Cupid for Hire

by Lila Monroe

  “So?” she asks eagerly. “Was it amazing? Did you both just look at each other and realize you were meant to be?”

  My phone buzzes before I can answer. It’s Natalie.

  AND???? she’s texted, along with emojis for eggplant, peach, and a spray of water.

  “How does she know already?” I hold up the message.

  April grins. “I texted while you were in the bathroom. She’s sneaking out to meet us for brunch, she wants all the details.”

  I laugh. “More than she wants to keep her job?”

  April waves away my concern. “You know Nat, she’s got them all wrapped around her little finger.”

  But when we meet Natalie at our favorite brunch spot near her work, she doesn’t look so confident. “I’m doomed!” Natalie greets us, sinking lower in the booth with a groan. “The sale of the Daily News went through. We’re officially part of the Ashford Group.”

  I don’t know who that is, but she says the name in the same way you’d utter “the Association of Kitten-Stranglers.”

  “Oh no, what does that mean for you?” I ask, ordering her a consolation basket of fries. “Will you get to keep your job?”

  “Maybe . . . maybe not.” Natalie looks grim. “They have a record of massive layoffs . . . but on the other hand, I’m the cheapest person in that newsroom, so maybe I’ll make the cut, just so they can stick me with three more positions and save on payroll.”

  “See, there’s the bright side,” I joke.

  “You’ll do great,” April reassures her. “You’re an amazing journalist, they’d be lucky to keep you.”

  “Thanks guys,” Natalie sighs. “Anyway, enough about me. I’m not the one who had a torrid fling this week, ahem.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

  I grin. “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘torrid.’ ”

  “Wild, sexy, amazing, far more interesting than anything your perpetually single friends have been doing . . .” Natalie corrects herself.

  “OK, OK.” I laugh. “What do you want to know?”

  She rolls her eyes. “How about everything?!”

  So, I tell them—minus a few of the more intimate details. April swoons. Natalie smirks. And I can’t keep the massive smile off my face.

  “I’m so jealous,” April sighs. “And also happy for you,” she adds quickly. “But in a mildly envious way.”

  “It’s OK,” I tell her. “I’d be jealous of me too. Ooh, I almost forgot, I brought you guys back souvenirs.”

  I reach for my bag, and Natalie grins. “You fit a hunky man in there?”

  “Don’t you mean two hunky men?” April asks, teasing.

  “Eh.” Natalie gives a shrug. “I don’t mind sharing. I don’t have enough hours in the day for a full-time thing.”

  “First of all, you work too much,” I tell Natalie. “And second, no, the hot men were all taken. So I did better.” I bring out the armful of miniature toiletries I stashed away on my way out the door.

  Natalie and April both gasp. “Even better than a man!” Natalie exclaims, grabbing one of the tiny bottles. “Ooh, lavender and rose water. They’re fancy.”

  “Nothing but the best for my girls.” I grin. “Plus, the Griffin hotel robes are insanely soft. I think I can sneak out a few. Who knows?” I grin. “By next year, we could all be Griffin hotel platinum VIPs. Although, obviously I’m not dating him for the perks,” I add quickly. “The man has plenty of perks all on his own.”

  “Obviously,” Natalie agrees. “Although . . .” She pauses, her smile slipping for a moment.

  “What?” I ask, reaching for another French fry.

  Natalie looks reluctant. “Just . . . I don’t want you getting your hopes up, that’s all.”

  I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I just wonder . . . You said things were a non-starter for him with Jasmine. So did he pick things up with you right after she bailed?”

  I inhale at the suggestion.

  “Nat!” April elbows her.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything,” she says quickly.

  “When are you going to see him again?” April asks brightly, and I’m more than happy to change the subject back to the shiny-happy of it all. “Do you have another date planned?”

  “He said he wouldn’t be back until the weekend. Which is probably a good thing,” I add. “I need to get some work done without mooning all over him.”

  “Or under him,” Natalie cracks, and I smile, relieved to put her question behind us. I know she’s just looking out for me, but I don’t want to dwell on how we got here: I just want to enjoy the present with Dylan.

  Or at least, the delicious anticipation of being reunited with him again. When brunch is done, and the others head back to work, I send him a text.

  Missing the lake already.

  Is that all you’re missing? his flirty reply comes.

  I grin. You’re right. Say hi to Sarah and Kyle for me.

  Ouch! ;)

  I tuck my phone away and head to the New York Public Library to get my head back in the Cyrano game. Betsy and Hank’s wedding is coming up next week, which means I have both sets of vows to write . . . Plus the maid of honor and best man’s toasts! I should be glad for all the work, but right now, I’m wondering just how many birding metaphors I can fit in one ceremony.

  I decide to widen my net to nature in general, and I spend the afternoon buried in Keats, Shakespeare, and Walden, until I have enough different odes to true love to make the congregation swoon. It’s sweet, knowing they’re about to embark on the rest of their lives together, and as I walk back from the subway, I can’t help thinking about Dylan. I know that whatever this is between us is just getting started, but still . . . Will we be like Betsy and Hank one day: snuggled on the porch, bickering over the weather and our favorite birds?

  OK, our favorite fried chicken place.

  Somehow, it’s not so hard to imagine. Maybe I’m crazy to be thinking so far ahead, but the way I feel when we’re together . . . It’s different from anything I’ve had with other guys. There’s something about him that just makes me feel like I can be myself: weirdly literary, occasionally stubborn, wildly optimistic and all.

  Plus sexy.

  Very, very sexy.

  I’m so deep in thought replaying some of our more X-rated activities that I’m halfway down the block and reaching into my bag for my keys before I see the man waiting outside my apartment building.

  The hot, familiar-looking man.

  My heart leaps. And, yes, my loins do too. “Dylan?”

  He turns—and sweeps me into such a sizzling kiss that makes me wonder if I passed out from the heat on the subway and I’m currently still stuck in fantasy land.

  I break for air, panting. “Umm, hi.”

  “Hey,” Dylan grins. He’s tall and solid and delicious against me, so I give his bicep an experimental squeeze.

  Yup, definitely real.

  “I thought you were staying at the lake until the weekend?” I ask. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  He grins. “I had a meeting with my investors moved up. But you were a not-inconsiderable part of my decision to get back here.”

  “Not inconsiderable, hmm?” I lean in for another kiss. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.”

  We stand there making out for I don’t even know how long. And sure, we’ve been apart for all of eight hours, but I’ve missed him. And this. And . . .

  More.

  But before I can invite Dylan up to finish what we’re starting here, his stomach lets out an almighty rumble. He pulls back with a bashful grin.

  “Hungry?” I laugh.

  “Maybe just a little.” Dylan grins.

  “Me too,” I agree, already mentally scanning through dinner options. Close, convenient options that won’t take us far from my bedroom. “Mexican or Chinese?”

  “Whichever one delivers.” Dylan’s hands slide over my waist
, and I melt against him. “And won’t mind us answering the door naked.”

  I laugh. Takeout, in bed, with Dylan? Sounds just about perfect to me.

  21

  Dylan

  I wake up with a serious crink in my neck and a dead arm. Poppy is currently sprawled naked across me, so I can’t complain about the arm, but as for the rest of it?

  I shift on the wooden plank she has as an excuse for a bed. Sure, running my own hotel has made me kind of a snob when it comes to my sleeping situation, but this feels like college all over again. Would it be too forward to buy a girl a mattress on the second date?

  Or even first. Since, technically, our dinner at the lodge got interrupted by that skunk, and last night, we ate our noodles naked on her bedroom floor. I’m used to wining and dining women at the flashiest restaurants in town, but I’ve had more fun with Poppy not making it to dinner than in all of those Michelin stars combined.

  Poppy stirs, yawning. She looks damn adorable with her hair all tangled up and that sleepy smile on her face.

  A smile I like to think I put there. At least a couple of times last night.

  She opens one eye and catches me staring. “Are you being creepy and watching me sleep?”

  I chuckle. “What if I say yes?”

  “That’s fine.” She yawns again. “Just as long as you’re upfront about the creepy, and don’t keep it hidden in some dark basement somewhere.”

  “You’ll be pleased to know I don’t have a basement,” I reply, tugging her into my arms. “I’m on the penthouse level.”

  She snorts with laughter. “Of course you are.”

  I kiss her, then reluctantly slide out of bed. “Bathroom?” I ask.

  “Down the hall.”

  “Be right back.”

  I follow her directions, then detour via the small galley kitchen to fix some coffee and rustle up something for breakfast. We could run down the block for something, but that would mean putting clothes on, a state of affairs I’d like to avoid for as long as humanly possible. I take a look in the refrigerator and cabinets and manage to find a few edible things, along with the nail polish and box wine. Eggs . . . syrup . . . pancake mix?

  They’ll do.

  A moment later, music comes from a speaker on the counter. An old Bon Jovi song starts playing. Poppy appears in her bedroom doorway, a robe draped around her, singing along. She looks fucking adorable, and sexy as hell.

  “Going for a karaoke re-do?” I ask, smiling at the sight of her.

  Poppy’s jaw drops. “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s my hotel. I hear everything. Also, the security footage was pretty funny . . .”

  “No!” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “I was such a klutz.”

  “I don’t know,” I tease. “You fell face-first with such grace.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me. “Just for that, you can’t join me in the shower.”

  I clutch my chest, wounded. “I guess I’ll just stay here in the kitchen, making you a delicious, romantic breakfast . . .”

  “Sounds like a plan to me!”

  Poppy beams and ducks into the bathroom, leaving me standing here naked with a spatula in my hand. I laugh. She has to be the first woman to treat me like I’m no big deal . . . and I kind of love it. Sure, some women like to play hard to get, but I always know I’ll charm them in the end.

  Poppy is different. She doesn’t play games, and she sure as hell isn’t impressed by my money or power. It makes me feel like I can just be myself around her . . . and do shit like pull a floral pink apron over my head and get to work flipping pancakes. It’s not my usual style, but hey, grease splatters are no joke.

  I’m singing along, living on a prayer, when a polite cough comes from behind me.

  I turn.

  “Oh. Hey. April, right?” I flash a smile, pretending like I’m not naked under this apron with pink ruffles sprouting from my chest.

  “Hi.” She blushes. “Nice to officially meet you.”

  “Same. Coffee?” I offer.

  She quickly shakes her head. “I just need to, um.” She gestures for me to move, then reaches around to pull a yogurt from the fridge. She keeps her gaze averted, her cheeks bright red now. “Thanks.”

  Awkward much?

  “If I send over some Griffin robes, can we pretend like this didn’t happen?” I offer.

  She grins. “Done. And, uh, maybe you should keep one for yourself here?” she suggests. “So, you know . . .”

  “You don’t get a side of ass with your Yoplait,” I finish for her. “Done.”

  April grins and heads out the door, leaving me to put the finishing touches on my breakfast tray. And sure, the pancakes come out kind of burned, but I supplement them with some stale donuts and finish the whole thing off with a rose plucked from the nearest bouquet.

  There, romance!

  I’m feeling pretty damn proud of myself, until I walk back into the bedroom and find Poppy naked, towel-drying her hair. All thoughts of breakfast fly out the window—about as fast as my blood rushes south.

  She looks up and snorts with laughter. “Is that a rose stem in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” she teases.

  I set down the tray. “Want to come find out?”

  She giggles, moving closer to tug on the apron straps. “I like it. Pink’s your color.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m secure in my masculinity,” I joke, running my hands over her wet curves.

  “Are you?” She lifts an impish eyebrow. Her hands move lower. “I’ll just have to check.”

  I bite back a groan. I have a meeting scheduled in an hour . . .

  But fuck it, the meeting can wait.

  Making Poppy come another three times? Definitely won’t wait.

  * * *

  By the time I stroll into the office (only two hours late), I’m in a fantastic mood. After all, why wouldn’t I be? The sun is out, the Griffin Lake hotel is up and running, and I just enjoyed an X-rated morning workout with an incredible woman.

  Yup, life is pretty damn perfect.

  “Morning, Lara,” I smile, breezing through the doors.

  She glares at me. “It’s almost lunch. And I’ve just spent two hours trying to politely reschedule all your appointments.”

  “Which I deeply appreciate.” I place an iced coffee on her desk with a flourish. “Mocha caramel Frappuccino with extra whipped cream?”

  She blinks, looking surprised. “How do you know my coffee order?”

  “I’m not a total narcissist.” I grin.

  “Just most of the time,” she mutters, but still, I can see the hint of a smile. Which is about as good as it’ll get from her, so I keep walking, straight into my office. I settle my feet up on the desk and call Kyle.

  “How are things holding up?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “You mean without your presence? Just fine. The guest report cards from the soft opening are looking pretty stellar.”

  “Yeah, I took a look at those,” I agree, scrolling through my tablet. “People are going crazy over the robes, for some reason, so let’s switch out the ones we use here at the Griffin, too.”

  “Good idea,” Kyle says. “Also, I took a look at the staff schedules, we’re getting more uptake of the lake activities than we planned, so I’ve been reassigning people to the docks. Plus, spa bookings are through the roof, so I already made some calls to hire two additional beauty therapists.”

  See, this is why I love the guy—and pay him a handsome salary. He anticipates problems and solves them before I’ve even taken a swig of my espresso. “Any problems from that Dapper guy?” I ask. “I have a google alert set for the moment he publishes his review . . . But so far, nothing.”

  “No word at this end, either. He checked out yesterday, pretty much disappeared. Unless your girlfriend buried him in the woods and staged an elaborate cover-up,” he adds, teasing.

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t put it past her . . .”
/>   There’s a beat, and then Kyle makes an interested sound. “So, Sarah was right.”

  “About what?”

  “You and Poppy. It’s serious, huh?”

  “What? No!” I deflect automatically. “Come on, it’s been like, two days. Give me a break.”

  “Mmmhmm.” Kyle sounds amused. “I think you protesteth too much. Anyway, I like her. She’s got her head screwed on . . . So what she’s doing with you, I can’t imagine.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I grin. “Enough gossip. Don’t you have some bellhops to annoy?”

  “Sure. Because that’s all I do to keep your hotels running.” With a final joke, Kyle hangs up, leaving me to sip my coffee . . . and wonder about what he just said.

  Are things getting serious with Poppy? I’m not sure if I even know what “serious” looks like these days. Pretty much all of my relationships over the past few years have been spontaneous, fun-filled, no-strings affairs: a few weeks of great sex and partying, before we both go our separate ways, no hard feelings.

  OK, no hard feelings on my side of things.

  And sure, I’m having plenty of fun with Poppy, but I’m no fool. She’s not the kind of woman to go for that whole “what happens, happens” vibe. She believes in love, in commitment, in all the meaningful, romantic things I’ve conveniently been ignoring all this time . . . and have zero idea how to provide.

  I gulp, realizing for the first time that I might be about to wade way out of my depth in the whole relationship stakes.

  Could I even pull it off without fucking things up?

  And would she even want those things from me, if I tried?

  Poppy knows me. Like, really knows me. And if I let her down and screw things up between us . . . ?

  I don’t even want to think about it, even as I know deep down that the odds of that particular outcome aren’t exactly zero. Because who am I kidding? I have “romantic fuck-up” written all over me. Which was fine when the girls I dated had exactly the same MO. But now . . . ?

  But I don’t need to think about this stuff now, I remind myself. Poppy’s been the one acting as my Cyrano all these months. She’s practically an accessory in my crimes against commitment. There’s no way she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.