by Lauren Rowe
I wait and watch as Josh slides the ring box into his pocket and kisses Mrs. Morgan on the cheek. Mrs. Morgan hugs him. Josh looks anxious. She’s obviously assuring him.
Okay, I gotta go in now—I’ve got a job to do.
I tap my boss on his broad shoulder. “Josh.”
Josh turns around, his face aglow.
“Jonas asked me to come get you,” I say, doing my best to communicate the urgency of Jonas’ request with my body language. “He wants you to join the interview. He says please.” I motion across the room to where Jonas is still talking to the reporter and scowl at Josh ever so slightly to let him know he’d better get his playboy-ass over there, pronto.
Josh chuckles. “Okay, Josh to the rescue.”
Josh says goodbye to his soon-to-be-mother-in-law with an exuberant hug and a kiss—a display of affection so earnest and effusive, it makes my heart melt—and, after a quick fist-bump and cocky wink at me (Jesus, that man’s a cocky bastard!), Josh lopes away like the superhero he is to save the day, leaving me standing alone with Kat’s mom.
“Hi, Mrs. Morgan,” I say, putting out my hand. “Remember me? Theresa Rodriguez? We met at Jonas and Sarah’s wedding.”
“Of course, I remember you, Theresa,” Mrs. Morgan says, ignoring my hand and going in for a warm hug. “I loved chatting with you that night—it was one of the highlights of the wedding for me.”
“For me, too.”
“Plus, there’d be no forgetting who you are, what with Josh talking about you so affectionately when he and I went ring-shopping together last week. He couldn’t stop talking about how indispensable you are to him—and how trustworthy and kind.”
“Really? He said that? Wow. Thank you for telling me that, Mrs. Morgan. That means a lot to me.”
“Please, call me Louise. Or Lou—that’s what my friends and family call me. Actually, if you really wanna make my day, call me Momma Lou.” She giggles. “Josh started calling me that the other day and it tickles me pink. I’m hoping maybe he and Kitty will teach the baby to call me Gramma Lou.”
“Momma Lou it is. But only if you’ll agree to call me the name my friends and family have always called me: Tessa.”
“Oh, that’s pretty.”
“Thank you. I’m named after my Grandmother Teresa, so my family has always called me Tessa to avoid confusion. Actually, nobody outside of work has ever called me Theresa—I’ve always been Tessa.”
“Tessa suits you. It’s elegant and down-to-earth, all at once, just like you.”
I blush. “Thank you. I could say the same about you, Momma Lou.”
We talk for a bit about the success of the party, and then Mrs. Morgan looks at me sideways, a sparkle in her eyes.
“So, Tessa,” she begins, “I know this is maybe an incredibly forward thing to ask, but are you single, by any chance? I meant to ask at the wedding but chickened out.”
I open my mouth and close it again.
“The reason I ask is I’ve got this son who just broke up with his girlfriend last week (thank God—apparently, she was a real piece of work), and I really think you two would hit it off. I thought about setting you two up the minute I met you at Jonas and Sarah’s wedding, actually—I know my son’s taste in women and I’m positive he’d really like you—but, like I said, he still had a girlfriend a month ago so I decided not to meddle. But now that he’s single (thank God!), I feel like it’s fate you’re both here today.” She leans forward. “I’ve actually got quite a gift for matchmaking. Ask anyone.”
Okay, I’m having several simultaneous thoughts here:
First, Kat has a brother? Who knew? I must say, if he looks anything like his jaw-dropping sister, he’s one dude I wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers.
Second, oh my God, Louise Morgan is adorable. Would I want my own mother to meddle in my love life the way she’s trying to do for her son? Hell no. But, hey, Mrs. Morgan’s not my mother so I’m actually finding her meddling irresistibly charming.
Third, no offense to Louise intended, but whatever type of woman she thinks her son wants to screw, I can almost guarantee he secretly wants the polar opposite. (In my experience, mommies really don’t know their grown sons as well as they think they do.)
And, finally, fourth, but not least, there’s no way in freaking hell I’d hook up with Mrs. Morgan’s son, no matter how handsome he surely is, even if she’s right and I’m somehow his idea of the perfect woman. Why? Because he’s Kat’s freaking brother! I mean, come on, what if this guy and I were to hit it off and miraculously fall in love and get married and have three gorgeous babies (which, at the end of the day, is the point of dating in the first place), am I truly gonna feel comfortable having Josh and Kat as my brother- and sister-in-law? Ha! No. The idea gives me hives. Plus, besides all that, I honestly don’t care about meeting Mrs. Morgan’s son right now, however gorgeous and wonderful he might be, because I’m currently way too obsessed with the idea of finding Ryan Number Eleven to think about any other man.
“Wow, thank you, Mrs. Morgan—Momma Lou,” I say. “I’m honored you’d even think of setting me up with your son. The thing is, while I’m technically single at the moment, it’s because I want to be. I’ve had a string of bad luck in the romance department lately. My last boyfriend was a real doozy, and then, just last week, this guy I really liked asked me out on a date and then turned out to have a girlfriend.”
“Oh no.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that guy last week really took the wind out of my sails. So I’m taking a bit of a break from the ‘search for love,’ as it were, just for a while.” Reflexively, my gaze drifts across the gym to confirm that Josh made it to the interview with Jonas (he did). “So, um, I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Morgan, but I think I’m just gonna lay low for a little while longer, at least until I figure out why I seem to be attracted to cheating scumbags.”
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, it sounds to me like you’ve got it backwards, honey,” Mrs. Morgan says. “If you’ve been meeting nothing but scumbags lately, that’s all the more reason for you to meet my son. He’s one of the good ones, honey—and, like I said, he’s for sure single. He and his girlfriend broke up last week (thank God).”
I grin at her. Damn, she looks so earnest and hopeful—but if her son and his girlfriend broke up only last week, then that’s even more reason for me to avoid him like the plague: being some guy’s rebound relationship isn’t high on my List of Things to Do. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. Momma Lou. You’re so sweet. But I’m just not up for getting my feet wet in the man-pool quite yet. Let’s give your son a bit of time to play the field after his break-up and me some time to restore my faith in mankind again, and then we’ll revisit the idea at some later date?”
Mrs. Morgan smiles. “All right, honey. A rain check it is. It sounds like we’re gonna be seeing each other again at a certain wedding, so perhaps I’ll introduce you to my wonderful son then.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We say our goodbyes as the band launches into an energetic cover of my all-time favorite song “Bailando” by Enrique Iglesias (one of the perks to being the girl who organized the party is approving the band’s song list). And then, for a long moment, I watch Louise dance her way across the gym to join her husband... who’s standing next to a human slab of godly perfection leaning on crutches. Oh my effing God! Is that guy Mrs. Morgan’s “wonderful” son? I feel like screaming, “Wait, Momma Lou! I take it all back! Introduce me now!” I laugh to myself. I think I’m a wee bit horny these days (and, holy hell, that guy on crutches is gorgeous!). Actually, now that I’m getting a good look at Mr. Handsome on Crutches, I’m realizing he totally reminds me of Ryan from The Pine Box.
Ah, jeez. There I go again. Hello, Ryan Number Twelve!
I’ve got to get a grip.
It’s not like Ryan and I had some sort of soul connection (even though it felt that way at the time). I have to remember Ryan had a girlfriend when he was saying all that amazin
g stuff to me (even the part about him “looking for something real”). And that means Ryan from The Pine Box is a liar and a scumbag and a player and I shouldn’t believe a word he said. Which is why I’m going to wipe the guy from my mind forever and never think of him again... right after I find Ryan Number Eleven.
As the partygoers around me rock out to the last, energetic chorus of “Bailando,” I scour every inch of the gym in search of Ryan Number Eleven, but, dammit, he’s nowhere to be found. Shoot. He must have left the party already. Well, I guess it’s a sign from the universe: it simply wasn’t meant to be.
Time for me to make like Ryan Number Eleven and get the hell out of Dodge, too. I pull out my phone and tap out a quick message to Josh and Jonas: “Congrats on an amazing grand opening, guys! I’m heading out now. The stage, tables, chairs, etc. will be hauled away at 6:00 and the cleaning crew will come shortly thereafter. I’m so proud of you both and excited to watch you climb and conquer the world! XO T-Rod.”
Chapter 14
Ryan
“It’s not down on any map; true places never are.”
“Those are the employee-identification cards of all fifty-seven Samanthas currently employed by Delta as flight attendants,” Henn says. “When I couldn’t find a perfect match across the board—name, age, Virgo, hair color, eye color, Spanish-speaking, residence in L.A.—I decided to grab screen shots of every Samantha on their roster, just to be on the safe side.”
I’m standing with Henn and Kat in a small office at the back of Climb & Conquer’s gym, swiping through headshot after headshot of unrecognizable women on Henn’s phone, the muted sounds of Josh and Jonas’ grand opening party wafting through the closed office door. (The band’s current song is “Bailando,” just in case I want to be tormented by yet another reminder of Samantha.)
“Thanks for trying, Henn,” I say, swiping past the very last photo, my shoulders slumping. I hand Henn’s phone back to him with a long sigh. “Just as you suspected, Samantha’s not here.”
“Yeah, I figured. Sorry, man,” Henn says.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say. “I sent you on a wild goose chase. And I was so sure there were little red triangles on Samantha’s scarf—I would have sworn on a stack of bibles I got that detail right.”
“Meh,” Henn says. “Memory can be a slippery motherfucker. It’s no big deal. Now that we know for sure Samantha’s not with Delta, we’ll just have to expand our search, that’s all.”
“But expand our search to what?” Kat pipes in, taking the words right out of my mouth. “Aren’t there, like, hundreds of airlines in the world?”
“Five thousand, actually,” Henn says. “But only nine of them, including Delta, had flights from L.A. to Seattle on the day in question.”
“Ooooh,” Kat says. “Brilliant, Henn.”
“I’m confused,” I stammer. “Even if you’re able to narrow the field of potential airlines to eight, how do you know which of those eight to hack?”
“I don’t,” Henn says matter-of-factly. “Which is why I’m gonna hack all eight of ’em, beginning with the biggest and working my way down the list.”
My heart leaps with a sudden jolt of hope. “You’d be willing to do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“But won’t that be a lot of work for you?”
Henn waves at the air. “It’s all good, Captain Morgan. Kat’s been going on and on about what an awesome brother you are and how bad she feels about texting your ex-girlfriend that night; plus, I’m happy to report my life’s the most fucking awesome it’s ever been, thanks to Kat setting me up with my girlfriend, so I’m definitely in the mood to pay it forward by helping Kat’s big brother.” He winks at my sister and she coos like a cockatiel at him.
“Thanks, Henny,” Kat says. “I hate seeing Ryan looking so sad and knowing it’s all my fault.”
“I told you not to worry about it, Kat,” I say. “And I’m not ‘sad’—I’m obsessed and tortured and hurtling into a dark abyss of madness from whence no man could crawl. But I swear I’m not sad.”
We all laugh.
“Unfortunately, I’m not kidding,” I mutter.
“Well, then, dude, it sure sounds like I’d better find this amazing girl for you,” Henn says. “There shall be no ‘hurtling into an abyss of madness’ on my watch, dude.”
“Thanks, Henn. At least let me pay you for your time.”
“Your money’s no good to me, Captain,” Henn replies. “Kat’s family to me—which means you’re family, too.”
“But hacking into eight airlines?” I say. “Come on, man. That’s too much work to do for free.”
“Bah. The odds are low I’ll need to hack all eight of ’em to find your girl—I might even get lucky and find Samantha at the first airline. Plus, like I said, I owe Kat big. I could hack a thousand airlines for you and still not repay my debt to Kat.”
Kat smiles proudly. “See, Ryan? Unlike you, Henn appreciates my gift for matchmaking.”
I roll my eyes. “Kitty, no offense, but you’re batting zero as far as I’m concerned. The one time I begged you to set me up with a certain someone, you refused and said it wasn’t a match.”
Kat scoffs. “Because you were a slut.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “The point is, Henn, you gotta let me pay you, man. Please. I’ll feel like a douche otherwise.”
Henn shakes his head. “Would it make you feel any better to learn I recently got paid a mint for a job I did for Josh and Jonas in Vegas? I can afford to do this pro bono.”
“Henny’s a mill-ion-aire now,” Kat says proudly.
“Holy shit,” I say, flabbergasted. “Josh and Jonas paid you a million bucks for a job?”
Henn shrugs. “It was a big job.”
“What was it?”
“Saving the world,” Henn replies.
“From the evil empire,” Kat chirps, and the two of them chuckle.
I can’t tell if they’re yanking my chain or what the fuck they could possibly be talking about if they’re serious, but all of a sudden, I’m too excited to care. “All right, then, cool. Thanks so much. You really think you can find her?”
“I don’t see why not,” Henn says. “If she’s a flight attendant who flew from L.A. to Seattle on the day in question, then it’s only a matter of time before I find her.”
“Well, she’s either a flight attendant or she’s got some seriously fucked up fashion sense,” I say.
We all laugh.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find her,” Henn says. “Fair warning, though, it might take me a while to get going on your job—I’ve got a bunch of other projects already in the pipeline.”
“Oh, I totally understand.”
Kat looks down at her watch and her eyes pop out of her head. “Holy-I-Totally-Lost-Track-of-Time, Batman!” she blurts. She lurches over to the office door and swings it open violently, blasting the small room with the last bars of “Bailando.” “Consider this meeting officially adjourned, fellas. Josh is gonna be here any minute for a private grand-opening-celebration, and you two cock-blockers most definitely can’t be here when he arrives.”
Chapter 15
Ryan
“I’ll put your food order in and be right back with your drinks,” the waitress says.
“Thanks,” I say. I turn to say something to the highly attractive woman sitting across from me—a mortgage broker in a little black dress whom I met earlier tonight at a real-estate-industry mixer in the bar downstairs—but for the life of me I can’t think of anything to say to her. Why the hell did I agree to grab a bite with this woman, again? After only ten minutes of sitting here in this restaurant with her, I’m already wishing I’d accepted Keane’s invitation to get stoned with him and Zander and play Call of Duty, instead.
“I love your tattoos, Ryan,” my date coos from across the table.
Shit. I can’t for the life of me remember if this woman’s name is Kylie or Kayla or Kiera and, at this point
, it’d be too awkward to ask her a fourth time. “Thanks,” I say, and then (because my mother would cut off my balls if I didn’t reply to a woman’s compliment with one of my own), I hastily add, “I, uh, like your dress.”
Kayla-Kylie-Kiera glances down at her little black dress. “Thank you. I just got it yesterday.” She looks back up at me and twirls a strand of her dark hair around her finger. “Did I mention I’ve always had a thing for tattoos?”
I nod. Actually, she’s mentioned it, like, seven times in the space of an hour. “Do you have any?” I ask (simply because it’s too weird for me not to say something to hold up my end of the conversation, as vapid and uninteresting as it is).
“No, but I’m thinking I might get one soon. Maybe an angel with a tear running down its cheek? I just have to figure out where to put it. Do you have tattoos on your torso, or just on your arms?”
Why am I not feeling this at all? She’s objectively gorgeous—so what’s my problem? “Um. I’ve got some on my chest and one on my left ribcage, too.”
She motions to the tattoo on my left forearm. “Are all of them pirate-themed?”
“Not all of them. But, yeah, a lot of them. I’ve got a big bottle of rum on my rib-cage.”
“Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum?” she asks.
“Something like that.” Of course, if I were even remotely interested in this woman, I’d tell her the backstory of the whole pirates-and-rum theme decorating my body, but I don’t care nearly enough to bother.
“So freaking sexy,” my date says. She bites her lip. “I’d definitely like to see your bottle of rum.” She bites her lip. “And touch it.” She reaches across the table and brushes her fingertips across my hand. “Any time.”
Well, that wasn’t subtle. If there were a class on “How to Tell a Man You Want to Fuck Him Tonight Without Saying the Words ‘I Want to Fuck You Tonight,’” this woman could teach that class.
There’s a long beat.