Cupid for Hire

by Lila Monroe

  “You’re looking at this all wrong.” Natalie scooches over to face me on our blanket. “Let’s say you had banged him in a night of torrid love-making . . .”

  “Go on.” I grin.

  “Sure, it would have been fun—aside from the visit to the free clinic,” Natalie laughs, “but then what? You would have lost your biggest client, and there’s no way he would have been at your door with bagels this morning.”

  “Good point,” I agree. “And good bagels, too. They were those delicious chewy ones, not those pale coffee-shop imitations, like Tyler used to bring.”

  “Tyler knew he didn’t have to try,” Natalie points out. “Dylan is still keeping you on deck in case he feels another drunken hookup calling.”

  “I wouldn’t even have to be drunk.” I allow myself a smile. “Natalie, the man could kiss.”

  “Probably because he’s had so much practice.”

  “Good point.” One I’ve been reminding myself of frequently since I woke up this morning with a killer hangover—alone. “Even the best . . . bagel in the world isn’t worth risking my business over. And you know, I actually kind of like him,” I add, sounding about as surprised as I feel by the unexpected development. “As a person, I mean. We had a lot of fun, even before the whole makeout portion of the evening.”

  “Then there you go.”

  “But the makeout . . .” I drift back into the hot kiss-by-kiss action replay in my mind, until Natalie snaps her fingers in front of my face.

  “Earth to Poppy!”

  “Whoops, sorry.” I grin.

  She laughs. “Look, you know I’m all for a hot, sweaty, horizontal workout, the fewer strings the better. But I’m not you. I don’t have those heart-eyes just waiting to go full on crushing on some guy.”

  “See, you say that, but I think there’s some heart-eyes in you yet,” I tease.

  Natalie shakes her head. “I don’t have time for feelings, not until I make editor. At least.”

  “Well, as long as you have a plan,” I grin. Natalie says she’ll never let a guy get in the way of her career, but I can’t wait for the day that icy exterior melts for someone. Or, you know, just chips a little.

  But she’s right. Unfortunately, annoyingly right. Because I do want something real. A relationship. True love.

  And Dylan?

  Is not that guy.

  Not even close.

  “Ooh, look: yoga mommies!” Natalie leaps to her feet, spotting a pack of women laying out their mats under some trees. “They’ll definitely have an opinion on the school redistricting plans.”

  “You go, I should be getting back to work.” I reluctantly get to my feet. “I have three different wedding toasts to write . . . all for the same wedding!”

  “A Cyrano’s work is never done,” Natalie quips as she heads off to get some juicy quotes. I pack up my blanket and stroll the long way back through the park. It’s a gorgeous day, and the place is full of happy couples out strolling . . . snuggling . . . out in rowboats together on the lake. It seems like all of Manhattan is conspiring to remind me about my single status, but on the plus side, they’re also reminding me that I made the right call with Dylan. Sure, he’s fun for drunken escapades, but would I ever find him on a romantic rowboat adventure?

  Something tells me: hell nope.

  At least not with me. Which means he’s not the man I’m looking for . . . A fact I just need to keep reminding myself, every time I remember how good it felt to be pressed up against him in the back of that cab, with his mouth on my neck, and his hands doing wicked things somewhere under my dress—

  Ahem.

  I should be heading back to the library to work, but instead, I find myself detouring a few blocks over, to that pretty tree-lined street where a certain brownstone is located. The “for rent” sign is still in the window, and I peer through the glass, wondering if I still have a shot.

  It’s still sunny, and spacious, and gorgeous . . .

  I sigh. I’ve never been a woman who flips out over a designer purse or a “gotta have ’em” pair of shoes, but clearly, my pipe-dream instincts have just been lying dormant all this time, waiting for the day when they could rise up and smack me in the face with pure, impossible longing.

  Because real estate? I give my subconscious a scolding. Couldn’t it have started somewhere easier, like, I don’t know, diamond jewelry? Because I’m about as likely to buy out Tiffany’s as I am to come up with the rent—first, last, and security deposit—on this place.

  I should just face it, I’ve got champagne tastes and a diet soda budget. The off-brand type that comes in multi-packs at the corner store.

  “Excuse me.”

  I leap, spinning around at the interruption. It’s the property manager, giving me a suspicious look. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just . . . visiting!” I exclaim.

  “Are you stalking me or something?” he asks. “Because I told you, lady, I’m a married man.”

  “No!” I try not to laugh. “I promise. I was passing by, and, I couldn’t help noticing the office is still available. Haven’t you had any applications?”

  “I’ve had them, sure.” The man scowls. “A weed collective, some woman wanting to house her fitness company. Trampolines!” he says. “Who wants to go bouncing around on a trampoline? It’ll wreak havoc on the hardwoods.”

  “Oh, absolutely!” I nod. “I’m a writer. Very quiet. No bouncing. If, maybe, you dropped the rent . . .”

  “And why would I want to do that?” the man asks. “Anyway, it’s not my call. You think I make any of the decisions here? I wouldn’t have painted the door red, for starters. Or let the tenant in 2B put up those flyers for his lost ferret. Damn thing can stay lost, as far as I’m concerned.”

  I start to back away slowly. “Well, you’re obviously busy here!” I say brightly. “I’ll leave you to, umm, your ferret.”

  “It’s not my ferret!” he growls, before I turn on my heel and speed-walk away.

  OK, so maybe the management leaves a few things to be desired, but that office is still 100 percent perfect.

  And 100 percent out of my league, unless I up my game in a big way. Because while my savings could just about cover the upfront costs, I’m not sure I could keep up with the rent payments. Or could I? I walk south to the subway, mentally going over my regular clients and upcoming jobs. A handful of online dating clients, the standing orders for anniversary and birthday letters, a couple of weddings, and a big contract to turn a couple’s epic love story into a book. The fact the couple is only seventeen might make it a rather short novella, but I can make it work.

  And then there’s Dylan.

  I pause, struck with a sudden panic. Is he going to feel awkward about commissioning me to woo other women now that I’m intimately acquainted with his tongue?

  Damn. Natalie was right—he makes up a big portion of my regular business, and losing him would be a massive blow. And, sure, I can still practically feel my pulse race from last night’s hotness, but what’s a little sexual tension between friends? Because we are now . . . friends. And friends help friends with their romantic lives all the time, don’t they? The bonus he offered me for helping with Jasmine might be off the table now, but if I know Dylan—and I do—he’ll be rebounding by dinner. Plus, if I can get him to recommend me to some of his friends, then maybe that office space isn’t completely out of reach . . .

  * * *

  I change directions and head over to his hotel in Soho. He has an office on the palatial fourth floor, and when I walk in, I find a tall, leggy woman bent over his desk.

  What did I say about rebounding by dinner? It’s not even 2 p.m.!

  “Sorry, should I come back?” I ask. Even though there’s no sign of Dylan, I can’t be sure if she’s about to strip naked and wait for him.

  The woman turns. She has pink streaks and a buzzed undercut, and a row of silver hoops in both ears. “What? Oh, no, I dropped a stud back here, but I just had my e
yes lasered, and can’t see a damn thing on these carpets.”

  “Let me help.” I go join her, hunting around on the floor. I can only imagine how the stud came loose down here. “What does it look like?”

  “Kind of like the one in my nose, but with a black stone,” she shows me. “Have you thought about getting pierced? You have the nose to carry it off.”

  “Thanks. I think,” I reply. “And, nope. Anyone wanting to punch through my flesh can stay far, far away. Ooh, got it!” I reach down and carefully pick up a tiny silver stud.

  “Thanks.” The woman smiles, wiping it off and fastening it back in her ear. “Ever since I started working here, I’ve lost half my jewelry to the shag-pile. Someone should tell Dylan, retro-cool is out of style again.”

  “You work here?” Now it makes more sense. “Sorry, I just thought . . .”

  “That I was one of his harem?” The woman smirks. “I like to think I have a little more taste than that. And also, employment law on my side. I’m Lara, by the way.”

  “Ahem.”

  We turn, still on our hands and knees. Dylan is in the doorway with a takeout bag, looking amused. “Should I ask?” he says.

  Lara rolls her eyes. “One of these days, you’re going to get sued,” she informs him, getting to her feet.

  “And you’ll be first on the witness stand to tell them how professional I am, isn’t that right?” Dylan grins.

  She snorts. “Sure thing, boss.”

  She heads out, and I scramble up, smoothing down my sundress. “Hi,” I blurt, feeling awkward now that we’re alone again. Because although I’ve been giving myself my “keeping things friendly and professional” pep talk all the way over here, it’s a little different to be faced up close with that mischievous smile, and those blue eyes, and that delicious body . . .

  Focus, Poppy!

  “So, I have a proposition for you,” I say. Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Not that kind of proposition!” I protest quickly. “I mean, about work.”

  “Sure. Right.” Dylan circles to behind his desk. He sets down his bag and pulls out a massive wrapped sandwich.

  “Is that Lenny’s?” I ask, distracted for a moment.

  “It sure is,” Dylan grins. “The finest roast beef in all the land.”

  “Oh . . .” My mouth waters.

  “I’m going to have to get you a meal plan.” Dylan smirks. He splits the sandwich and pushes half over to me. “So, this very professional proposition of yours . . .”

  I’m torn between eating and pitching. The eating wins—at least for the first few bites. “You want that pickle?” he asks, digging in.

  I shake my head. “But I’ll take the salad,” I say. “And the mayo.”

  “Freak.”

  We trade trimmings and condiments, and we split the fries. Finally sated, I get my game face on. “I was going to say—before the roast beef distraction—that I could use some word-of-mouth recommendations,” I begin. “Do you know anyone in need of a Cyrano? I could really use the business right now.”

  Dylan raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were run off your feet. Or is that just your excuse for jacking up my rates?”

  “I don’t need an excuse for you,” I inform him with a smile. “You’re rich, therefore, you can afford to pay.”

  He grins. “I should be getting a discount, anyway. Frequent flyer miles, and all.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” I smirk back. “A therapist might disagree.”

  Dylan snorts with laughter. “You have a funny way of buttering people up when you need a favor.”

  “You need butter?” I tilt my head and flutter my eyelashes at him. “Oh, Dylan, I know you’re so important, and so successful—”

  “Go on,” Dylan grins.

  “—But could you possibly take time out of your plans for world hospitality domination to help me out? Pretty please?”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He laughs. “And of course, I can put the word out if you need.”

  “And if you need my services, I’m here as usual for your romance ghost-writing,” I add, acting like there isn’t a massive drunken elephant in the room.

  Dylan pauses at that. “Really? I actually wasn’t sure if you still wanted to . . . You know, after . . .” He trails off tactfully.

  “After our drunken hookup?” I decide to face the elephant head on, however sexy he is. I give him a bright smile. “I thought we agreed: water under the bridge.”

  “More like whiskey,” Dylan jokes, and I laugh, relieved.

  “Exactly. I’m still here for all your Cyrano needs.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” Dylan’s face spreads into a smile. A real one, full of excitement. “I still need your help with Jasmine. She called and said she’s coming to the hotel opening next week!”

  “Oh.” I gulp. For a moment, I wonder if this is why he was so hasty to blow me off this morning—because his dream woman had already come calling.

  But then I remind myself it doesn’t matter, either way.

  “That’s great!” I say brightly. “So what do you need: a couple more notes to go with flowers? A poem for her pillowcase?”

  “Actually . . . I need you.”

  I blink, flushing. “What now?”

  Dylan’s smile slips. “Can you come to the Catskills? Just for a couple of days. I don’t even know where to start with Jasmine, and I don’t want to screw this up. You do that, don’t you? I saw you coach Henry through his vows.”

  “Yes, but that was one afternoon!” I protest, my head spinning. “I’m not a love coach or your personal romance assistant!”

  “I know! But I’m not cut out for this romance thing. I need your help. I’m just going to be on the phone with you all the time, anyway, asking what to say,” Dylan points out. “So how about you save us both the annoyance, and come up? A luxury suite, my treat, unlimited bagels, whatever you need . . .” His tone turns tempting. “Plus, the bonus still stands. Fifty thousand dollars if she dates me. You can’t say no to that.”

  I pause. I already know this is a very bad, potentially terrible idea, but somehow, I can’t stop myself from saying, “OK. I’m in.”

  Dylan lights up. “Thank you!” he exclaims. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

  It’s too late for that, but what can I say? The allure of those fifty G’s is just too strong.

  “I’ll have Lara set up everything,” he continues, flashing a smile that would stop any sane woman’s pulse—except, of course, he’s not smiling at me, but the prospect of winning the woman of his dreams. “Say the word, and it’s yours.”

  “Uh huh.”

  His phone rings. “Sorry, I have to take this,” Dylan apologizes. I get to my feet and steal the last of the fries because, well, he said anything I want, didn’t he? “See you next week!”

  I walk slowly out of the office. Twelve hours ago, I was kissing the man passionately in the middle of the street. Now, I’ve just agreed to help him seduce somebody else. Am I crazy?

  Yes. Yes I am.

  The Catskills, here I come!

  10

  Poppy

  Monday afternoon, I’m speeding down Route 17, wondering if I forgot to pack something vital.

  Bug spray? Check.

  Sunscreen? Check.

  Conflicted feelings about helping Dylan win Jasmine’s heart when just the sight of him does strange gooey things to my insides?

  I knew my overnight bags were so heavy for a reason.

  I shake it off and focus on the road. I’m here to do my job, I remind myself. Fix them up, collect my cash bonus, and enjoy some spa time while I’m at it. No mess, no fuss, no pesky broken hearts—just a professional, doing her job, the way I’m supposed to.

  Simple.

  Right?

  I turn the stereo louder, blasting my doubts away with the 90s mixtape April made as I leave the bustle and fumes of the city behind. No more angst, I decide, it’s time to count my blessings. After all, I’m no
t stuck sweltering in the city heat, getting a nose-ful of my fellow passenger’s sweat glands on the subway. Instead, I’ve got the windows rolled down and a fresh breeze whipping around my hair. Dylan’s assistant set me up with a sweet droptop rental, and you can bet I’m getting his money’s worth, cruising down the highway singing along to Bon Jovi. I haven’t taken a vacation in years, and I feel like I’m playing hooky from real life, taking off like this. With every mile, my excitement grows, the concrete jungle turning into pine forests, thick and green, with small towns dotted along the highway and signs for homemade jam and vegetables for sale.

  My cell rings, and I click to answer through the hi-tech hands-free system. “Are you there yet?” April demands. “I’m so jealous. It was ninety-two degrees on the subway this morning. Ninety-two!”

  “I did offer you my plus-one,” I remind her.

  “I know, but I have that wedding to set up,” April sighs. “Not that they deserve my flowers. I heard him tell his groomsman to be sure to order five strippers for the bachelor party tonight.”

  “Ouch. Maybe she’s on board?” I offer. “You know, what happens before the wedding, stays before the wedding?”

  “I should start slipping the number for a divorce lawyer in the bouquet,” April says, sounding downcast. “My cousin could use the work.”

  ”The path to true love never ran smooth,” I quote, then switch to: “Don’t let the bastards wear you down.”

  “You’re quoting Handmaid’s Tale at me?” April snorts with laughter. “Real upbeat!”

  “It got you laughing,” I point out with a grin. “Anyway, I’m the one going into the lion’s den here. What am I going to tell Jasmine: ‘Please date him, he’s an amazing kisser. I would know!’ ”

  April laughs. “Maybe rethink that one.”

  “With any luck, she’ll spend one evening with Dylan, then fall into his arms,” I say, hoping for the best-slash-least complicated outcome. “I mean, he is dangerously irresistible when he puts his mind to it.”