by Sarina Bowen
“My dog-walker,” I blurt out.
Everyone laughs. “Seriously?” Jamie says.
“Yes and no. She walks Rufus as a favor to me because I’m a good customer of this cool business she owns called Fetch.”
“Oh yeah!” Lemming says, shuffling the cards. “OC uses Fetch to buy groceries and pick up his shirts. He showed me the app. There’s a babe on the home screen.”
My jaw ticks with irritation. I’ve always thought of that photo of Hottie as mine, even if that’s ridiculous. “That’s the place.”
“How does it work?” Wes asks, draining his beer.
“You pay them by the hour,” I tell him. “And they take a surcharge on the things they purchase for you. But it’s totally worth it. If you’re flying home to an empty fridge and the cleaner’s is closing in an hour, they’ll take care of it.”
“Boom!” Blake agrees.
“They’ll find you anything,” I add. “If you need a gift for your mom’s birthday or reservations to a restaurant, you just put your instructions into the app and it gets done. They furnished my entire apartment. I didn’t set foot in a store.”
“Huh.” Wes nudges Jamie with his elbow. “It’s like they know me. I’m gonna try this out.”
Jamie shrugs. But I’ve probably just improved Hottie’s bottom line. If the whole team starts using Fetch, that’s got to be good for business.
“Can they find me a date to the opera?” Lemming asks, stacking up his remaining chips. “Our favorite benefit is in ten days.”
Everyone groans. Players are required to attend eight or ten events a year, but they aren’t all created equally. The opera benefit is everyone’s least favorite. The team owner is about ninety years old, and he loves the shit out of the opera. Without fail, the performance is three hours long. Minimum. Even good food and booze afterward aren’t enough to keep us cheerful.
“Here’s an idea,” Blake says, dealing the cards. “This round isn’t for cash. The winner gets to call in sick on opera night, and the rest of us have to vouch for his twenty-four-hour stomach virus.”
Wes picks up his cards. “I love this plan.”
Me, I’m just happy that the conversation has shifted away from Hailey. My teammates seem to have forgotten about my little confession, and that’s a good thing, because I still don’t know how I feel about dating again. My marriage imploded due to my career, and it’s not like I’ve changed careers. Any new relationship I get into is pretty much doomed.
“You probably like the opera,” Lemming jokes.
“Because I’m queer?” Wes snorts. “Think again.”
“J-Bomb?” Blake asks. “How do you feel about opera?” He tips his beer bottle up toward his mouth.
“Well, Blake. I’m bisexual so I only like it half as much as Wes.”
“Naw, honey,” Wes argues. “That means you’d like it twice as much.”
Blake laughs so hard that beer comes out of his nose, and then we’re all dying.
I have a great hand of cards, but it really doesn’t matter. “You know we’re all going to this damn opera, anyway,” I grumble. “It’s the annual ass-kissing fest at the owner’s favorite event.”
“Not for me!” Jamie says with a grin, pushing his chips into the center of the table.
“Oh, you’re totally going,” Wes grumbles.
“My kids have a game that night.”
“Hang on.” His husband looks up. “Do you even know what night it is?”
“Nope. But I’m very busy.”
God bless poker night. The bickering and the smack talk keep my mind off the more difficult stuff. I accept another beer and relax with my boys.
Sniper87: Mayday! My tux is holy.
HTE: Your tux is a churchgoer?
Sniper87: Christ. I meant holey. Full of holes.
Sniper87: Grrr. I need it for the world’s most boring benefit next week.
HTE: Okay. Rent or buy? You probably wear it pretty often?
Sniper87: Buy, I guess. I wear it about 8 times a year. Can you do your thing and make one appear?
HTE: I will absolutely help you. But this isn’t like the waffle mix. You have to try it on. And if you’re going to wear it frequently, it can’t be just a quick cuff adjustment like they do for weddings. You’ll need a fitting.
Sniper87: Grumble grumble.
HTE: Don’t shoot the messenger. I can find you a shop with good inventory in tuxes and make you a fitting appointment. How does that sound?
Sniper87: Fine. Checking my calendar.
HTE: Take your time. Just sitting here eating bonbons.
Sniper87: Really?
HTE: No. Hurry up. It’s crazy here today. Moon must be full.
HTE: *Drums fingers on desk.* *Waits for Sniper.* *Wonders how he can skate so fast but take 80 years to look at a calendar.*
Sniper87: Are you impatient with all your clients? I could try on suits tomorrow after morning skate. So 12:30 is safe. Or Friday same time.
HTE: When is the benefit? I’ll need to make sure they know we’re in a hurry.
Sniper87: Next Friday. Unfortunately.
HTE: Who’s a grumpy boy today? I’ll go find you a penguin suit. But not a Penguins jersey.
Sniper87: I should hope not.
HTE: You’re right. Bunch of losers. Who wants the Stanley Cup, anyway? Back in a jif, Snipes.
HTE: Klingerman’s, tomorrow at 12:30. Attaching the Yonge Street address. I sent along your measurements so they can pull some things off the rack for you to try. They’re asking if you need anything else fitted while you’re there. OK for suits?
Sniper87: I hate trying shit on. I wish it could just appear in my closet.
HTE: And I want a blue pony. Do you need anything else while you’re standing in front of the tailor in your boxers?
Sniper87: I’m a boxer briefs guy. You should know. You bought them.
HTE: *beats head on keyboard*
Sniper87: I could use another suit. My pinstripe is looking seedy and I haven’t shopped since Kara made me go two years ago.
HTE: I’ll tell them. Have fun tomorrow.
Sniper87: I have one more request.
HTE: Hit me.
Sniper87: I want your help picking shit out. Clothes are not my forte.
HTE: The men’s shop is pretty good at it. Just saying.
Sniper87: You won’t come?
HTE: I will if you want me to. Seems like overkill, though.
Sniper87: Please?
HTE: THERE’S THE MAGIC WORD. :) See you tomorrow.
Seven
Losing IQ Points
Hailey
I used to think of myself as an intelligent, high-functioning human. And when I’m texting with Matt, we have fun and I manage to complete my sentences and avoid drooling on myself.
Yet I spend the first fifteen minutes at the men’s store tripping over my own feet and babbling like a maniac. This man turns me into the village idiot every time I see him.
The problem is that he’s standing in front of the aging tailor in his undies. He’s wearing a pair of skin-tight boxer briefs in bright orange, and I can see the outline of his perfect ass in all its glory. And his bare legs, the powerful hamstrings tensed for battle.
When I glance into the sizeable triple-panel mirror in front of him, it’s even worse. Powerful thighs and abs that ripple beneath his undershirt. I manage not to check out his package, though it takes some serious effort, and I’m prattling on about the weather to the tailor like an over-caffeinated monkey.
At last the tailor has all the measurements he needs. Matt is handed a tux shirt, and I expect him to step into a dressing room somewhere to try everything on, but we’re already in the enormous dressing room. So he slips his powerful arms into the shirt right in front of me.
I lose another five IQ points.
The tailor starts firing questions at Matt. Shawl cowl jacket or peaked lapels? Satin or grosgrain?
“Hottie?” he cries, a scowl on his
face.
That snaps me out of my stupor. I waltz over to the rack and begin to flip through the choices. “I think the shawl collars look a little stuffy. You’ll be more comfortable in a peak.” I push the shawl collar choices aside and study the remaining three jackets. “This velvet is pretty cool, but it’s not versatile enough for you.” It too gets a nudge to the side. “That leaves this.” I hold up a very traditional black tux jacket. “Or the midnight blue. I think the midnight blue is really hot, but if you want to be strictly traditional, go for black.”
He hesitates. “I like the blue. You’re sure that’s not too weird?”
“Let me see…” I whip out my phone and pull up Pinterest. “Here’s Matt Bomer wearing one. Jake Gyllenhaal. And, wow, Ryan Gosling.” I let out a sigh, because the pictures are so beautiful and my hormone levels are already off the charts.
“Hand it over,” Matt grumbles, still grumpy.
He looks amazing, of course. The tailor brings the matching trousers and fusses over the fit, pinning the trouser cuffs and making notes on his clipboard. Meanwhile, I try not to swallow my tongue. The man in front of me outshines Ryan Gosling any day of the week, with his bottomless gray eyes and sleek Nordic features. The rugged jaw looks a little tight today, but for some weird reason it only adds to his appeal.
I’ve got it bad.
Matt checks his reflection in the mirror. “Sold,” he says. “Let’s move on to the suits.” But of course the tailor needs to do some pinning while Matt glowers.
And then—before I’m ready—he’s stripping off the suit, his broad shoulders emerging from the sleeves. His hand falls to his waist, where he unbuttons the trousers, just like he’s done every night in my dreams for a week.
Swear to God it’s two hundred degrees in this room. Is twenty-nine too young to have hot flashes?
I flip through the suit jackets on the other rack to distract myself. “I’m not sure about this style,” I say to the tailor, holding out a jacket. “Most of what you’ve got here is cut too straight for him. He needs more of a taper from those strapping shoulders to that…” I stop myself before the word delicious pops out. “...narrow waist.”
Heat climbs up my neck, and I can feel Matt’s smile even without looking at it.
“Strapping, huh?” he mutters under his breath.
“Miss makes a good point,” the tailor says. “One moment.” He disappears, and then we’re alone.
And he’s in his underwear again.
“Sorry I’m such a grouch,” he says quietly, those gray eyes studying me.
“You’re not so bad.”
He gives me a grateful smile. “The boondoggles aren’t the best part of my job. When I was twenty I didn’t mind it. The parties were a real eye-opener. All that money in one room, you know?” He reaches out to fiddle with the tailor’s measuring tape where it dangles over a mannequin’s shoulder. “But it gets old.”
“I’ll bet. And you said this was your least favorite event of the year. Not an opera fan, huh?”
“Not in the slightest. And it was supposed to be my night with the girls. So now I have to beg the ex to trade me. That should be fun.”
“Sorry.”
He shakes his head as if to push out the thought. “I like the blue tux, Hottie. It’s a nice change. When I discovered all those moth holes in the black one, it seemed like fate.”
“Why?”
His grin is wry. “I got married in that tux. Kara chose it. So as much as I dislike shopping, it’s probably time for a change.”
“Yeah. I’m still living with stuff I picked out with my ex. Seems stupid to throw away all the nice things we got for our wedding and start over with Walmart replacements. But I have to look at it every day.”
“Have you started dating again?” he asks suddenly.
The question takes me completely by surprise. “No, actually. This is going to sound really weird…”
He gives me a shy smile. “Maybe you’re just not ready?”
“It’s more like... I don’t even know how it works. I’ve never been on a date.”
His eyebrows lift. “You mean, not for years?”
“No. Not ever. Jackson and I were pals forever. Then we were a couple. One day in high school he kissed me instead of hugging me goodbye. And that was that. It was more than a decade ago. I’ve never been asked out. I’ve never gone to dinner and a movie with someone I haven’t known my whole life. Small talk and protocol and first kisses? I’ve only seen it in movies.”
I should probably shut up now, because I sound like a freak even to my own ears, and Matt is staring at me the way you’d look at an alien being. He grins suddenly. “And I thought I’d been off the market a long time.”
“I’m just here to make you feel better,” I tell him. And now I’m self-conscious again.
The tailor returns with several suit jackets, and I convince Matt that the gray one is the best choice. “The cut looks great, and…” It’s really hard to give this man fashion advice without panting on him.
“And? Finish the sentence. Because Kara told me I should never wear gray.”
“Really?” I smooth down the lapels because my hands itch to touch him. “Was she the jealous type?” I lift my eyes to his, and I’m clobbered by the reality of how close our bodies are.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“Because gray really makes your eyes pop. You look great in this color.”
“Thank you, Hottie,” he whispers. “It’s been a long time since anyone said something like that to me.”
“Well.” I get trapped for a second in his steady gaze. “Someone should.”
The tailor clears his throat, and I take a quick step backward.
And since Matt has made his choices, there’s no more reason for me to stay. I make my excuses and get the heck out of there.
Eight
Dial Down the Crazy
Hailey
“A twist!” Jenny crows the next morning, peering over my shoulder at the screen.
“The plot thickens,” I agree in a serious tone.
We stare at the photo for three more seconds, then turn to each other and burst out laughing. Between hysterical giggles, I manage to get the gist of Mr. Dick’s latest order. He’s in the market for double-sided tape so he can ensure that his neon-green Speedo doesn’t ride up. Though maybe we should be calling him Mr. Butt now, because the attached pic features a back view of him in said neon-green Speedo—and yes, it’s totally riding up. His buttocks are round, taut, and tanned. They’re kind of appealing, actually.
“Man, I could bounce quarters off that ass.” The deep voice causes both Jenny and me to jump in surprise. I swivel my head to find Matt Eriksson standing right behind us.
“Math!” I blurt out. “I mean Matt!”
Jenny snickers.
“You always call me Math when you’re nervous,” he remarks as he steps closer. “What’s up with that?”
“I’m not nervous,” I grumble. “I’m startled. You startled me!”
“Sorry about that. You guys don’t have a receptionist, so I just wandered down the hall until I saw a door with your name on it.”
Oh crap. He was just wandering around? What if someone saw him and realized he was a client? Why is he just showing up at my office?
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say uneasily. “You wanted your client profile to be anonymous.”
Matt waves a hand. “Ah, I don’t care about that. So what if the world knows I use Fetch? It’s a wicked service.”
He moves even closer, leaning in to get a better look at the computer screen. Since I’m still sitting at my chair, I’m trapped between the desk and his shoulder. His very broad shoulder, which nudges mine as he bends that big, sexy body of his. He smells fantastic, and I have to hold my breath so I don’t inhale his citrusy scent and get a contact high.
“So what are we looking at?” he asks curiously. “Butt porn? Your job is more fun than I thought.”
“No.�
� I immediately click the mouse to close the screen. “Sorry,” I say when I notice him raising a brow at me. “It’s a client request. Confidentiality and all that.”
He relaxes at the word client. Hmmm. Was he a bit jealous at the thought of me browsing butt porn? Nah. Of course he wasn’t. He probably thinks I’m a weirdo.
“I got you a coffee,” Matt says as he straightens. He holds out a paper cup from Starbucks. “Black, just the way you like it.”
Jenny’s eyebrows shoot up. I can almost hear her thoughts—Just the way you like it? Tell me everything!
I avoid her intensely curious gaze and accept the cup. “Thanks,” I say, smiling at Matt.
“Anyway, I came by to…” With an awkward look, he trails off, then glances at Jenny.
She doesn’t get the hint. Or maybe she does and she’s choosing to ignore it. Rolling my eyes, I rise from my chair and gesture to the door. “We need a minute,” I tell Jenny.
“I’ve got a minute,” she chirps.
In a firm voice, I repeat my earlier statement. “Client confidentiality.”
“Oh, fine.” Clearly disappointed, she huffs out the door, closing it behind her.
Matt props a hip against my desk. “This actually isn’t a business call,” he admits.
“Even so,” I answer wryly, “Jenny’s not great at picking up social cues.”
He smiles, and the sight warms my heart. This man is so frickin’ attractive. Like melt-your-brain, dampen-your-panties attractive. And when he smiles, it totally short-circuits my system. My legs feel more than a little wobbly as I sit back down. I don’t think I can support my own weight in the face of this guy’s potent sex appeal.
“So what’s up?” I ask.
Matt is still leaning against the desk. His leg is about five inches from my knee. I wonder what he’d do if I reached out and stroked his thigh. Not that I’m going to. That would take me out of weirdo fangirl territory and skyrocket me into psycho land.
“I was thinking about what you said yesterday at the store,” he starts.