She pulled away slowly, looking at him with the kind of suspicion a small-town sheriff reserves for the stranger in town. “I’m not being Punk’d, right?”
“No, Jane, you’re not being Punk’d. I’m really saving your ass.” And giving you a master class—in chemistry.
He smiled down at her—all five-feet nothing so sure of her prepackaged ideas about love. She hadn’t always been so rigid, so hell-bent on logic and criteria, on back-burnering passion. Yeah, this could work. Let her find his match, and when thoughts of him burning up the sheets with a more statistically perfect woman drove her to set her own criteria list on fire, he’d walk away the winner. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Make yourself at home, angel. I’m going back to bed.”
She bit her lip again as her gaze traveled the length of him. For a minute, he considered scrapping his brand-new plan for the old one—hauling her down the narrow hallway into his bedroom. But no, he wanted more—complete recantation of her list and an admission that chemistry counted.
And if he had to go on a few dates to prove his point, to get his life back, well, he was fine with that. He kinda liked the idea of her spending her nights doing a post-analysis of his dates, thinking about him with other women. If she had a little green monster lurking somewhere under her little pink tee, he was ready to poke at it…and poke at it…and poke at it…until it reared its head and bit her right in the ass. A little payback for the cocktail napkin.
He leaned in a little closer. “Wanna join me?”
Chapter Three
@smartCupid Matchmaking is a simple equation: similar values + common goals / by minimal risk = successful long-term relationship.
@AdamDatesRUs No app can find love in five days, Cupid—not in Manhattan.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Charlie grinned that bedroom grin, half sleepy, half ready to play.
Just looking at his stubbly, early-morning jaw made her throat go dry. But, no, she did not want to join him. She didn’t need any more reminders of how well he knew her. In fact, she was changing the code in her phone right now. Her fingers flew across the keys. Better delete all those sexy vacation photos, too.
This was self-preservation.
She needed to maintain her professional distance. Even if he was standing within kissing range, looking sexy in pajama bottoms so perfectly formed to the muscles in his hips and thighs that they ought to be criminal. She didn’t dare look at his chest. Those pecs and abs, that wide expanse of smooth, tanned muscle. She swallowed hard. Kept her eyes up. Even if she was in the midst of a dry spell to end all dry spells. She was not about to free-fall. Not again.
No. No. No. She’d been smart to run fast and run far. Because Charlie Goodman was a drug to her, and like any addict, she couldn’t afford even the tiniest hit.
The edges of his mouth pulled up into a lazy smile. “Guess that’s a no.”
He turned to walk away, but she caught the back of his pajama pants with her fingertips. When he twisted back around, the gap between the fabric bunched in her hand and his skin offered her an unexpected and spectacular view of his perfect backside. So maybe she’d miscalculated a wee bit in coming here. And maybe she’d forgotten how deliciously rumpled Charlie looked when he first woke up. She was a grown woman, damn it. Not a kid with a crush. She let go of the fabric like her fingertips were on fire and it snapped back against his skin.
“Well, good morning to you, too.” He adjusted the waistband a little bit lower. Her gaze followed the line of the flannel, but when the pants dipped below the line of his hips, her heartbeat skyrocketed. A little further south of the pajama pants border, Charles the Second was waking up—
“Rules. We need rules.”
Given their obvious combustibility factor, surviving this bet would require, well, a few behavioral guidelines. Especially in view of the heavy duty flirting going on. Flirting, she reminded herself, that shouldn’t take place at all, given the circumstances that had torn them apart. Besides, they’d been down this road once before and where had it landed her? Alone with a chocolate addiction and nobody to watch Netflix with. She’d been ignoring Charlie’s hottie factor for more than half her life. She could do this. Reset the programming to the pre-hookup friend zone. Her future depended on it.
“We need ground rules.”
The slow grin that creased his face was pure evil. Okay, so stating the whole need for ground rules pretty much confirmed that he affected her, but she soldiered through for sake of self-preservation. She was only human after all.
He crossed his arms. “Rules, huh?”
Typical. He’d had always been a rule breaker, skipping school, sneaking into the movies… Occasionally he’d hotwire the alarm in his family’s Upper West Side home, bust out, and grab a cab over to Brooklyn to climb up her fire escape and hang out with her way past midnight.
“Yes, rules…because we are not falling into bed together.” There I said it. Large Elephant, you may now leave the room.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “We aren’t?”
She opened her mouth to debate the point, shut it, and then tried again. “Rule number one: no more flirting. And for the record, the whole lowering your pants trick totally constitutes flirting.”
“You’re the one staring at my ass, talking about falling back into bed together.”
“I was not staring at your—” She drew in a long breath and fought back a sudden urge to run for safety. But she’d made the bet, and now she was going to have to deal with it.
“If you want a peek, all you have to do is ask.”
Her fists formed into tight balls at her sides. “I was not staring at your ass and I was definitely not talking about falling into bed together.”
“You were, but it’s okay. Next time, we can skip the talking and just do it.”
Ignoring him, she jabbed two fingers into the space between them. “Rule number two: no kissing.”
“You mean like this?” He bent to kiss the sweet spot just behind her right ear, the one that made her fold like a greeting card. Her hands flew up to push him away but when they met his chest, that sculpted hard chest, her hands stopped working.
“No, I do not mean…” Halfway through her sentence, she convinced her arms to move and she pushed him away. After a long, slow breath, she started again. “No exceptions. Rules are rules and kissing is kissing, and just because you know how to do it doesn’t mean I’m going to fall, because I am not falling—”
He leaned into her personal space. “That’s part of your problem, you know. Rules may be rules, but kissing isn’t just kissing. Every woman is different.”
She arched a dark brow in his direction. “You ought to know.”
Rather than derail him, her taunt seemed to inspire him. “I know that a smart man kisses each woman in just the right way. Some women need long, slow, tender kisses. Some want a man to tug on her lips, teasing, biting softly. Then there’s you—”
Head low, she raised both palms into the air and stepped away from him. “Enough already. You heard the rules.”
“Rules are no problem for me because I usually ignore them.” As he moved oh-so-slowly back into her personal zone, her double-dealing heart did a cartwheel in her chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, angel, I’m not a play-it-by-the-rules guy.” He twisted a curl between his fingers, the movement sweet and intimate. “Or maybe you’ve forgotten…
No. When it came to Charlie, she couldn’t forget. Hell, this morning was proof positive. Even after her self-imposed six-month Charlie-hiatus, their chemistry threatened to burn through her rules like a blowtorch. She pressed her palms against his chest and gave him a quick, not-so-gentle shove. “Will you get dressed, please? Sooner, rather than later.”
“Later sounds better to me.”
“If you’re going to show me your game, I need you fully-clothed.”
He gave her that patented look and said, “Angel, you already know my best game moves do not require clothing
.”
She let go an impatient sigh. “Dating game moves, big guy, not sex-in-the-hallway moves.” They fell back into the routine so easily, the bantering, the nicknames, it was hard to believe it had been months since she last saw him.
“You’ve got something against sex in the hallway?” He eyed the walls like he was picking which one he’d take her against. Her traitorous stomach fluttered at the thought.
No. No fluttering stomachs. Damn it.
Focus, Jane. Focus.
She cleared her throat. “Just take me somewhere you’d take a date. We’ll discuss your ideal woman, and I can assess where we need work, okay?” She waved him away. “Now hurry up and get your groove on.”
He stood there, half-naked and smiling. “You make it sound so dirty.” He turned to walk down the hallway, tugging at the pajama bottoms. “Can’t a guy at least get a shower?”
“Hey, keep it covered, buddy.”
“Nothing you haven’t enjoyed before. Multiple times.”
Outside the bathroom, he turned and gave her a wicked smile before removing his pants. “I’ll make it quick. Not like usual. Put these in the laundry for me, will you?”
Her eyes narrowed on the pajama pants as they sailed through the air to land in a pile at her feet. Karma in blue-striped flannel. This was exactly why she never gambled. But now that she’d made the last bet she’d ever make, she needed to face facts.
Matching Charlie Goodman was going to be even trickier than she thought.
Chapter Four
@smartCupid Winning the 21st century dating game is hard work. If it were easy, nobody would play. #compatibilitymatrix
@AdamDatesRUs Dating is a numbers game, and I’ve got the numbers. #winner
“The Fluff ’N Fold? I asked you to take me somewhere you’d take a date, and you chose the Fluff ’N Fold?”
Jane winced at the censure in her own voice. Grateful he’d agreed to the three dates, she was loathe to be too critical, but dragging a woman to do laundry at the Fluff ’N Fold—not likely to be high on a client’s list of non-negotiables.
He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Hey, you’re the one who wants my intimate details for her criteria matrix. What’s more intimate than a guy’s premium Hanes?”
“Maybe we should consider one of the more traditional methods? Like getting coffee?”
“No. I’m good with the Fluff ’N Fold.” He opened the Laundromat’s silver and glass door and she walked in, crossing the gray-tiled floor to the oversized machines in the corner.
Peering over the basket he’d made her carry, she took in the cramped space. The place was empty, but a few abandoned machines rattled enough that she needed to raise her voice so he’d hear her over the noise. “You really think this place will inspire you to create your perfect list of criteria?”
“I do.” He walked past her, hefted his basket onto one of the long tables and started sorting his whites from his colors. “I like this place. It’s real. It’s personal.”
“Too personal.” She eyed a pair of shorts she remembered from… Nope, not going there.
“Who showed up on whose doorstep this morning?”
She shrugged off her parka and focused on the issue-laden laundry basket. “The search for your perfect match should be an unforgettable, revelatory experience—and not just because it smells like laundry detergent.”
“Let me see if I can get this straight,” he said. “Finding the ideal woman isn’t about chemistry, but it’s not about laundry either, right?”
“Right. Kind of. No.” She picked up a pair of jeans from the basket and tossed them in with a blue sweater. “What I’m saying is that defining the kind of woman you want to spend your life with is serious business. It’s a jumping off point into eternity that could determine your life and your destiny.”
“My destiny?”
“Okay, maybe that’s going a little too far, but it’s certainly about more than laundry, or even intimacy, or passion. It’s about compatibility.” She tossed a few items into the machine.
“Hey, you just put a few of my whites in with the reds. Watch it.”
“Can we stick to the subject of matchmaking please?” She tossed a pair of shorts at his head, which he snatched out of the air before they hit her target. “Let’s agree for the sake of it, that creating a list of criteria is an important process, potentially leading to fifty years of matrimonial bliss or, conversely, to a relationship that ends after two hours of sheer, unadulterated torture. Everything depends on the criteria, so they need to be right.”
Adding the shorts to the rest of his whites, he said, “Let’s get one detail straight, I committed to three dates, not matrimonial bliss. I’m a confirmed bachelor. Confirmed.”
“Yes, but finding your true love will change all—”
He held up a bottle of colorfast Tide and waved it in a circle. “And since we’re talking criteria, when did you turn into such a chemistry-free zone? Such an anti-romantic?”
“What are you talking about?” She looked around the Laundromat as if someone there would vouch for her. “I’m not anti-romantic. I’m a matchmaker. Of course, I’m romantic.”
He opened the bottle and tossed a cap and a half full of detergent into the industrial-sized washing machine. “About as romantic as a pit bull chewing through somebody’s ankle.”
“Okay, fine, I admit it. If you’re talking about the hot and sexy, gaze-into-my-eyes-and-let-me-make-you-the-center-of-my-universe kind of romantic, then yes, maybe you have a point. But successful relationships are not about that hot and sexy stuff.”
He turned the knob to start the wash cycle. “No?”
“No. They’re about work and commitment. Relationships are about compatibility and predictability. If my mother taught me anything about love, it’s that chemistry doesn’t last.”
“Chemistry is the necessary spark—”
She held up both palms. “There’s got to be more holding two people together. If not, somebody leaves and somebody gets burned. I understand this fact, which is why I’m a successful matchmaker. I help my clients avoid getting burned.”
“That’s love? The absence of pain?”
“For some people, yes.” She turned away and traced the letters on two of his Columbia University tees before tossing them into the sudsy water. “Frankly, by the time most people turn to a matchmaker, they’ve been burned a few times already and they’re hoping to avoid any more painful scars. By focusing on compatibility and predictability, I’m able—”
“Right, the P word. I forgot. Back to your infamous list.” He emphasized his words with a bit of eye rolling and handed her a stack of quarters.
She took the coins and forced them into a second machine as her temper threatened to erupt like a flare gun. “You’re the one who chose to discuss the qualities of your ideal woman in the middle of a Laundromat, a completely unserious choice requiring a five block hike, all the way down Lexington. Carrying laundry baskets.”
“What’s your point?”
“I don’t think you take the matrix seriously. That’s the point.”
And why the hell didn’t he? He knew she’d worked hard to get out of Brooklyn. He was there when her father walked out on her family, leaving her mother with three kids, a broken down house, and two fistfuls of accumulated debt. To be fair, he was never there at night to hear her mom come home from her second job, tumble into bed, and cry quietly so no one would hear her. But Jane heard. Her mother was a smart woman in many ways, but when it came to love, Jane knew how to play it smarter.
Charlie leaned his hip against the machine. “The Fluff ‘N Fold is part of my matrix. It’s everyday love.”
“Right. Everyday love.” She turned away from him and his almost-empty laundry basket. Even if she did miss Charlie, the heat they’d ignited in the Caymans couldn’t be allowed to continue. Even if a tiny part of her felt terrible about the end of their friendship, about everything that happened on Grand Cayman that had led to The Napki
n. He’d been a fixture in her life for so long, she never should’ve fallen victim to chemistry. She pulled a tablet computer from her bag. “You don’t have a criteria list already, so—”
“What makes you think I don’t have a list?”
She glanced pointedly at the line of industrial dryers along the back wall. “Maybe because you advocate Laundry Dating?”
“I’ve got a list.”
Her gaze took in the worn tee and navy athletic pants that hugged his perfectly toned body. He was beyond everyday sexy. He was right. Laundry was intimate. Friggin’ chemistry.
She flipped the tablet open and punched in her security code. “You’ve got a list?”
“Surprised?” he asked.
She stared down at the screen to avoid looking into his eyes because the new crinkles at their edges, the ones that weren’t there last time those eyes coaxed her out of her clothes and into his bed, were even more lethal.
New rule. No crinkles.
“What’s on the list?” Her voice held its own challenge. “A girl with the right kind of upbringing?”
The casual tone of his voice evaporated. “The right kind of upbringing?”
“An ivy leaguer,” she said, with a nod toward one of his university T-shirts still in the basket. “All Swank Town and appropriate. Not from Brooklyn.”
“Not from Brooklyn, huh?” He eased his body away from the washer and walked toward her, his hands buried in his pockets. “What do you think? After all, you’re the matchmaker.”
“I think…” Thinking was impossible in this place, with his magazine-cover-worthy boxer-briefs spinning in the machine behind her. He stepped closer and her gaze drifted south. Probably going commando. Her fingers banged on the tablet. “Criteria number one. Not. From. Brooklyn.”
He smiled at her as if he was betting on a race he’d already won. “And blond.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Blond?”
“Definitely blond. An even-tempered, sweet blonde. Maybe a little shy.”
Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) Page 3