Stud Finder (1001 Dark Nights)

by Lauren Blakely

  “C’mon. You know you want to,” Dylan urges. “I’ll give you an A+ if you land it in my lap.”

  “You do know that sounded vaguely dirty, too?”

  He wiggles an eyebrow. “I do know.” He tips his chin to the fork. “C’mon, Evie. Go wild with me.”

  From behind his glasses, the green flecks in his eyes seem to dance with mischief. The way he says those words are part-goad, part-flirt, and there’s something about him I can’t resist. Generally, I try to be poised and polished with clients, but Dylan makes it impossible for me to resist this silly game, plus I know him outside of business. I position the packet on the end of the fork and then drop my hand down. The pink packet shoots high in the air, and I watch as it arcs above us then has the audacity to crash down on my chest.

  “Nice boob catch.”

  “Why thank you. Good thing I had them here for just that reason,” I say, taking the sugar packet from my breasts. I hand it to him. “Door prize.”

  He clutches it to his chest. “I’m keeping this sugar packet forever.”

  I smile then downshift back to the matter at hand. “So Mrs. Right will be a classy, intelligent, sexy, fun-loving woman who’s interested in new experiences and sharing all the good things, from eating out, to movies, to softball, to savoring the adventure of this amazing world together. Tell me more.”

  He shifts to serious more quickly than I expected. “I like games, as you know. Laser tag. Geocaching. Sports. Anything competitive is my kind of thing,” he says, and that reminds me of how different we are. I’m not into sports or competitions. “And it’s not like she needs to be on my softball team, but it’s just fun to do things together. I want someone with a sense of humor, because at the end of the day, looks fade, but humor lasts.”

  My heart thumps a little harder. You hardly ever hear that from a man. There’s so much focus on looks, but it’s deliciously delightful to hear a guy say that’s not his top priority. “I absolutely agree with you on that.”

  “And I want her to be smart since, well, look. I kind of am,” he says, looking down briefly, almost as if he’s embarrassed.

  “Well, you didn’t start one of the most successful software companies without a brain,” I point out, since he’s well known for founding an augmented reality technology that he and his twin brother then sold for multiple millions to one of the biggest computer giants in the world.

  He smiles, and he has such a great smile—full lips and white teeth, and a dimple that lights up the room.

  “But mostly, just someone I get along with,” Dylan adds with an earnestness that will win many hearts. “I want someone I can go on a long drive with and know we won’t run out of things to say. Someone to debate with, and to goof off with. That’s what I really want.”

  “And why now? You’re twenty-eight, right?”

  “Do you think I’m too young?”

  I shake my head, smiling softly. “No, I think people are ready when they’re ready.”

  He taps his chest. “That’s me. I’ve dated. I’ve had a few somewhat serious girlfriends. But given that I spent so much energy building our company, and now I’m on the other side, I have more time for the social pursuits that weren’t a top priority before. But I also think seeing friends like Ryder find that kind of connection made me realize I was ready for my own.”

  There’s something wonderfully beautiful in the simplicity of his answer. “I understand. I see that every day in my walk of life. Sometimes, the lightbulb just goes on, and it’s time.”

  “What about you?”

  I shake my head. “Oh no. I’m far too busy and focused on work.”

  “Ah, got it. So you’re not looking.”

  “Nope.” I draw a deep drink, sucking down more of the soft, squishy tea balls. “Not looking at all.”

  He nods several times. “I hear you. You’re only ready if you’re ready.”

  “You can’t force it. That’s why I try to find just the right match for every client.” I take another drink of the tea and laugh. “I seriously can’t believe I like this. I’m almost ashamed.”

  He lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s kind of unfairly fun. Like the sugar packet game.”

  Dylan grabs another packet, and two seconds later, he whacks his fork and sends it right on top of my head.

  “Now you’re playing dirty,” I say, grabbing it from my hair.

  I position it on the end of the fork then smack it high in the air, and it lands in Dylan’s drink.

  He thrusts his arms in the air. “You did it! See? You’re a ringer. You’re a closet sugar packet fork hockey star and didn’t tell me.”

  “It’s one of my many deep, dark secrets.”

  We chat some more about dates and match-ups, and when we finish our drinks, he clears his throat. “So. Yeah. As you can see, I’m not so well-versed in date protocol. I’m guessing sugar packet fork hockey and talking about tea balls is probably not the best fodder for a first date.”

  I reach a hand across the table and place it on his forearm. “As I tell my clients, it’s best to be yourself. But I still want to meet again and go over some of the things you want, then we can start matching you. What I’ve found works best is two or three initial consults, so I can really understand what you’re looking for. We’ll spend more time together and find your perfect match. Would that work?”

  His eyes drift down to my hand, and I realize I’ve lingered too long on him. I yank it back.

  “I didn’t mind that,” he says softly, making me want to say, I didn’t mind, either, especially since your arms are fantastic.

  But I can’t flirt with a client any more than I already have. I slide into all-business mode. “And I also want to confirm I’m doing this pro bono.”

  He makes a clucking sound. “Yeah, about that…”

  “Didn’t Olivia tell you I offered to do this for free? As a gift to her.”

  “She did, but I’d rather not be a charity case. I can pay my own way.”

  I raise my chin. “I’d really like to help. Olivia started as a client and turned into a good friend, and it would truly mean a lot to me to do this free of charge.”

  “Because I’m hopeless?”

  “No! Because you’re her brother, and I want to help. Also, to be frank, it’s a bit of challenge for me, and I like that. I want to show you that finding a match in person can be better than finding one online.”

  He raises a skeptical brow. “I still have faith in machines and algorithms. C’mon, don’t you know tons of people who met online?”

  “Of course. But in some cases, it helps immensely to have a gatekeeper, and I think you saw the proof of that when you ran your ad.”

  He nods, almost grudgingly, like he can’t quite accept the Internet failed him in this case. “But machines are still cool.” He waggles the cup of nearly empty tea. “Let’s be honest. A robot did make this amazing drink.”

  I laugh. “Let’s make it a game then. Give me a week, and I’ll have you on a date with someone I think you can fall in love with.”

  “Fine. I’ll see your offer and raise it. If you introduce me to someone I actually do fall in love with, I’d like to pick up the tab myself.”

  “And if you wind up back on Plenty of Sharks, obviously it’ll remain pro bono and the biggest shame of my professional life,” I say with a grin.

  He laughs. “Sounds like a deal, and I’ll root for you to not wind up on the matchmaking wall of shame,” he says, extending a hand to shake. “Want to meet for tacos next time?”

  I rein in my disinterest in tacos, reminding myself that tacos aren’t a great idea for a date. But of course, he’s not taking me on a date. It’s a fact-finding mission. “That would be just fine, so long as you know I’m going to advise against taking a woman I match you with to a taco shop. And before we meet, I have some homework for you. I want you to think about your best traits. The top three things you think a woman should know about you.”

  He makes a T
with his hands. “Let’s discuss the taco blockade. Do you only represent snobs?”

  I roll my eyes. “Dylan, most women don’t want to get tacos on a first date.”

  “Good thing it’s not a date then, and good thing I’m not going to take you for anything but the best tacos in the world.”

  “You’re a persistent one.”

  “I am.”

  “Fair enough. Take me to the best tacos.”

  “And I’ll think about the three key traits.”

  “And remember, there’s only one rule you should well and truly follow in this real world of dating.”

  “What’s that?”

  I fix him with my most serious stare. “Don’t sleep together till after the third date.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan

  This shirt.

  Just look at it.

  How pretty is this shirt? So pretty you just can’t even believe the price tag. I know, I know. I can barely believe it myself. Want to guess how much I plunked down for this royal purple number?

  It’s six dollars times three.

  That’s pretty much nothing!

  And if you want to find such a deal, let me tell you where to go.

  I study the picture of Evie in her purple shirt. At least, I think it’s Evie. She doesn’t post any photos of her face on her blog. I wonder if it’s because she keeps her fashionista blog separate from the matchmaker business, but at the moment, as the train rattles downtown, I’m more interested in the woman behind the shirt than the lesson on how to find a bargain.

  Because she looks hot as hell in that shirt. Look at how it clings to her breasts. See how it enhances her natural assets. Admittedly, her breasts are on the smaller side, which is fine by me. I’m not the kind of man who needs to fill his hands—small and perky does the trick for this dude, and Evie looks fantastic in that shirt.

  Not that I’m attracted to her. That would be silly. We’re polar opposites, and we’re in different places. I’ve been fortunate in that my career skyrocketed before I finished college. I’ve been on a crazy upward trajectory for the last eight years. Now that my brother and I have sold our company for buckets, I’m working on a passion project—adding some fun new features onto a GPS app that tracks pets. We’ll see how it goes, but in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind finding someone to share life’s moments with.

  I wouldn’t mind if that someone was pretty, like Evie.

  I blink, reminding myself that Evie’s job is to find that woman.

  I close out her blog, so she can’t distract me any longer. As the train rumbles through the tunnels, I answer a few emails, setting a new personal best for speed of response, and hop off the train in SoHo.

  I take the steps two by two, heading to meet Evie at the taco shop. I reach the top of the stairs and raise a hand to tug my cap down lower since the sun is casting bolts of sunlight at me. But that’s a phantom reaction—Evie gave me marching orders to dress cap-less, and I’ve followed them.

  I squint through my lenses, since I didn’t bring my prescription shades. As I stride past a tapas restaurant, I think briefly of Evie’s homework assignment. She asked me to focus on the traits that my ideal partner would need to know about me. But she wanted me to push beyond the I like games, sports, and screens variety of answers. Will Evie ask me how I would handle different situations? Or my thoughts on politics, religion, and all sorts of ethical debates? Do I need to possess the same philosophical bent as my potential wife?

  Wife.

  That word reverberates across the gray matter.

  I stop in my tracks and stare into a Sur La Table, gazing past the stainless steel pots and fancy pie pans. Am I looking for a wife? Sure, I’m ready for more than casual dating, but I honestly hadn’t taken this matchmaking plan to its logical conclusion—a ring on a finger.

  I’ve never wanted to even live with someone. My last girlfriend, Brittany, was fun and sweet, and loved to hike, bike, and skateboard together. But she didn’t challenge me enough. I want someone to keep me on my toes. Because that’s what I can do for a partner.

  I grab my phone and dial my brother, Flynn. He’s working in Tokyo this week, pursuing a deal, but with the time difference, he’s probably up.

  He answers with gravel in his voice. “You better be dead to be calling me now.”

  “I bit the dust last night. You’re talking to me in the afterlife.”

  He groans. “Seriously. It’s six thirty a.m. Why are you calling?”

  “Why aren’t you up? You’re usually out of bed at six a.m.”

  “There’s this thing that happens when you travel to a foreign country. It’s called jet lag.”

  “Right. I figured with yours, you’d be at the fish market now since it opens at six.”

  “Five, actually. Five twenty-five for the tuna auction, to be precise. And I was there the other day. But even though I’ve acclimated, on account of being in awesome shape, I decided I’d treat myself to an extra hour of sleep. Anyway, what’s up?”

  “What three things would you say make me stand out most from other people?”

  He clears his throat. “You’re a complete pain in the ass. You don’t take no for an answer. And you have a ridiculously happy disposition.”

  I scoff. “Wouldn’t point one be at odds with point three?”

  “It would if we existed in a perfect theoretical time-space continuum. But we don’t. We live in a world with inconsistencies. And that includes you. You’re a walking, talking contradiction and a conundrum, as well as an oxymoron, so one and three can coexist perfectly, as they do in you.”

  I stroke my chin. “Ah, yes. I do enjoy asymmetries living in harmony.”

  “That’s you, little bro. But why do you ask?”

  I reach the crosswalk and stop at the red light. “I bit the bullet. I’m going all in with the love pursuit. Olivia sent me to a matchmaker.”

  “Yeah? That’s great,” Flynn says, and I fucking love my identical-twin brother for not mocking me this second. Even though we ride each other mercilessly, I’ll always have his back, and he’d do the same for me.

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. Just so long as I can put down a bet against the likelihood of you falling in love with someone who can tolerate you.”

  And I take it all back. I huff. “Have I mentioned you’re a complete ass, and I’ll be calling you every day, every hour now while you’re overseas?”

  “No, but have I mentioned I’m not afraid to use the call block feature on my phone?”

  “Seriously. Why do you say that about me?” I ask as I cross and turn down the block toward my favorite taqueria.

  “Because it’s my job to set impossible goals for you.”

  “It’s my job to prove I can exceed them.”

  “Exactly, man. Exactly. I say it because it’ll make you want to prove me wrong. Which is pursuant to my point number two about you. You don’t take no for an answer.”

  “Dammit. You’re too smart.”

  “I am,” he says, laughing. “And I’m going back to sleep, since I’m falling in love with my pillow.”

  “Good night and good morning.” I end the call as I near the taco shop, marinating briefly on my brother’s assessment. Is he right on all three points, and do those traits serve me or hinder me?

  When I reach the shop, I’m surprised to see Evie perched at a counter seat that overlooks the window. She waves broadly at me, and her smile lights up her face. When her grin spreads like that, a charge rushes down my spine, like I’ve been plugged in.

  Like my skin heats up.

  It’s an unexpected reaction, and I’m not sure what to do with it, so I try to ignore it as I walk inside.

  She stands and gives me a hug.

  “So we hug,” I say, the words coming out stilted because I’m not prepared to be this close to her. Correction—I’m not prepared to like being this close to her. That electric sensation doesn’t abate. It intensifies, crackling throug
h my body and ratcheting up as I catch a whiff of her hair. She smells like a summer breeze, and she fits snugly against my body. Her breasts graze my chest as her arms circle my back.

  I count in my head—one, two, three, four—and this embrace officially extends beyond the average socially acceptable time for hugs. But then, what do I know? I’ve spent so much of my life in the company of screens and machines, of nerds and numbers, and even though I’m no slouch in the ladies’ department, I’m not sure if this is the normal time for matchmakers hugging their clients.

  “Yes, we hug,” she says, repeating my words in the same staccato tone I delivered them in, then pulls back. Her eyes roam up my face, and she raises her brows when she’s at hair level. She lifts her hand and ruffles some strands. “See? Why would you ever hide these locks? Your hair is lovely, Dylan.”

  And that charge skates down my body, pulling on my groin as her hand slides through my hair. “Glad you approve, and I hope you approve of the salsas, too,” I say, since it’s easier for me to sidestep into my cheap eats mode than to figure out why Evie is making me hard.

  Correction: very hard.

  She gestures to the plate in front of her, filled with a variety of small tubs of salsas. “I was early, so I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to hand-select some from the salsa bar.”

  I bring my hand to my chest. “Be still my beating heart. She’s punctual, and she likes salsa.”

  “But I didn’t order yet, since I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go with just chips, full nachos, or taco-style salsa sampling?”

  I decide to test her. “Answer on count of three. One, two, three.”

  “Nachos,” we say in unison, and I raise a hand to high-five her. She smacks back, and I make my way to the counter to order.

  I return with a basket covered in cheese, guacamole, and other goodies and sit next to her. “I’ll admit it. I’m impressed you already ordered. I didn’t peg you for someone who’d embrace the idea of a cheap taco shop, given your taco comment.”

  She glares at me. “I didn’t peg you as someone who’d think I’d limit myself to only the finest dining when out with a client.”