Dating Mr. Right
Four Standalone Romantic Comedies
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Also By Lauren Blakely
Lucky Suit
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Once Upon a Red-Hot Kiss
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Too Good To Be True
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Strong Suit
Her Prologue
His Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Blakely
LaurenBlakely.com
Cover Design by © Helen Williams, First Edition Book
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also By Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Always Satisfied series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification (September 2019)
Overnight Service (December 2019)
Standalone
Stud Finder
The V Card
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
21 Stolen Kisses
Out of Bounds
Unzipped
Birthday Suit
The Dating Proposal
Never Have I Ever
The Caught Up in Love Series
Caught Up In Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Playing With Her Heart
Stars In Their Eyes Duet
My Charming Rival
My Sexy Rival
The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second With You
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
The Joy Delivered Duet
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
The Sapphire Affair
The Sapphire Heist
Lucky Suit
ABOUT
I’m breaking up with set-ups. No more “can I introduce you to my son, nephew, grandson, the butcher, the guy down the street who mows my lawn.” Machines know what’s best, and I’ll rely on the great dating algorithms of the web to find the ideal man, thank you very much.
Soon enough, it looks like I’ve found him — his nickname is Lucky Suit, and he’s hilarious, quick-witted and full of heart. But when I finally get together with him in person, I have the distinct feeling I’ve met him before.
Turns out there’s more to our meeting than I had thought, and when we discover what truly brought us together, all bets are off.
1
Kristen
I’ll tell Grams as soon as I see her.
I’ll break the news to her and then explain why my new plan is the logical one.
First, though, I adjust the aperture on my telescope, and one of my favorite sights comes into view. The Andromeda Galaxy is such a show-off tonight, and nothing beats that billion-star galaxy. It’s all yummy and triumphant in the sky, as if it’s saying to the Milky Way, “I’m coming to get you in four and a half billion years.”
I’m savoring the view, because the night sky rocks, when I hear footsteps.
“Tell me what?”
I startle, yank my eyes away from the telescope, and stare at my grandma, who’s snuck out on the balcony we share, since her condo is right next to mine. “Were you here the whole time?”
She quirks up her lips in a gotcha grin. She is so good at that. She could teach a master class in giving that grin to grown granddaughters.
“Long enough to hear you had something to tell me.”
“I said that out loud?” I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
She parks her hands on her hips, s
till fabulous in her skinny jeans at seventy-five. Dear God, may I please have her genes, with a capital G? “Yes. So . . . spill. What do you have to tell me? You car-napped my Mustang and did donuts in the 7-Eleven lot last night? You borrowed my new Louboutins without asking? Or you’re selling your half of this Key Biscayne duplex because you feel guilty about the way you cramp my style?”
“One, you don’t own Louboutins. You shop for shoes at Payless, and don’t deny it. Two, it’s a Corvette, not a Mustang. You can’t trick me on that count either. And three, I can totally handle the way I cramp your style.” I add a saucy finger snap for effect.
“You take after me way too much,” she says, laughing. Her tone softens, the sass stripped away. “Seriously, what do you need to tell me?”
I take a deep breath. “Sit.”
“Uh-oh.”
I point to the table where I left my tablet. I swipe across the screen, opening it to an email I wrote earlier.
Dear Mr. O’Leary,
Please accept this letter as notice that I will be resigning from our third date, effective immediately.
Thank you for the compliments, the cup of coffee (really, that was some seriously great joe), and the chance to chat for forty-six minutes after we learned how to coagulate cheese. You are a fine man and will likely prove to be an exemplary partner for a mate someday.
If I can do anything to help with your transition in finding and training my replacement, please let me know. I feel it’s only right to tell you that I am officially 100 percent done with IRL dating. So it is with utmost honesty that I say, it’s not you. It’s definitely me.
Sincerely,
Kristen Leonard
I look up to see the side-eye.
Wait. That’s not the side-eye. That’s the you-can’t-be-serious eye.
Then it morphs into the doubled-over-in-laughter hoot.
And I maintain my best oh-so-stoic face.
“What?” I feign confusion. “Is it because I didn’t spell out IRL? He’ll know what it means, right? Was I too internet-y? That’s totally possible.” I play up my innocence, like little ole me made an etiquette faux pas. “Sometimes I get caught up in the lingo. I can just spell it out. You want me to spell it out?”
She fans her face like she can restore the oxygen she lost from her laughing fit. “Training a replacement? It was only two dates.”
“Two dates too many.” I straighten my shoulders. “And I thought I should be considerate in sending a breakup letter. Establish a new standard, if you will.”
One eyebrow climbs. She studies me quizzically, scanning my long brown hair, my green eyes, my freckles as if she’s never seen me before, then her eyes narrow. “Wait. I’m onto you. Did you simply google resignation letters?”
I let my smile spread. It’s not often I can pull a fast one on her, and it’s glorious. “Gotcha.”
Her lips quirk up, and she wags a finger. “You little prankster. I thought for sure you were going to send this.”
“Please. You know me better. I’m going to send a super-short email along the lines of Thanks, but I feel we’re not the best fit.”
She wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead. “You had me going.”
I blow on my fingernails. “I still got it. I learned from the best.”
“I have taught you well, and I will now take all the credit. Also, I can’t believe you didn’t like Henry. Why not?”
“Look, I know your friend Betty thought we’d be great together, but I just didn’t feel like he and I had anything in common. He actually liked the cheese-making class. I don’t want to make cheese. I want it served to me. Who has time to make food from scratch when it’s just as easy to order it or, gee, I dunno, buy it?”
“Fine, so you didn’t both like making cheese. But you truly didn’t connect on anything?”
I shake my head. “We didn’t have a chance to learn if we did. All he talked about was the cheese. And then the coffee. Nothing more interesting. Nothing like black holes or the meaning of the universe. Or perhaps why certain cult classic TV shows aren’t streaming online—like Cupid with Jeremy Piven, which is arguably the best show ever canceled before its time.”
“And every time you mention it, I want to see it more and more. We could try to hunt down DVDs. Did you check eBay?”
“I’ve tried. Believe you me, I have tried. It’s harder to track down than buried treasure.” I sigh. “But see, this is my point. It’s such a better conversation topic than cheese.”
“What about Sandy’s grandson, Matthew? The one from the pickling class? He seemed like the type you could discuss anything with.”
“The trouble with Matthew is the whole time during the pickling class he kept telling me about his job.”
“It’s normal to discuss your career with a date. I’m sure you mention your work sometimes,” she says gently, as if she’s talking to someone who has no clue about dating, men, and human interaction.
But I do indeed have some clue. I’ve been on enough dates and enough bad ones to know what I want and don’t want, thank you very much. I want to leave my work as an alternative fuel scientist at the lab, and call me crazy, but some professions don’t lend themselves to small talk.
“Grams. He works at a funeral home. He told me all about embalming people . . . during a carrot pickling class.”
She tuts. “Fine, so he needs some work on social skills. Who doesn’t?”
“Plus, pickled carrots? Ewww. Just eww.”
“What about Sally’s grandson Freddie? We set up you on the glassblowing date. That seemed fun.”
I shoot her a stern look. “Glassblowing, Grams. Don’t you remember what I told you? It was like a nonstop slapstick night of inappropriate jokes, and none were even funny. I love you and all of your efforts to set me up, but here’s the thing: these in-person matches don’t work on me. I’m evidently immune to matchmaking IRL.”
She smiles hopefully. “Maybe you just haven’t met the one yet.”
I sketch air quotes. “There is no ‘the one.’ There are many. But the trouble is meeting men in these real-life situations has a risk-to-reward ratio that’s too high.” I count off on my fingers. “I’ve gone to singles yoga classes, and I find nothing duller than omming my way through ninety minutes of mantras. I’ve attended wine tastings, even though I believe it’s a conspiracy to convince us the beverage is amazing when, in fact, it tastes literally like dirt, and I even signed up for ballroom dancing, but I infinitely prefer fast-paced sports on wheels. And don’t even get me started on Ping-Pong lessons.”
“Ping-Pong lessons are an excellent way to meet a soul mate. You do know I met your grandfather, may he rest in peace, at Ping-Pong lessons.”
“That was more than fifty years ago. You were twenty-one.”
“Ping-Pong was fun then, and it’s fun now.” She gives me a coy little smile. “After all, there’s a reason your mom was born when I was only twenty-two.”
I blink, pause, process. “And now Ping-Pong is officially ruined forever.”
“Your mom took Ping-Pong lessons too,” she says, practically taunting me. “She took them when she was twenty-four, and voilà, you were born nine months later.”
I arch one brow. “I’m feeling like Ping-Pong lessons are a euphemism for something. Call me crazy.”
“I’m just saying, it’s fun whacking a ball back and forth.”
“And the double entendres continue. Which may explain why I don’t care for it, and I don’t want any unexpected side effects nine months after a game.”
“Fine, fine. Shall I cast a wider net, then? Ask some of my friends at poker club? Or maybe in my water aerobics class?”
I slice a hand through the air. “I love you, but no. Setups and other randomly selected in-person dates rely too much on luck and chance and happenstance. Think about it. What are the true mathematical chances I’ll meet a man who is at least eighty percent compatible with me—and that’s my baseline—during Ping-Pong lessons?�
��
She rolls her eyes. “There’s a good chance.”
That’s the problem. I’m at the point where I want more than a string of dates. I want the same thing everyone wants—a spark, a sizzle, and a person. A someone I like being with, sharing with, spending my days with.
But that starts with common ground.
And finding common ground requires a whole new strategy.
“From here on out, it’s an algorithm and an algorithm-only world.” I raise my arms like a high priestess. “I believe in the church of Google. I pray at the altar of machines and put my trust in artificial intelligence.” I grab my tablet and click to a dating site. “That’s why I signed up for an online dating service, allowing me a wider selection of potential dates and a more systematic approach. I’ve already chatted with a few men. Let me show you Jared.” I click on the profile of a software developer with gray eyes and a square jaw.
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