Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid)

by Maggie Kelley

  Normally, he got coffee at the corner store, but he still kept some on hand for Janey. Before The Cocktail Napkin Incident, they’d hung out all the time. Poker nights, pasta nights, martini Tuesdays. She’d bought him that damn coffee maker with its automatic timer and programmed it for him so when he finally woke after his long-ass shifts, he’d have a hot pot of French vanilla or mocha or whatever frou-frou flavored roast she’d insisted he try. Shit, he’d even grown fond of that holiday spiced java.

  Some old habits needed a sledgehammer.

  “You look good,” she said, all casual and easy, like it was just another morning,

  Now, there was a curve ball. Playing the whole for-old-time’s-sake card.

  “Yeah, well, you always liked the unshaven look.”

  “A lot of women do. Like the unshaven look.” She bit her bottom lip. “A lot of perfectly nice, perfectly dateable women.”

  No points for subtlety, he thought, folding his arms across his chest, waiting for her to cop to The Today Show disaster. No doubt she expected to wrap him around her little finger like she had when they were kids. No crisis too big, no detail too small. He’d always been there, too, but not anymore. Not after the cocktail napkin.

  “The situation is kind of funny, actually,” she said, opening a can of dark roast with the kind of focus normally reserved for splitting atoms. “I, um, I need a little favor.”

  As expected. Right on schedule.

  “You need a favor, huh?” He leaned back against the counter, ready to listen before he told her to go to hell. “This oughta be good.”

  “It’s just one little favor.” She took two mugs from the cabinet. “See, I was kind of maneuvered into a little wager with a competitor…”

  “Really? A bet?”

  “…and I bet I could find true love for any New Yorker in five days.”

  He opened the bag of freshly baked bagels and stuck his nose inside, buying himself a minute to compose his thoughts. “That’s a helluva wager, Jane.”

  And not at all typical. Her father was a compulsive gambler, always chasing a score or a skirt. It had torn her family apart. He knew Janey steered clear of that particular vice. Hell, the whole platform for her matchmaking service was based on science, the idea that you didn’t have to gamble on love.

  “It gets worse, because the terms of the bet get… a little…personal.”

  His gaze flicked to her, but her attention remained glued to the half-filled can of coffee. For as long as he’d known her, Janey had always been a straight shooter. Now, she wouldn’t even look at him.

  “You see,” she began. “We incorporated a new matrix into our dating app—”

  He tossed the Hot and Crusty bag across the kitchen and it landed on the counter in front of her with a thud. She turned to look at him. Message received.

  No more games. “What does this new dating app have to do with me?”

  She bit down on her bottom lip. “According to the terms of the bet, I have to match you.”

  “Match me, huh?” Finally, her cards were on the counter. “And was that your idea? Or Kathie Lee’s?”

  “You son-of-a—” She looked back at him, all wide, tawny eyes and soft, chestnut curls, and it took most of his control not to throw her down on the granite. For old time’s sake.

  “Watch the language, angel.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew about the bet?” She turned her back to him and tossed four over-sized tablespoons of coffee into the filter. “Might’ve saved me some trouble.”

  “Trouble? You love trouble. Besides, watching you try to work me was fun. But whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”

  He’d broken a few rules in his life. Jumped the rotary in the subway when he was a kid. Skipped class at Columbia. Even rode his motorcycle on the Long Island Expressway without a helmet. But there were some rules he refused to break. Letting his ex match him with another woman? Nope. Never. Not in a million years.

  “Call it off.”

  But she was already shaking her head. “I can’t call it off. I’m not a welsher. And it’s too late, anyway. If I don’t match you, I’ll lose my company. Smart Cupid could never recover if I walked away.” She shoved the filter in place. “The bet’s all over the news, the internet… The show even wants to do daily progress updates.”

  “Progress updates?”

  “On your love status.”

  He groaned. This was worse than he thought. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious, and even if I could call it off, which I can’t, the whole thing got picked up by NY Singles, too, so it’s already all over town.” She jabbed violently at the red brew button and the machine clicked on.

  Hence the reporters hounding him.

  “Wow, you really fucked up this time, Janey.” Her mouth opened with another of her patented objections, but he shot her a look that warned her to back off. “I don’t date. Not since the woman I considered a friend and made love to for six wild, incredibly memorable nights dumped me via a cocktail napkin.”

  She closed her mouth and gave him a short nod. “Right.”

  He leaned his hip against the granite counter. “Hard to believe, but when a man finds a Dear Charlie note shoved under a bottle of Makers Mark, it sort of kills the whole dating thing.”

  “The whole thing?” she asked.

  “Kills it.” He made a quick ninja move and folded his arms over his chest, wondering if she’d throw him a bone, or an apology. A quick, I’m sorry. I fucked up. Anything to ease the hurt that filled his chest every time he thought about the way she’d tossed him and their lifetime of friendship aside—literally like a bar napkin.

  But all he heard was the sound of percolating coffee, until…

  “I can’t lose, Charlie.” Her hand fell to his forearm, but he stepped out of her reach. “I know you’re angry, and after the…well…the breakup, and a few other not-so-great moves, I probably don’t deserve your help, but we’ve known each other a long time, been friends a long time, and—”

  “Right. Friends.” The word ripped through him. Talk about a sucker-punch to his heart—not to mention his ego.

  “Yes. I got conned into the situation, but I can’t lose this bet. I can’t lose the chance to prove that love can be a logical, rational choice, not just some passionate mistake that ends up with somebody left behind like an afterthought. Like my mom.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t take that. I mean, she loved my dad like he was the only man in town, crazy, passionate, stupid love, but he still left us, right? He left because playing cards—or betting the ponies—”

  She looked away, only half talking to him, half to herself. “And now I’ve made this bet that risks everything, all my scientific theories, my reputation… And it’s not just about me. What about my employees, my clients? The publicity will make or break my company. If I have to publicly admit defeat…” She tugged hard on her right ear, the childhood-tell of a gambler’s daughter, about to lay all her cards on the table. “I can’t lose. I won’t.”

  And there it was. Her unbelievable way of saying something so abruptly, so startlingly honest. No swaying her hips or making coffee in his kitchen or batting her long lashes. He’d been primed for her usual game playing, but totally unprepared for honesty.

  She glanced over at him, her expression open, vulnerable—because of their past or the memories she rehashed about her parents? He didn’t know.

  Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip again. “Maybe you’d consider just a few dates.”

  “Or maybe you could club me over the head and shove me in the Dumpster out back.”

  “Five dates, that’s all I’m asking.” She looked like she wanted to shake him. Or strangle him. Or both. Feeling’s mutual, angel.

  “That’s more than just a few favor dates, Jane.” A swift pain kicked him in the gut. She’d dragged herself over to his condo to save her company, but she didn’t give two shits about him. Not if she was so eager to fix him up with another
woman. “Forget it.”

  “If you could just—listen.” She pulled a copy of the magazine article from her back pocket and unfolded it onto the counter. “Every single woman in town knows you’re the year’s sexiest bartender. I could sign ten new clients tomorrow based on your profile picture alone.”

  “My what?”

  A nervous smile belied her bold approach and she tapped the article with her index finger. “Your profile picture. Thought I could post it on the Smart Cupid site.”

  Man, she was a piece of work. “Janey, I swear if you—”

  She linked her fingers together, pleading. “Four dates.”

  He cocked a dark eyebrow. “No.”

  “Three.” Her palm hit the granite in one non-negotiable motion. “Final offer.”

  “Let me think.” He ran a hand across the stubble on his clenched jaw and pretended to consider the three-date deal. “Since it’s your final offer… Yeah, still, no.”

  “No? Honestly, no?”

  “Maybe this will work better—hell, no.” Ignoring her low growl of frustration, he reached past her and grabbed a bagel out of the bag. “I’m a confirmed bachelor. Confirmed as in pizza is its own food group and football is the fifth season.”

  He tilted his mouth closer to hers and she lifted her face as though unable to resist his gravitational pull. That took the edge off his anger. She wasn’t immune to him, never had been. A smile played at the corner of his lips. “If I remember correctly, you used to love football. A little early morning play action.”

  She swallowed hard. Oh yeah, his girl had loved a little morning play action.

  “And if I remember correctly, you’re not my type.”

  Not her type. Go ahead and try to convince yourself, angel. “Says who?”

  Her chin angled in defiance, revealing the flushed skin that burned a trail from the curve of her cheek to the pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. “Says my Ultimate Man List.”

  His faint smile widened into a dare as he took a step closer. “Show it to me.”

  Her tongue darted across her lips. “I don’t carry it around with me.”

  “No?” His smile widened into a grin. “I bet you typed the whole thing into the Notes app on your phone.” Maybe a lucky guess, but she wasn’t denying it.

  As a kid, she was always writing lists, penning promises, setting goals. Around seventh grade, he’d pulled a list she’d written out of her jean jacket pocket. Ten Things I’d Change About Myself. He’d teased her mercilessly, of course, but, then and now, there wasn’t a damn thing he’d change about her. Wait, no, scratch that. He’d make the grown-up version a helluva lot less… difficult. Although he still sure enjoyed teasing her.

  He leaned in and touched his index finger to the end of her nose. “C’mon, Janey. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

  “Think you know me so well? Figure out the code and you can have the list.” She moved past him, pulled the phone from the pocket of her coat, and tossed it over to him. “Three tries.”

  “A challenge.” He tapped on the back of the phone, willing the damn thing to cough up its secrets. He really wanted to see that list. “Let’s see…is it my birthday?” He winked at her and punched it in. “Nope, not my birthday. Valentine’s Day? After all, you are Cupid.” His fingers flew across the keys. “No, not V-Day either.” Obviously, he needed to think outside the box.

  “Strike three and you’re out.”

  He took a good long look at her, standing there in his Man Kitchen, all five feet, three inches of Brooklyn confidence. And it hit him. He punched in a code, and hallelujah, all the secrets of the universe, right there in the palm of his hand.

  “A sentimental choice,” he said. “The old row house address.” Not at all what he expected.

  “Give me the phone.” She made a move to grab, but he lifted it out of her reach and scrolled through the home screen.

  “A deal’s a deal, angel.” He tapped on the icon labeled “UML”, and a virtual Post-it Note opened up onto the screen. “Number one is…rule-abiding?” He smirked. “Really?”

  A lightning strike of irritation flashed in her eyes. “Playing by the rules can be sexy.”

  “Number two…predictable?” Holding back a chuckle, he gave her a skeptical glance and her murderous look said she was seconds away from kicking him in the nuts. But he didn’t care. Her list was too much fun. Right up there with the 2002 classic, Where to Make Out in Brooklyn.

  He circled an arm around her waist and hauled her against his chest. She froze. “Admit it, sometimes it’s fun to be unpredictable and break the rules.”

  Her voice was low and quiet. “No.”

  “Have it your way, but I know better.” He held her close as he scanned the list, focusing on her compatibility requirements rather than the feel of her in his arms. “Supportive, intelligent, loyal. Now, there’s your top three.”

  “Don’t mock the list.”

  “And don’t forget, the three C’s: capable, committed, and cute.” He flipped the phone around so she could see it. “Christ, Janey, even I want to marry this guy.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  He looked down at her and smiled. “You gonna kiss me with that mouth later?”

  “Not if you were the last man on earth.”

  “Want to make a bet?” he asked, tracing a series of concentric circles on the vulnerable underside of her wrist, a particularly sensitive spot he’d discovered on their second night in the Caymans. He might have sworn off dating, but he wasn’t dead. And, like it or not, the chemistry between them bubbled to the surface like a bottle of Krug Champagne. She’d made a wager—well, he could roll the dice, too. “I’m cute. Are you sure I’m not your type?”

  She tilted her chin again, unaware that the gesture created a perfect line from the curve of her throat to the V of her damned pink tee. “Absolutely sure.”

  Leaning in extra-close, he whispered in her ear. “Because I’m not rule-abiding and predictable?”

  His gaze ran the length of her face, her signature curves, taking pleasure in the darkening of her eyes, the soft quiet of her shallow breathing, the slight tremble of her parted lips. “Would a straitlaced man do this?” With his mouth hovering close enough to feel her breath, his fingers blazed a trail from the inside of her wrist to the base of her throat.

  “Charlie, I told you, I want—”

  “Reliable and unsurprising. I get it.” He stepped away, annoyed by his heart pounding against his chest. Maybe he’d gone too far, but damn, she drove him bat-shit crazy, and her notion of passion being overrated, and safe being…well, ultimately safe, made him even crazier. There was no safety valve in a relationship. Not in a relationship full of passion and fire, not in the kind of relationship he wanted. He’d set himself up for failure loving her all these years, and the truth hurt. A lot. He tossed her the phone.

  She pocketed the cell and smoothed the cotton T-shirt over her hips. “And your list?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, angel, but I’m not interested in any true love list.” He grabbed a bagel from the bag and strode out of the kitchen. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Hey, we had a deal, big guy.” Always with the nicknames. She trailed behind him, a routine from their days playing street games after school. She’d always been his “angel”, partly because her brothers were always into trouble, partly because, in some way, he felt like she’d always been there for him, watching out for him after his mom died.

  “Big guy” came into play when he’d shot up to over six feet in high school. They’d started to get close, and he suspected she used the nickname like a shield to keep her distance. Damn it, she was tangled up in almost every memory, and seeing her now, the way they reverted back to teasing and touching like she’d never left… No. Nope. No more.

  He turned around fast and she was hot on his heels, all amber-eyed and demanding. “That’s it?” she said. “Thanks for breakfast?”

&nbs
p; A year ago, he’d fallen for her wide eyes and fast-talking mouth. But a year ago, he’d seriously miscalculated. This morning, it was her turn.

  This wasn’t about him, he reminded himself. It wasn’t about missing him, or all the wonderful things they’d shared over twenty years. It was about her winning a bet. A bet that required him dating.

  “Did you really think breakfast in bed was enough temptation to get me to dive back into the dating pool?” The corner of his mouth quirked up on one side. “Better think again—unless, of course, it’s an all-naked, all-chemistry kind of breakfast in bed.”

  She stood there, arms crossed, all flushed and aggravated, not nearly as immune to his suggestion as she pretended. She still wanted him alright, despite all the safe, specific criteria on that Ultimate Man List she had tucked away like some kind of dating talisman. She needed passion and heat, someone to challenge her and protect her. If she didn’t know that by now, maybe it was time he showed her.

  But it was risky.

  He’d never been able to resist her. Not back in Brooklyn when she’d slugged him in the gut during a brutal game of Kick the Can. Not when he was in college and she’d begged him to take her to her high school prom on the same night Fast Lily Fox wanted to buy him a beer. Not even a year ago when she’d barreled into his bed, enjoyed a few rounds of multiple rock-and-roll-me-all-night and walked away. Like he was a service elevator or a roundabout.

  But if he could get her to admit the chemistry between them? Maybe he could kick her out of his system, even teach her a lesson about the do’s and don’ts of breakups and bar napkins. Seducing Cupid might be the stupidest idea he’d ever had, but what the hell?

  “I’ll give you three dates—take it or leave it.”

  “Really?” Relief flooded her face, and a sharp pang of guilt shot through his system. “Oh, my God, Charlie, I am so going to take it. Thank you.” She threw herself into his arms and the sweet, vanilla scent of her hair surrounded him like a summer breeze cruising through Manhattan in February, all sunshine and hope. But hope was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He needed to keep his head in the new game.