I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ex-manwhoring jerk.”
“Ex? Since when?”
“I’m not the same guy,” I say. “Having a kid … it changes your priorities. I go out once a month now, maybe less. Most nights I’m in bed by nine o’clock. I flex my schedule so I can be with Joa as much as possible and take her to those Mommy-and-Me classes, even though I’m usually the only dad there. We go to the park three times a week. And the children’s museum. Once a month, we fly to Toledo to visit my parents because they’re the only grandparents Joa has. And every other month we visit Rhett and Ayla. Tell me, Bostyn, with a schedule like that, when would I have time to fit in random hookups and pull all-nighters at the club?”
She’s quiet.
I win.
“So you’re Father of the Year,” she says a moment later. “Good for you. And I mean that. I’m not trying to be smart. I think it’s great that you’ve dedicated your life to taking care of your daughter. Not a lot of guys would do that. But I still don’t want to date you, Locke.”
“One date.”
“You once told me that nobody dates in this century anymore. You said, and I quote, ‘dating is another word for hooking up.’”
“Yeah. I said that,” I say. “But it isn’t true. Not anymore. Not for me.”
“You can take the women away from the playboy, but you can’t take the playboy out of the man.”
“Sounds like a chapter in one of your books.”
“Have you read my books?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so,” she says. “And it is. That’s chapter thirty-five in my latest one, actually.”
“I think you want to be single.” My brows meet, and I rise from the chair, pacing the room. I’m getting absolutely no where with this woman, and I’ve never been so frustrated in my life.
“That’s not true.”
“You call yourself a dating and relationship advice guru, but all you do is push people apart,” I say. “And when you’re not sabotaging other people’s relationships, you’re sabotaging your own. When was the last time you had a boyfriend? A real, long-term commitment? Labels and all?”
“Last year,” she says proudly.
“And why did you break up with him?”
“How do you know I broke up with him?” Her question is saturated in defensiveness.
“Because I know you, Bostyn. Now answer the damn question.”
“It’s a personal question.”
I groan, tilting my head back. I don’t know if I want to kiss her still or strangle her through the phone.
“Come over,” I say. I’m going to have to be relentless with this woman if I’m going to get anywhere with her.
“We’re back to that?”
“Yes. We’re back to that. Text me your address. I’ll send a cab.” I check the time on my phone before pressing it against my ear. “I just want to talk to you. In person. That’s all.”
She’s silent, which is a good thing, because it tells me she’s considering it—not like I’m going to give her a choice in the matter.
“And I don’t care if you’re in sweats with no makeup and your teeth are wine-stained,” I say. “Just get your ass over here, so we can talk. I just want you to see.”
“See what?”
“That I’m different. That I’m not the guy who once told you were doing the Lord’s work by writing a dating advice column.”
She releases a breathy chuckle on the other end, and I think she’s shocked that I remember. Truthfully, I kind of am too. I was drunk as hell that night, but I remember everything about that conversation. I remember her insulting me. I remember me offending her right back. I remember her storming out of the bar. I remember chasing after her. I remember kissing her.
I remember everything because when you meet a girl like Bostyn Beckford, you don’t forget.
“Your car will be there in a half hour,” I say, and then I end the call before she can protest.
6
Bostyn
I can’t believe I’m here.
If I were to call Ayla up right now and tell her that Locke Carson talked me into coming to his house she’d accuse me of making it up.
“You want a drink?” He lifts a dark brow and points to the wine fridge beneath his kitchen island. It’s stocked full, like it hasn’t been touched in ages. “I’m going to have a drink.”
“I’m good,” I say. The last thing I need right now are inhibitions lower than they apparently already are.
“Come on.” He tilts his head, retrieving a cork screw and not one, but two wine glasses. “You came all this way. Don’t just stand there in the doorway with your purse on your shoulder like you’re afraid to make yourself comfortable.”
He has a point.
Ugh.
I take a seat at the island and place my bag on the counter as he pours the wine, and like a good little house guest, I take a sip when he hands me mine.
It’s sweet. And full bodied.
I take another sip.
My body is braced, like I’m just waiting for him to hurl an insult my way. Any man with the nerve to insult what I do professionally is not the kind of man I would ever allow myself to date. If he thinks he can change my mind, he’s got another thing coming.
Then again, I did make fun of his dating app…
“Describe your perfect guy.” His question catches me off guard, and I almost have to ask him to repeat it.
“Why, so you can figure out how to be that guy?” I chuckle. Not falling for that. “I see what you’re trying to do, Carson.”
“It’s just a question,” he says with a sigh. “Doesn’t it get exhausting?”
“What?”
“Always trying to be one step ahead of everyone else?”
“No clue what you’re talking about,” I say.
“It’s just something I’ve noticed about you over the years. Someone says or does something and you immediately discredit them or you act like there’s some underlying motivation behind it which then gives you an excuse to keep them at an arm’s length. You do it with your callers too, I’ve noticed.”
“Everyone has underlying motivations,” I say. “It’s human. We’re complex and we do things because we’re motivated to do them, whether we realize it or not.”
“What motivated you to come here tonight?” he asks.
I open my mouth to speak, and then I stop myself.
“I … don’t know.” I glance down at my wine.
“Sure you do.”
“I really don’t,” I say, looking up into his cool blue gaze before letting my stare drift down his runner’s build.
“I think you do. You’re just afraid to admit it.”
“Admit what, exactly?”
“That deep down, you kind of do want to give me a chance,” he says. “Confess. You’ve thought about it.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it,” I slide off the bar stool, hand gripping my wine glass, and I make my way toward him. “And every time, I reach the same conclusions.”
“And what’s that?” he asks.
“That you’re a bull and I’m a china shop.”
Locke laughs. “Cute, Bostyn. Real cute.”
Chuffing, I shake my head. “I like things exactly the way they are. I’m controlled. And you’re chaos.”
“I’m not chaos,” he says. “Not anymore. I was trying to tell you that earlier.”
I take a sip, glancing around his apartment, eyes landing on the high chair and the basket of stuffed animals and the sippy cups drying in perfect order on a towel by the sink. I suppose he’s right—being a single dad probably puts a cramp on his playboy shenanigans.
Although, I wouldn’t put it past him to use any of this to his advantage. I don’t know a single woman out there—besides myself—who could resist what he’s selling. Handsome, single dad. Self-made millionaire. Nice.
God, did I really just admit Locke Carson was … of all t
hings … nice?
The man who told me I was doing the Lord’s work by giving out dating advice to single women?
“Anyway,” Locke says. “Your perfect man. Describe him.”
“I think your question is weird,” I say. My face is going numb, and my tongue feels lazy. This wine’s kicking in faster than I expected. Then again, I polished off half a bottle before I came here, so there’s that. “But since you won’t stop asking, let me tell you all about him.”
Locke smirks, flashing a dimple, and resting his elbows on the counter. He’s all ears. And all eyes. The man hasn’t taken his ice blue stare off of me since the moment I walked through his door.
“My perfect guy …” I glance up at the pitched ceiling and tap my finger against the side of my pinched mouth. “He’s ambitious. And well-educated. Some might even call him scholarly, though he’s not pretentious about it. He’s kind and well-mannered. Close with his family. Good relationship with his mother, but not overly close because in my experience that tends to be a red flag. He’s also relentless in his pursuit of the things he wants. In a way, he always gets what he wants. Someone who gives up when things get hard? That’s not my guy. Oh, and I’d like him to be fluent in at least one other language because that tells me he’s very open-minded and adventurous.”
When my gaze lands upon his again, he’s dragging his hand down his face, hiding a smile.
“You’re fucking with me right?” he asks.
“What?”
“You just described me,” he says.
“No I didn’t.” I take a step back, refusing to believe.
“I’m ambitious,” he says. “I’ve developed and sold almost a dozen apps in the last six years. I’m well-educated too. Graduated at the top of my class at MIT. You could call me scholarly, I guess. And no one’s ever called me pretentious, though I did have a phase after I made my first million, but that was short-lived. I think I’m kind. I donate to charities every chance I get. I’m well-mannered too. I made sure you had a ride here, and I poured you a glass of wine the second you stepped inside because I want you to be comfortable. Also, I have a great relationship with my mother, and we’re not weird about it. I call her once a week. I visit once a month. But our boundaries are nice and healthy. Worst thing about her is that she was overprotective when we were kids, but she’s great now, and I think you’d love her if you two ever meet. Oh, have I told you I’m fluent in Spanish? Eres muy bella. I speak German too. Du bist schön.”
My cheeks are glowing hot under the intensity of his stare. He’s gloating. And he has every reason to. He’s right.
“But I still don’t want to date you, Locke,” I finally manage to say.
“Call me relentless,” he says. “But I still don’t want to give up.”
Locke moves closer, his intoxicatingly dark cologne invading my sense. Any closer and he’s going to be able to feel my heart pounding in my chest.
Before I realize what he’s doing, his fingertips are grazing the side of my face and his mouth is pulling closer to mine. But the second our lips so much as graze, I duck away and grab my bag.
“I shouldn’t have come here tonight,” I say, showing myself out.
7
Locke
I can’t escape her.
This morning, on my way into the office, we passed a bus with her face plastered across the side of it, along with her radio show’s logo and a short by-line from the New York Times’.
And now my assistant and Amber from accounting are discussing her show next to the coffee maker. They don’t notice me, which means they have no idea I can hear their little conversation about how Amber had a date Friday night with some guy who wanted her to do anal in the bathroom of a TGI Friday’s.
“Ladies,” I say. “We’ve got work to do.”
Amber blushes and my assistant, Julie, clamps her hand over her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Locke,” Amber says. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“You told him no, right?” I ask.
“Of course.” Amber pours her coffee and follows me. “I’m a classy girl.”
“I told her she should call into that show on Sirius XM,” Julie says. “Where that girl gives out relationship advice.”
“She’s kind of mean though.” Amber’s face scrunches.
“She’s not mean, she’ just no-nonsense,” Julie says. “She doesn’t sugarcoat. And that’s what we need. There aren’t enough people like her.”
“So you drink the Bostyn Beckford Kool-Aid?” I ask Julie.
“You know her name!” My assistant is amused and her grin takes up the entire lower half of her face. “How do you know her name?”
“She’s an … acquaintance.” I adjust my tie and head into my office. The women stop outside my door, their steaming coffees in their hands.
“That face you made,” Amber says, pointing toward me. “There’s something you’re not saying.”
“Yeah,” Julie says. “I think so too. What are you not telling us, boss?”
“Ladies.” I chuckle, straightening my tie before taking a seat at my desk. “You’re reading into this.”
“You dated, didn’t you?” Amber asks.
God, these women are perceptive.
“We didn’t date,” I say carefully. “In fact, she won’t date me.”
Amber’s face falls, and she’s in shock. “How could anyone not want to date you? You’re the total package.”
“You don’t know Bostyn,” Julie says. “Sorry, boss, but I’m not surprised. A woman like that is probably ridiculously picky. I bet she has sky-high standards that no man can live up to. I respect her and all, and I think she knows what she’s talking about, but I wouldn’t want to be the guy on the other side of that, you know? She’d be constantly analyzing you.”
“Eesh,” Amber says. “That would be rough.”
“You’re better off without her,” Julie says. “I love her, but you should be with a girl you have fun with. Not a girl who’s waiting for you to mess up so she can make a story out of you on her next radio show.”
“So true,” Amber says, nodding.
“You know I think the last three guys she dated actually cheated on her. Yeah. Now that I think about it, she mentioned that once,” Julie says, grimacing. “Poor thing. Knowing everything she knows and dating guys like that, I’d be super picky too.”
“Oh, damn,” Amber says. “That’s got to be rough.”
Julie spreads her hand across her chest. “Can you even imagine? You’re this dating expert and you can’t pick a guy to save your life.”
“Those who can’t do … teach.” Amber gives a half-hearted, sympathetic frown.
I can’t take this conversation anymore.
“Back to work,” I say, moving to the door and closing it, gently, in their faces.
Returning to my desk, I crack open my computer and attempt to get a little work done, but all I can think about is their conversation. If Bostyn’s last three boyfriend’s cheated on her, no wonder she didn’t want to answer my question about why she dumped the last one. And no wonder she doesn’t want to date me—she doesn’t have faith in her ability to pick men anymore.
It all makes sense.
But it’s not enough to make me give up.
Despite the fact that she bolted out of my apartment the second I tried to kiss her, I still have hope. I refuse to throw in the towel just yet.
8
Bostyn
“Hi, Caller, you’re live with Single Girl’s Guide. How can I help you tonight?” I speak into the microphone, all ears.
“Hi, Bostyn,” the woman says on the other end. “So, the reason I’m calling in tonight is because there’s this guy.”
“Of course,” I say with a laugh. “There’s always this guy.”
She chuckles. “Anyway, I’ve been reading your book, The New Dating Revolution, and I’ve been following all your rules.”
“Awesome.”
“I have to sa
y, the rules about playing hard to get has been life-changing,” she gushes. “It’s crazy how once you act like you don’t care, the men are all climbing over each other just to beat down your door.”
“Right? Every single time.” I smile, nodding like she can see me. “Reverse psychology 101.”
“Okay, so there’s this one guy in particular,” she continues. “I’ve been playing hard to get with him for a while now. We work together and we’ve always kind of had this cat-and-mouse thing going on, but lately I’ve been stepping up my game and making it really hard for him to get anywhere with me.”
“And how’s that working out?”
“I think … maybe … I’m playing too hard to get?” she asks. “And I’m wondering, at what point, do you transition from hard to easy enough to get? I really like him, Bostyn. I don’t want to miss my chance. I mean, yesterday he asked me what I was doing this weekend, but I think I messed something up.”
“Sounds like you’re doing a great job so far,” I say. “What did you tell him when he asked if you were free this weekend?”
“I told him no!” she says, voice raised and frustrated. “And then after I did that, he didn’t so much as look my way the rest of the day. I think he gave up. I think he got tired of the games.”
“It isn’t a game. It’s a strategic move,” I say. “And if he got tired of chasing you, then he probably wasn’t worth your time anyway.”
“But I liked him. A lot. And because of your stupid advice, I’m never going to get to actually date him.”
I pull in a deep breath just to let it go. “I’m so sorry, Caller. My advice isn’t fool proof, but I stand by it. Placing value in yourself as a woman, as a potential girlfriend, means playing hard to get sometimes. And if a man doesn’t see that value, he’s probably not dating material anyway.”
There’s a click.
I glance up through the window, toward Lara, who’s frantically typing into her computer, brows furrowed.
“You still there?” I ask.
Looking up again, I see Lara shaking her head.
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