Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid)

by Maggie Kelley

  “You’re joking.”

  Her eyes widened behind the oversized tortoiseshells. “I never joke about bandwidth.” She handed over the tablet and pointed at the top screen. “Take a look. The site posted a photo of Charlie and a quote from his New York interview.”

  Jane focused on the quote beneath Charlie’s photo, a photo so hot she wasn’t surprised it had ignited a five-alarm fire across the Internet. “Love is the only good kind of accident.”

  She winced. For a guy who’d lost his mother in a car wreck, that was one hell of a definitive quote.

  “Forget the quote, focus on the numbers.”

  Jane looked back at screen. “Over fifty-thousand Likes?”

  “That’s over fifty-thousand singles waiting to fall for our bachelor,” M.A. said. “Even better, I think I’ve found The One.”

  “The One?” She handed back the computer.

  “Summer Sweet, a neonatal nurse, originally from California, currently residing in Tribeca. She has a Bachelor’s Degree from NYU and a Master’s from Columbia.” Marianne tapped to another next screen. “A health food nut, she makes an exception for ice cream, enjoys sports, yoga, and taking a well-timed risk. Loves dogs and wears glasses.”

  “And she’s a blonde?”

  “She’s a blonde.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “At least we got the specifics. Any significant stats?”

  “Strong on the Shared Humor Index.”

  Her fingers tapped on the desk. “Critical for Charlie.”

  “Positive scores for affection and intellectual compatibility with an overall algorithmic calculation of ninety-six.”

  “A ninety-six point match. Not a mathematically perfect correlation but…”

  “Practically perfect on paper.”

  “Exactly. Practically perfect on paper.” Jane opened her candy drawer and grabbed a Snickers and a Twix. “Did you make a reservation at the new sushi place in SoHo?”

  Marianne’s blue eyes blinked repeatedly behind her glasses. “No, he preferred Temptation.”

  “The bar?” She took an extra-large bite of the candy and reached for her Diet Coke. Shit, at this rate, she’d better tear open the Twizzlers, too. “Okay. Not the most romantic place on earth, but it could work. Did you FedEx his wardrobe?”

  A set of eyebrows rose above the tortoiseshells. “I did.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Maybe not.” Marianne turned the tablet to reveal a document scan from FedEx. Delivery. Declined. In bold red lettering. Her friend offered up a tight smile. “Apparently, he told the guy, he’d be wearing Levis and a Rangers tee and you could kiss his…”

  Jane popped the top of the can and the soda exploded like an exclamation point. “I get the message.” A low sound of frustration rumbled in the back of her throat. “Why does he have to make everything so difficult?”

  Tonight’s date needed to be a success. A mark in the win column offered proof that smart love works, safety for Smart Cupid and Company and freedom from her less-than-logical physical desire for Charlie. “Damn that Rangers t-shirt.”

  Marianne cleared her throat. “Jane…are you sure you feel okay about matching Charlie?”

  Jane’s eyes snapped to attention. “Of course. Don’t I look okay?”

  “You look great, I’m just wondering…” In an obvious stall tactic, she readjusted her glasses against the bridge of her nose a second time. “I was wondering if matching him is tougher than you expected.”

  “I’m fine.”

  There was another slightly longer pause. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. One hundred percent sure.” That twinge of disappointment? She swallowed it down with a mouthful of processed corn syrup and red dye #40.

  She waved a candy wrapper in the air, chasing away the thought. “I have my list. I know the type of criteria best suited to long-term compatibility—loyalty, intelligence, reliability.” She crumpled up the empty wrapper. “My ultimate man is sweet and predictable…like a Twinkie.”

  “A Twinkie?”

  “Yes, a Twinkie. You always know what you’re getting when you bite into a Twinkie.” She grabbed a King-sized box of Whoppers and a Zero bar from her drawer—might as well polish off this pity party, A to Z. “Charlie Goodman is no Twinkie. Charlie is spicy Cajun food and a Hurricane in the middle of Mardi Gras, a great time until the hangover the next morning.” The last thing she needed was another hangover.

  “So you feel comfortable matching him even though you two dated last year?”

  “Technically, we were not dating. We were friends who fell into bed together, hyped up on pheromones, and it only took six, lousy days for him to lose interest and flirt with some island bartender.” She spilled the M&Ms onto the desk and began sorting them by color. “Typical. No idea why I failed to see it coming. The man has a little black book that’s a three volume set.”

  “Are you talking about the blonde again?”

  She moved the stack of blue candy off to one side. “If by the blonde you mean the Rum Runner blonde, then, yes, I’m talking about the blonde again.”

  Her friend shook her head. “She was a bartender. Didn’t she just ask him how to make a Rum Runner?”

  “Marianne, we’d just indulged in a six day friends-with-benefits marathon, and crazy me, I thought I was falling for him. Even though I knew he was physically incapable of saying ‘I love you’ and of being in a committed, long-term relationship, I was falling for the guy. Next thing I know, he’s flirting with some bartender while he’s on a date with me.”

  “You’re certain. We’re talking about the same guy? Charlie, your best friend for twenty years. He—right in front of you—opted to hit on another girl. Sounds kinda suspect to me.” Marianne adjusted her glasses. “Did you know that men are much more likely than women—forty-eight versus twenty-eight percent—to fall in love at first sight?”

  Jane picked up the pile of green candies and popped them into her mouth. “He was flirting. With another woman.” She picked up a second heap of color-coded candy. “And, honestly, a Rum Runner? The least he could have done was flirted with a woman who wanted to know how to make a classic. A Sidecar. Or a Manhattan.”

  But Marianne wasn’t buying it. “Are fight-or-flight management skills on your list?”

  “I left for a good reason. I have no willpower where that man is concerned.”

  Jane wrinkled her nose Okay, so, maybe M.A. had a point, maybe he hadn’t actually been flirting, but the memory of his bartending lesson still stung, not so much because he’d done something wrong, but because of the way it’d made her feel. One moment she’d been envisioning them cohabiting back in NY and the next, she was envisioning herself coming home and catching him “in the act” with another woman. The effect? Devastating. As in, gut-wrenching, heart-bursting, I-couldn’t-possibly-hurt-worse pain.

  So, yes, she’d hightailed it out of there just as quickly as her platform sandals could carry her. Breaking it off was the right choice. She refused to be a chemistry addict, strung-out on Charlie Goodman until he decided to move onto the next available woman. Her mother had taught her all about the world’s most dangerous cocktail—love.

  “Break-ups happen all the time.”

  “Not on a cocktail napkin,” Marianne said, with barely disguised impatience, her intelligent eyes telegraphing her frustration. “Not with a man you’ve known your whole life.”

  “I left him a handwritten note. A handwritten note is legitimate and personal and direct, and yes, okay, in this case, flamingo-pink. But why is everybody acting like my actions fell below the last rung of some sliding scale of emotional acuity? Besides, we weren’t dating, so technically, not a break-up. What’s the big deal?”

  She wanted to bang her head against the desk, but none of this was M.A’s fault. None of it. She let go a sigh. “Anyway, I’m fine matching Charlie, and tonight’s date is a good fit. Shared values, geographical proximity, and an identification on the Shared Humor Index are al
l positive indicators.”

  “I still think we need to enter chemistry into the algorithm.”

  “No, we don’t. Trust me, okay? Let’s just enter all his criteria into the application matrix in case we need a second date to take him from confirmed bachelor to man in love.”

  Marianne’s uncertain gaze pinned her to the chair. “Man in love—exactly.”

  “And double-check his basic statistics,” she said, tapping on her soda can. “Dark hair, gray eyes, killer smile. Athletic build, six lean feet of impressive muscle, and an ass to die for.”

  Especially in a pair of low-slung denim jeans.

  Not to mention form-fitting athletic pants.

  Or flannel pajama bottoms.

  “Boss?”

  Jane dragged her mind back from the border of Sintown. “Sorry, where was I?”

  The recruiter looked down at the computer tablet. “An ass to die for.”

  She bit hard on her bottom lip. “Better not type that into the profile. Besides, tonight’s date will hit the mark, and we won’t need the personal details.”

  Details like how he knew exactly where to touch her, whether to use a feather-light caress or a bold stroke, how he rocked her endlessly until an explosion of sensation filled her body, making her pretty much worthless for any other man. Except, of course, her Ultimate List Man.

  “Definitely better limit the personal details. Keep it straightforward and safe.”

  Marianne nodded and got up to leave. “Right. Straightforward and safe.”

  Like her UML. Predictable. Reliable. Safe.

  “Jane, can I ask you a question?” Marianne stood in the doorway a few steps shy of an actual exit, all spit shined and sweet in her tortoiseshells and cornflower blue cardi. “Ever run your relationship with Charlie through the matrix?”

  She sighed and rubbed her fingers across her temple in an effort to beat back the inevitable migraine. “Actually, yes, and according to the algorithm’s analysis, the statistical probability of my having a successful relationship with Charlie is…well…there is no statistical probability.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Tell that to the matrix. Ours was the lowest score ever recorded.” The result had screamed: Break it off or your pathetic little heart will be in shreds by noon.

  In shreds. By noon.

  An epic failure.

  “Maybe the matrix doesn’t always get it right.” Marianne’s words exploded from the doorway like a bomb.

  Jane fought the rising tide of panic in her throat. “Of course the matrix always gets it right. Without logical criteria, the heart is vulnerable, at risk for all kinds of bad choices.”

  “But what if a heart’s randomness is the part of the equation that makes love work?”

  “No.” She shook her head in firm denial. “Random romantic impulses fast-track a heart straight to Painsville. Long-term love requires compatibility and commitment.”

  “But—”

  “Marianne, you built the matrix.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but—”

  “Designed the whole thing. Wrote all the code.”

  “I realize that, of course, but love’s chemical properties—”

  “This isn’t about chemical properties,” she said, her voice full of the certainty that comes from experience. “The matrix works.”

  Marianne was a wonderful friend, a true partner in the business of love, but she knew nothing about risk or intuition, and even less about being a gambler’s daughter. Playing unpredictable odds was natural for Jane. Thanks to her father, risk flowed through the blood in her veins, and if her recent behavior at the Fluff ’N Fold proved anything, it proved how hard she needed to work to control the part of her that loved a gamble.

  “Maybe the heart is a wild card, but there’s no sense gambling on love. True, long-term love needs logic and focus.” An uncertain look creased her friend’s face, but Jane kept her tone confidant. M.A. wasn’t ending up at the unemployment office. Not on her watch. “We’re going to win this bet. Charlie may not realize it yet, but his bachelor days are numbered. Not only will I find his true love, but I intend to prove to him and to every other single guy in Manhattan that smart love works.”

  And yet despite her words, Jane wondered if her own list of criteria would result in a happily-ever after, or if maybe, in spite of all her careful planning, and all the energy spent managing the small time gambler in her, she’d be the one who ended up with a broken heart.

  Because the truth was—sometimes Cupid’s aim really sucked.

  Chapter Six

  @Goodman The NY Rangers are killing me. And they’re not the only ones.

  @KathieLeeandHoda Our Bachelor went on his first date tonight…was it love? #offthemarket?

  Temptation bustled with the small crowd of weeknight regulars, plus a passel of women setting their spiked heels in the bar for the first time, newcomers courtesy of NY Single’s photoblog. At the back of the bar, Charlie took aim at the red, white, and blue board on the far wall. He tossed his last dart and missed the damn thing completely. He missed. He never missed.

  Nick Wright chuckled. “You need to take a better look before you toss the darts. You’re aiming for the bull’s-eye—you know, the circle in the middle.”

  He stared at his friend. “Funny, Nick.”

  “Tonight’s date not a keeper?”

  Charlie shot him a look that said “shut the hell up”, and raised his bottle in a short toast. “One down, two to go.”

  Nick clapped him on the shoulder. “That bad, huh?”

  “Not bad, just…” Not the one he wanted to seduce into a blind frenzy.

  He threw off his thoughts and strode over to the board to pull his darts. “When was the last time I missed the board? Huh? That’s right. Never.” He came back and handed Nick a set. “It’s your sister. She’s driving me crazy.”

  Nick took aim and hit the center of the board. “So, what’s new?”

  Ignoring the comment, he said, “She bolts from the Caymans without a backward glance.”

  His friend winced. “Yeah, that wasn’t good.”

  “Now, all of a sudden, she’s on my doorstep dragging me out of bed, talking about her bet and my bachelor status. Driving me freaking crazy.”

  Nick sipped his beer, whether in solidarity or to hide his laughter, Charlie wasn’t sure. “Hang in there, Bachelor Number One.”

  Yeah, right. Jane’s kiss-off napkin had fucked him up so bad that for months he’d wanted nothing to do with dating, or hooking up, or playing the stupid head games people played under the guise of looking for love. Now I’m Bachelor Number One.

  Nick nodded toward the board. “Jumpers? Winner buys the next round.”

  “You’re on.” He pushed back a stab of guilt.

  Nick knew about the bet, but not about the plan to show his sister what she could do with her compatibility matrix. If he did, he’d kick his ass. Settling his six-month-old score could cost him. He ran his fingers across his jaw. “Maybe it’s time to bail.”

  “On Jane’s bet? Don’t be an asshole.” Nick threw his next dart and missed. “Roll with it. Or better yet, be honest, and tell her you love her.”

  The line of his body tensed like an over-tightened guitar string. Charlie hadn’t spoken the words “I love you” since the day his mom took a wrong turn down a one-way street. He wasn’t starting now. Nick could think whatever the hell he wanted, but love? No. Love was not part of the current plan.

  He tilted his bottle at Nick. “I never said I loved her. I said, ‘she drives me crazy.’”

  “There’s a difference?” Nick unloaded the rest of his darts into the board before flashing a brash, you-can’t-hide-from-me grin. “If that’s how you want to play it. We both know you’re not capable of the whole emotional honesty thing.”

  “You did not seriously just say emotional honesty.”

  Nick tilted a beer in his direction. “Prove me wrong. Tell her you own Temptation. Tell
her you found the place, restored every piece by hand, and let me buy into the deal for fun. Tell her about the organization you run for kids in the old neighborhood.” He aced his last shot and walked the length of the bar to retrieve the darts. “Let somebody besides me know you’re a good guy, and not just the hottest catch in the city. Not my words, by the way. New York Magazine.”

  “I read the article, Nick.”

  Nick started quoting from the article. “Heir to the Goodman fortune, our pick for this year’s hot bartender keeps busy mixing top shelf martinis in Tribeca.” He pulled the darts off the board and turned around. “Women love that kind of a mystery.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “Not a mystery. Just a bartender.”

  “An Ivy League bartender with an Upper West Side address.”

  He shrugged off the comment. “Maybe that checks a couple of boxes on a few eligibility lists, but it’s all bullshit.”

  “Bullshit that lands you on the cover of New York Magazine,” Nick pointed out with a smile on his face. “I sent Jake a copy of the magazine, by the way.”

  “Great. Wasn’t he the one who invited Jane and me to the island? Yeah, he was. Your brother landed me in this whole mess.” Not technically, since they’d skipped Jake’s small retreat and went to the Caymans, but still… “He’s probably loving this whole bachelor deal.”

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe you should call him…”

  “No thanks. I have enough trouble dealing with you.”

  “Another round, boss?” Joe asked from the far side of the bar.

  Joe was a twenty-two-year-old kid from Brooklyn Heights where Charlie ran his charitable foundation for at-risk families. Not much of a bartender, honestly, but he was eager—a good kid, and “at-risk” failed to describe his situation.

  “Two Sam Adams Winter Lager,” he said, raising two fingers. “Thanks.”

  Charlie understood difficult family relationships. His father never accepted the bar or the foundation as his life’s work. He’d walked away from his family’s financial empire and his father believed he’d taken that road because it was easy. Always the easy way, he’d say.