Instant Attraction

by Blakely, Lauren

  Piper gives me a look that’s full of surprise. “You read that?”

  “It’s a really good blog. You read it too?” I ask.

  “Of course. My friend Jason writes it. It’s good to know what men are thinking,” she answers.

  “And men think of friends when they need a plus-one.” I exhale. “That’s why Gavin and I are getting together before the party to come up with a backstory.”

  “Yeah. That doesn’t sound like a romance novel at all,” Piper mutters.

  I tap the felt. “Let’s play, so I can destroy you two.”

  Later that night, after I win, I reread The Modern Gentleman in New York column again.

  It’s the necessary reminder of who I am.

  I’m his friend.

  Nothing more.

  * * *

  From the Blog of The Modern Gentleman in New York

  Let’s face it. Guys don’t like to ask for advice.

  It’s not in our nature. Hell, our bloody DNA is twined with chromosomes instructing us to never ask for help when it comes to directions, driving, and, naturally, dating.

  Just picture the standard-issue dad back in the day, map to his holiday destination folded in a haphazard mess across the steering wheel, ignoring the anguished pleas from the rest of the car that he stop and ask for directions.

  Map mishaps are rare now thanks to GPS, one of the greatest inventions since beer and rock and roll, the internet being sufficiently cool to circumvent a man’s stubborn nature and allow him to ask for help.

  And help is what I aim to give you today. The question of the day hails from Rhett, an intrepid reader who has a question about dating etiquette. Or rather, dating demands.

  Rhett says: “I’ve been invited to a work event next weekend. A gala, if you will, and my boss told me I should bring a date. Do I actually need to bring one, and if so, do I just go to Tinder or Match to find one?”

  Ah, the plus-one dilemma. We modern gentlemen face this all the time. But let me share my best advice with you. Are you ready? Come closer. A little closer. Closer still.

  DO NOT FIND YOUR DATE ON TINDER.

  There. I said it. I feel better.

  Wait. There’s more.

  DO NOT FIND YOUR DATE ONLINE.

  Look, unless you’re paying for some sort of service—and hey, there’s nothing wrong with platonic escort services—I’d recommend a simple, straightforward solution: ask a friend.

  Interlude

  Spencer

  Things might get a little interesting and perhaps a little complicated for Gavin and Savannah.

  They’re good friends, and she’s going to pretend to be dating him while pretending she hasn’t wanted to do that for ages. After all, Savannah doesn’t even believe in that kind of romance. As for Gavin . . . I have a hunch he’ll soon be looking at her with new eyes.

  Did I say “a little complicated?” I should revise that. I bet everything is about to get a lot more complicated for those two.

  Because that whole “ask a friend” thing . . . when has that ever been simple?

  I asked a friend to be my fake date, and look how that wound up—as a big old serving of happily ever after.

  But before getting back to these two, let’s see what’s cooking for that guy who just gave the advice on asking a friend.

  For that we go back in time a little more than a few years ago to the night when a certain woman meets a certain man for the first time.

  My wife’s best friend, Truly, is going about her business, mixing drinks at a bar in Chelsea in the heart of Manhattan, when lo and behold, a man walks in who catches her eye.

  Spoiler: Truly has no idea this guy is friends with her brother.

  That’s gonna be such a bummer.

  5

  Truly

  It’s a question I’ve heard many times at my establishment, and it starts with Would you rather . . .?

  Bartenders hear the same things over and over. I could make a list, starting with the lines the guys use to hit on the girls. Because the bar pickup line is alive and well.

  We might be living in a postmodern world of online dating, but there’s still plenty of romance—and hookups—that ignite in person.

  I’m betting on the latter happening right in front of me, based on the persistence of a goatee-sporting guy at the bar. He clears his throat and says to the brunette next to him, “Would you rather walk on hot coals or step on a sea urchin?”

  The woman with the slim gold chain around her neck laughs. “I’d have to say walk on hot coals, because I’m actually pretty fast.”

  Uh-oh. That’s only going to intrigue him more.

  His dark eyes glint. “Fast, you say?”

  She giggles. “Not like that. But give me another.”

  He rubs his palms together. “I’d love to give you more. Would you rather have fur or scales?”

  Scales. Pick the scales, I want to say. Because this guy is going to take you home and never call you again. Scales make you seem tougher.

  Alas, she picks fur and gets the same response he gave when he used the line last night on a different woman: “I bet yours would be so soft.”

  Gag.

  He continues, sliding closer to his prey as I mix his mojito.

  “Would you rather eat the same meal every day or never use Instagram again?”

  She shudders. “Eat the same meal. Hello, I love Instagram.”

  I hand him his drink. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks so much,” he says, then takes a sip and begins another round.

  I’m so tempted to cut in and say, Would you rather have a dragon or be a dragon? Because that was another question he asked last night.

  But it’s not my job to intervene. Not unless things go too far. And nobody likes a bartender who acts as a policewoman.

  “Would you rather wear roller blades on one foot or be stuck walking behind someone who goes too slow?” he asks, and I’m grateful when a new pack of customers streams in and I tend to them.

  * * *

  A little later, Charlotte arrives at Gin Joint, pulling up a stool at the bar and flashing her trademark smile. “Tell me everything. What kind of night has it been? What are you up to? How about customers?”

  “We had a rather intense game of Would You Rather going on earlier,” I say, then update her on what went down. “And then he left with her a few minutes ago. So I guess that means no cake for me.”

  She arches a brow in question. “How does the lack of cake follow a sleazy round of Would You Rather?”

  My eyes go wide. “Didn’t I tell you about the woman from a few months ago? The one who sent me chocolate the day after she was here? Then tulips, then daisies,” I say, reminding my best friend of my new biggest fan.

  “Yes! The redhead from the publishing house who met a hot suit at your bar,” Charlotte says.

  I nearly bounce. “They’re getting married now, so she sent me a cake this afternoon as a thank you.”

  “Whoa. Are you trying to tell me you have cake you’re not sharing with me?”

  I tip my forehead to the back of the bar, where the cake is waiting for me. “It’s really good cake too. Soft and moist and just the right amount of sweetness. Want a slice?”

  “Grrr. I do. Except I already had a ginormous bag of gummi bears today, so I have to pass. But I’m also super jealous of your gifts.”

  “Who knew there were such perks to bar ownership? Normally it’s just guys with the same lame ‘would you rather’ pickup routine.”

  Charlotte groans. “Ugh. They need new lines.”

  “They do. But this couple just had a normal conversation, made some jokes, and hit it off while I served them drinks. Just think of all the matches that might go down in my place that I can’t miss.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet someone tonight too,” she says playfully.

  I scoff at the ridiculousness of that notion. I’m not looking, not interested, and not planning on that happening. “Please. I’m not g
oing to meet some guy at my bar. I’m working. And eating cake later.” I wipe down the counter, switching subjects. “So how was softball? How did your man do?” I ask as I pour her an iced tea with a sprig of mint and a splash of grenadine, her usual.

  “Hubby’s team won. I’m a good luck charm. Oh, did you hear that there’s this new guy playing first?”

  “Nope. The roster update didn’t make it to me yet.” Though I usually hear the details from my twin brother, Malone, who plays on the same team as Charlotte’s husband, Spencer.

  “Evidently—not that I notice that kind of thing because I’m very happily married—the new guy is kind of handsome . . .” She leaves that like a trail of gumdrops for me to follow.

  I lift a brow. “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “Don’t you have a catalog of handsome men?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. It’s incredibly long. I catalog all the handsome men in New York City. Then I look at it late at night while I’m eating bonbons.”

  She sticks out her tongue. “That was my way of saying come to a game.”

  I tap my temple. “Ah, my Charlotte translator was off slightly. Now I get it. Unfortunately, I’m always here when the games are going on. But maybe I’ll meet this guy another time,” I say as I hand her the drink.

  She takes a sip. “I bet you will. I think he’s friends with your brother.”

  * * *

  After Charlotte joins some friends and my mind returns to cake and happy couples, a tall, dark, and handsome man strolls into my bar.

  Lots of tall, dark, and handsome men stroll into my bar. After all, this is Manhattan, and we grow that variety on trees.

  But still, the fruit of this particular tree catches my eye. A faint dusting of stubble lines his square jaw, and his cheekbones are the floor model for the Strong and Carved line. Plus, he’s wearing a tux, bow tie unknotted and the jacket slung over his arm. There’s just something about a well-dressed man—he looks better than a sinful cake tastes.

  He heads straight for my corner of the sleek silver bar, flashes a grin that contains the right amount of lopsided yumminess, and says, “Will I get in trouble if I don’t order gin?”

  And he speaks British. Cheers to me.

  “Of course you’ll get in trouble.”

  He smiles brightly. “But I’m in the mood for whiskey. Damn the consequences.”

  I smile and shake a finger. “You come into a gin joint and order whiskey? You’re flirting with danger.”

  “Oh, is this going to be a bartender arrest? I’ve never been read my rights and tossed in the pokey, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”

  “Then I’m going to get out my handcuffs and chain you up.”

  He edges closer, parking his chin in his hand, his amber eyes sparkling. “That is a rather serious punitive action.”

  I set my hands on my hips. “I’m all about strict bar law enforcement,” I say, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder if Charlotte was onto something. Maybe someday I will meet someone at my bar. Maybe someday is tonight.

  “Then I suppose I should nix the whiskey and order something with gin?”

  I smile my best sexy grin. “Don’t you know? Everything tastes better with gin.”

  His eyes seem to roam over me, his gaze traveling down my face, landing on my lips. It should bother me that he’s looking at me in this hungry, appraising way, but it doesn’t. Would I rather he look at me hungrily or clinically?

  Hungrily.

  His lips hook into a grin, and my stomach flips. “I’m convinced. I want the gin drink you recommend. Have at it.”

  I take my turn surveying him up and down. “You look like you’re in a fun sort of mood.”

  “I’m always in a fun sort of mood. Fun is my middle name.”

  “Is it short for something else?” I ask, playing along.

  “Originally it was Funinsky.”

  “I see why you had to shorten it. Seems like it would be complicated to spell.”

  “Terribly difficult. Almost as hard as Extremely Amusing and Entertaining at All Hours of the Day.” He taps his chest. “But that’s my other middle name.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. You really come with a lot of promises.”

  “I always make good on them.”

  “You are an entertaining and extremely amusing man,” I say, shaking my head approvingly as I pour him the whiskey I suspect he truly wants. I slide him a glass. “Our best whiskey, since it’ll suit your fun mood.”

  He lifts the glass. “Why, thank you.” He takes a drink and licks his lips briefly, then sets it down and scans the surroundings. “And this is quite a lovely bar.”

  “As bar mistress, I thank you very much.”

  His eyes dance with mischief. “I suppose if one is going to be a mistress, that’s the type one ought to be.”

  “Exactly. The only other kind I’d want to be would be a mistress of fun. Or cake.”

  “Cake,” he says, dragging out the word like it’s something decadent.

  “Yes, cake,” I say the same way. “It’s on my mind, since someone sent me a delicious cake today.”

  He wiggles his fingers. “Don’t hold back, woman. Give me a slice.”

  “It’s not on the menu. I can’t serve it to you. I’d be violating all the bartender laws.”

  “Ah, we’d have to cuff you, then.”

  “I suppose you would.” I send a thank you to the gods of bar flow that we’re slow for these few minutes on a Friday night. Someone is looking out for me, giving me this delightful chance to flirt with the most handsome and entertaining man I’ve met in ages.

  “Tempting me with all this talk of cuffs and contraband—you’re making me want this cake even more.”

  I motion for him to come closer, lowering the volume. “Later, I’ll slip you a slice.”

  He groans, and it’s ridiculously sexy. It’s a needy, turned-on sound, and it makes my skin sizzle.

  The trouble is my window closes. The gods of bar flow send a pack of customers in, and I need to take care of them. I excuse myself to mix and make drinks, and the whole time I’m thinking he’s adorable and funny and clever and witty, and that we have an instant connection I’d like to return to.

  But when I’m free, the sexy British man is gone.

  My brother is here instead, heading straight for me. He says hello then glances around, his brow furrowing. “Have you seen my friend Jason?”

  “Maybe, give me some more details on this person I’ve never met.”

  Malone laughs. “Ugly. Horrific British accent. Incredibly quiet and shy, never has a thing to say.”

  Kill. Me. Now. All the flirty, dirty butterflies in me do a facepalm. “That guy is your friend?”

  He shoots me a curious look. “Yes. Why? Is that hard to believe?”

  I plaster on a smile, cursing my luck. “It’s not hard to believe. Not at all.”

  My shoulders sag a bit, and my libido shakes an angry fist at me.

  No matter, I tell myself. I’m not about to go after one of my brother’s friends. We’ve been down this road before and landed in a whole slew of trouble. It’s simply not a road I’ll travel again.

  I draw a deep breath and tell myself that Jason must go into the friend zone. “We chatted here earlier, and he seemed like a lot of fun.” That’s an understatement.

  My brother smiles. “Glad to hear that. I think you’ll find him to be a good friend.”

  That’s when the tall, dark, and handsome Brit returns to the bar, saying he had to step out to talk to a client, then he says to Malone, “And have you met the lovely bartender?”

  My brother cracks up. “Yes. I’ve known her since birth.”

  Jason’s jaw drops. To the freaking floor. He snaps his gaze to me. “You’re his sister?”

  “Not just any sister. I’m his twin.”

  Malone smacks his arm. “I told you we were going to my sister’s bar.”

  Jason blinks like he
’s still processing this news. “Right, but I thought she was the bartender, not your sister.”

  Malone points to me. “Jason, meet my sister, Truly.”

  The man I felt an instant attraction to extends his hand, adopting a most professional expression. “Charmed.”

  “As am I.”

  It’s true, and yet there’s nothing to be done.

  Would I rather pursue something with this tall, dark, and handsome man, or risk my relationship with my brother?

  There is only one answer.

  Jason and I must become friends.

  6

  Jason

  “Punk rope? What on earth is punk rope?”

  Truly laughs and gives me a look like I should know what this bizarre thing is she just suggested.

  “What? Don’t they have punk rope in London?”

  “Is that your way of trying to say we don’t have the latest trends in exercise across the pond?”

  “I’m sure you do all sorts of crazy things. Like soccer and soccer and more soccer, and more soccer on top of that.”

  “Woman, how many times do I have to tell you it’s called football?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I will never call soccer football?” She sets a glass down for me with such panache, it’s a declaration.

  I shudder. “Fine, have it your way. Your improper American way,” I say, taking the glass and having a drink.

  I had another wedding tonight, and it went off without a hitch, so I’m here at Gin Joint to unwind. One more successful best-man-for-hire gig under my belt. “In any case, lest you think we’re lacking in bizarre forms of exercise, I will have you know that we recently reinstated strolling classes.”

  “Soon, your homeland will work up to sauntering classes,” she says with a sexy little lift of her eyebrows. Because everything she does is sexy.