for it?”

  “I’m so ready.”

  We finish the appetizer portion of our date and head over to devour the main course.

  4

  Herb

  As we walk to the warehouse, we talk.

  “Ever been to an escape room before?” We turn down a lively block in Tribeca.

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “That sounds like a come-on.”

  “Maybe it is.” I dive into an exaggerated seductive voice. “Want to come see my . . . escape room, baby?”

  She purses her lips then drags a hand down her chest. “Oooh, yes. Show it to me now.”

  I growl, keeping up the routine, loving how easily I’m clicking with this woman. “Level with me. Are you an escape room virgin?”

  She drops a demure expression on her face. “I am indeed.”

  “Me too,” I say, returning to my normal voice. “But Evie thinks it’s perfect for us since I love puzzles and you presumably do too.”

  “Crazy for them,” she says, emphasizing the words with passion. “My job is kind of like a puzzle. Being an ethical hacker. You have to get into everything backwards.” Then she talks more about some of the work she does, and it’s fascinating. She practices hacking into security for banks, then giving them advice on where they have holes. “And it’s sort of similar to what you do,” she says. “Which is a puzzle too.”

  Instantly I know what she means.

  “Since my patients can’t talk?”

  She smiles and nods. “Yes, that does make it quite a puzzle. It’s like you need a whole other language.”

  We chat more as we weave through the moonlit streets in lower Manhattan, and as we do, I take a moment to admire her. I was being honest when I said if she wasn’t pretty, it wouldn’t matter.

  And I meant it. To me, this kind of chemistry—instant and electric—matters so much more.

  But I still find it kind of hard to believe she’s as gorgeous as she is, and as interesting as she is. Clearly, something has to go wrong, like it did with Sandy.