Cupid for Hire

by Lila Monroe

  Which, yes, I did. But still . . .

  I set about tidying things back to at least normal levels of mess—and then do the same for myself with a long, luxurious shower. I dress in shorts and a loose linen shirt over my bikini, then head out to the main lodge, equipped with a tote bag full of lounging essentials: book, towel, and SPF 80 sunscreen. I wasn’t just reassuring Dylan; after my walk in the woods yesterday, I’ve more than had my fill of adventure. For my last day of vacation, I’m actually going to take a break. Nothing is going to drag me off a sun-lounger.

  Except, maybe, breakfast.

  “Poppy!”

  When I step into the dining hall, Sarah waves me over to her table. “You have perfect timing,” she tells me with a smile. “The kids just went canoeing for the day, so I’ve been left alone to tackle this mountain of waffles.”

  She gestures to the mouthwatering spread.

  “What a chore,” I laugh, happily sinking into the seat beside her and reaching for a plate. “The least I can do is help you endure this trial.”

  “So kind,” she grins. “I knew you were the selfless type.”

  “Mmmhmhm,” I mumble behind a mouthful of strawberries and syrup. I swallow. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m famished!”

  “Really . . .” Sarah gives me a sideways look. “Did you have a late night?”

  I pause. There’s mischief sparkling in her eyes that can only mean one thing. “How did you know?” I exclaim.

  “News travels fast.” She grins. “Plus the room-service guys are the worst gossips.”

  I look around, wondering if I’m the center of attention now. “Does this mean everyone knows?”

  “Oh, no, don’t worry,” she reassures me. “The guests in Cabin 4 went skinny-dipping last night and then decided to, umm, christen the dock, so you and Dylan got bumped way down the scandal stakes.”

  “Oh, phew. And also, eww,” I laugh. “Splinters!”

  “Right?” Sarah grins. “So . . . You and Dylan, huh?” Her gaze turns curious again, so I avoid it by stuffing more waffles into my mouth. But clearly, being a mother has made her patient, because Sarah doesn’t change the subject, she just waits until I’m done chewing.

  “Is there bacon?” I ask, looking around, trying to distract her.

  “Right here.” She nudges the dish over. “So?”

  “Hmm?” I play dumb.

  Sarah laughs. “OK, I get it. You don’t want to talk. But just so you know, I haven’t seen Dylan like this since . . . well, ever.”

  I blink. “Really?” I ask, unable to resist taking the juicy, juicy bait. “Haven’t you met like, a hundred women he’s dated by now?”

  Sarah looks amused. “You think he introduces them to us? I know you were here to help with the whole Jasmine thing, but between us, I’m glad he saw the light.”

  “But Jasmine is great.” I feel like I need to defend her.

  “Oh, yes, she’s lovely,” Sarah agrees. “But I’ve never seen two people less compatible. Dylan may be able to turn his hand to anything, but that man is not cut out for a future in crystal healing.”

  I laugh. “OK, I’m with you on that. And . . . thank you. I think.”

  “Just don’t make the mistake of thinking Dylan is as cavalier as he seems.” Sarah gives me a measured look that still has a hint of warning. “He’s a good man. And he deserves to be happy.”

  “I agree,” I tell her. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this week, it’s not to underestimate the heart lurking under all that charm and teasing. “But this literally just happened, so if you want to know what Dylan is thinking . . . you should probably talk to him.”

  “Point taken.” Sarah grins. “Now, should we order the pancakes, too?”

  “Do you even need to ask?”

  * * *

  After breakfast, I head to down by the lake, where I spend the rest of the day lying out in the shade of a yellow-trimmed umbrella, living my vacation dreams. The water laps gently against the shore, and I doze happily, listening to the sound of the other guests splash around energetically—while the most physical activity I do is lifting my arm to signal for another icy drink.

  Heaven.

  But just because my body is in a state of blissful relaxation, doesn’t mean my mind decides to take a break. Because now that I’ve had some time to recover from my post-orgasmic haze, I can’t help wondering . . .

  What happens now?

  After everything that’s happened with Dylan over the past twenty-four hours, I’m a whirlwind of questions. Are we together? Seeing each other? Friends with sexy benefits? Any and/or all of the above?

  Somehow, it was easier back in middle school:

  Will you be my boyfriend? Circle Yes or No.

  I know what I want, but I can’t help wondering if Dylan is cut out to date like a regular human being (and not a wealthy playboy). I know that one night together is way too soon to be having conversations about being exclusive, but I also know from experience I’m not built for the whole casual-hookup situation. In fact, I couldn’t be less built that way if I had “monogamous” tattooed in indelible ink across my heart.

  When I fall for a guy, I fall hard.

  And let’s just say that where Dylan is concerned? I tripped over that particular cliff edge a while ago. Which currently leaves me plummeting towards the ground, wondering if I’m going to hit with a messy, heartbroken SPLAT.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  Sexy swimsuit ;)

  I look around—and see Dylan over by the dock. He’s with some other employees, but he sends me a wave, so I wave back . . . and send a reply.

  Want to come take it off me?

  A moment later his reply comes.

  I’m not sure Hotels of America would like the show.

  I laugh. You never know . . . your ass is definitely worth a five-star review.

  Minx. Save it for after dinner . . .

  I smile and tuck my phone away, feeling better now. By the time I head back to my cabin to get ready for dinner, I’ve managed to put my anxieties on hold . . . at least for the meantime. The only way I’m going to find out what kind of relationship Dylan wants is to discover it in our own sweet time, so I change into a summery print dress and sandals, and I head over to the lodge for our big dinner date.

  The sun is setting over the lake, and when I arrive, the hostess directs me out on the terrace, where a romantic table for two has been set up, private and away from the rest of the guests. There are fresh-cut flowers and candles on the table, and—most romantic of all—a breadbasket warm and waiting for me.

  I take a seat and wait for Dylan. And wait.

  And keep on waiting.

  Twenty minutes and three—OK, five—fresh rolls later, I flag down the harried-looking waitress. “Is, um, Dylan around?” I ask.

  “He’s . . . dealing with a situation in the kitchens,” she replies, shooting an anxious look over her shoulder. “I’m afraid we’re closing early for the night.”

  “Oh.”

  I pull on my cardigan and stand, feeling weirdly rejected. I mean, I know he’s the boss here and technically on the clock, but I’ve been looking forward to seeing him all day.

  And hopefully seeing him all night, too.

  “Is everything OK?” I ask, wondering what could be up. The restaurant is half-full of people already, all looking annoyed as they prepare to leave their tables—unfed.

  The waitress makes a face. “I’m . . . not supposed to say anything—”

  She’s interrupted by a commotion as a group of kitchen workers suddenly come hustling out of the double doors. They make a beeline for the exit, like they’re fleeing some kind of zombie attack.

  I follow the way they came, cautiously pushing the doors open. “Dylan?” I call, seriously confused now.

  “Shh!” a reply comes from somewhere on the other side of the kitchen. “Stay low! And don’t make any sudden moves!”

  I follow his instructions, slowly rounding the si
nk to find . . .

  Dylan, crouched down beside the walk-in freezer, wielding a broom above his head.

  I burst out laughing. He looks ridiculous.

  And ridiculously hot.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, giggling.

  “Shh!” He puts a finger to his lips. “It’ll hear you.”

  “What will?”

  “That.”

  Dylan points the broom across the kitchen. I lean out from behind the counter and take a peek, not sure if I’m going to find someone munching on brains, or a creature emerging from a toxic chemical spill. Instead, I see a small furry animal scavenging through an overturned garbage pail.

  “You’re scared of that thing?” I ask, laughing.

  “It’s a skunk!” Dylan whisper-yells. “If it decides to spray in here . . . We’ll never get the place clean. Goodbye food prep for the rest of the week!”

  Ack. Good point.

  “Can we shoo it out?” I ask, noticing the back door ajar nearby. Clearly, Mr. Skunk decided to sneak in when nobody was looking.

  “I’m trying. But I can’t risk it getting near the produce . . .” Dylan nods to the counter, where, sure enough, bushels of delicious fresh fruits and veggies are waiting to be cooked—or ruined with toxic skunk stench, depending on whether our little friend is feeling threatened or not.

  “Maybe we can use a pincer movement,” I whisper. “I’ll circle and approach from the other side!”

  “Be careful,” Dylan whispers as I tentatively step out from my hiding spot. I creep around the long prep counter, moving on my tippy-toes so as not to make a sound. I manage to make it to the other side of the room. I look to Dylan, who gives me a nod, and then we both begin to edge closer to the skunk.

  It looks up, darting its gaze back and forth between us.

  “That’s right,” I coo in what’s hopefully a calming voice. “Just go back the way you came.”

  The skunk seems to think about it, then begins to retreat towards the door. The plan is working! “Go back into the forest to play with all your skunky little friends,” I tell him, edging closer . . . Closer . . .

  He’s through the door!

  We keep moving, shooing the little fur-monster clear of the building. “We did it!” I celebrate—quietly. Dylan kicks the kitchen door closed behind us . . . And it slams shut with a bang.

  The skunk whirls around, startled, and then puffs up its tail.

  “No!” Dylan cries. “Run!”

  He leaps in front of me like he’s taking a bullet, but it’s no use. The skunk lets out a spray of the foulest-smelling chemicals I’ve ever had the misfortune to sniff . . .

  Right at the two of us.

  We’re covered.

  I let out a groan of disgust as the skunk turns tail and scampers off into the trees, leaving me and Dylan coughing and spluttering for dear life.

  And stinking to high heavens. I mentioned that part, right?

  “Crisis averted,” Dylan is talking into his walkie-talkie. “Get everyone back in. Dinner is on!”

  I moan, holding my nose to keep from gagging. “Never min’ foo’, I nee’ a showe’.”

  “What?”

  “A showe’!!”

  I give up trying to communicate and just leg it back to my cabin—with Dylan following behind.

  “Don’t let the smell in!” I call behind me, stripping down to my underwear right there on the porch and discarding my clothes before diving straight for the bathroom. I turn the water on full-blast, and don’t even wait for it to heat up before stepping under the spray. Because a little cold water? Is way better than this stink-fest right now.

  Dylan joins me, emptying half a bottle of shower gel onto his body and scrubbing hard.

  “You owe me,” I gag, trying to take the entire top layer of my skin off.

  “I tried to protect you!”

  “Which was cute,” I admit. “Misguided, but cute.”

  I pause. Dylan and I must look like bedraggled rats right now. Stinky, bedraggled rodents. So much for our romantic dinner! I was expecting moonlight and champagne, not a literal cold shower. Our official first date couldn’t have gone more off the rails if we’d planned it this way. I have to laugh.

  “What?” he asks, still scrubbing.

  “You sure know how to treat a girl,” I tease, grinning. “Wining . . . dining . . . rodents . . .”

  Dylan laughs, pausing to slide his hands around my waist. “I think you mean, small mammal. It’s romance all the way with me, baby.” He grins, leaning in to kiss me, his body hot and wet against me. I’d almost forgotten that we’re naked, but I definitely remember it now. “Are you saying those other guys didn’t get you sprayed by your very own skunk?”

  I shake my head, distracted now by just where his hands are roving.

  “Too bad,” Dylan continues, his voice dropping, husky, as he dips a kiss to my bare shoulder. “We’ll just have to get you cleaned up then.” He reaches for the shower gel, a wicked smile on his face.

  “Every last inch.”

  20

  Poppy

  “Drive safe,” Dylan tells me, as we pack up my rental car the next morning for me to get on the road. “I mean it: GPS all the way. No spontaneous detours.”

  “That was one time!” I protest. “I’ll have you know, I have an excellent sense of direction. I once navigated my way from Queens to Williamsburg on the subway without once looking at a map.”

  “Well, clearly your powers fade the further you get from the city,” Dylan grins. He stows my bag in the trunk and slams it shut. “Got everything you need?”

  “Almost.” I pull him down for a lingering goodbye kiss, then reluctantly release him. “OK, go wow them with your hotel-ing brilliance, or whatever it is you do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dylan steals another kiss, and then he saunters back towards the lodge. I watch him go, admiring the view—until one of the busboys rushes out to my car with a to-go cup of coffee in one hand and a brown bag of something sweet and sticky in the other.

  “I hope you enjoyed your stay,” he says, handing me my snacks. I sigh with satisfaction. Now, there’s a royal send-off.

  “I did, thank you!”

  I tip generously, and I get on the road again. The drive back to the city flies by, fueled with sugar and carbs and all things nice, but soon, the freshly scrubbed air takes on an exhaust-y flavor, and I wind up stuck behind a garbage truck in traffic for the last few miles. I roll up the windows and turn on the AC as I drive through the Lincoln Tunnel, back in the land of neon lights and angry drivers again.

  Why did I leave my luxurious lakefront hotel bed—and the hot man inhabiting it—again?

  Because I have a business to run, I remind myself. Clients to hustle, true love to sprinkle around. And I’ll be needing every last one of those happy clients I can get, seeing as I just lost my most frequent customer.

  At least, I hope I have. Because if Dylan calls me up to go woo another woman for him, things will get seriously awkward around here!

  I can’t help thinking of Jasmine—especially as I try some seated stretches to get rid of the cramp in my calf. I feel a pang of guilt. I know she wasn’t exactly panting over Dylan, so she probably wasn’t all that disappointed when he backtracked and let her down gently, but I hope she doesn’t think I planned it that way—like some kind of duplicitous bait-and-switch. It wasn’t like I set out to steal him away. Hell, I was so deep in denial about my feelings, I did more than anyone to try and make that pairing work. But clearly, it wasn’t meant to be.

  So are Dylan and I . . . ?

  I feel a flicker of excitement . . . or is it just the caffeine talking? I don’t know. The start of something new is always messy and thrilling . . . And sexy. And delicious . . .

  A horn breaks through my memories of last night, and I realize I’m blocking the intersection. I hit the gas and lurch forward before I can get pancaked by a massive truck.

  Enough daydreaming! I need to make it b
ack to solid ground. And also a bathroom. ASAP!

  * * *

  I make it back to my place by 11 a.m. and haul my bags upstairs to the apartment. April flings open the door, excited. “You’re back!”

  “I’m back!” I agree. “And I really need the bathroom!”

  I give her a quick hug and then speed through the apartment before all that coffee catches up with me. I barely register that the living room is overflowing with flowers, until I emerge again—much calmer, and emptier now—and look around the floral-bedecked space.

  I blink. Every surface is covered with gorgeous arrangements, a dazzling array of blues and lilac. “Wow, what are you working on this time?” I ask. “Whoever the customer is, they have taste.”

  I sniff the nearest bouquet of irises and magnolia as April beams. “They’re for you!”

  “What?” I turn.

  “Dylan called and told me to make a truly extravagant romantic gesture—on his behalf.” April claps her hands together in delight. Her smile couldn’t get any wider. “Does this mean what I think it means?!”

  “It depends . . .” I tease. “Do you think it means we had wild, epic sex and then gorged ourselves on room service? In that case, it means exactly what you think it does.”

  “Ahhh!” April squeals. “I knew it! I knew once you got out there, everything would fall into place. The two of you, the romance, the moonlight . . .”

  “Throw in a skunk and some sunburn, and you’ve just about got it.” I smile. “Which reminds me, do you have any of that aloe vera lotion?”

  “How can you talk about lotion at a time like this?” April wails. “Come on, I want all the swoon-worthy details.”

  “And I want to avoid looking like a peeled, boiled shrimp,” I counter, grinning at her excitement. “There’s nothing romantic about that.”

  “Fine.” April digs in one of the drawers until she finds the bottle. She tosses it to me, and I start slathering it on my poor shoulders with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “That’s better . . .”