“But be honest,” I say, as I grab a bean-covered chip. “You’re not a frequenter of dirty little taco shops.”
She grabs a chip drenched in guacamole and shakes her head. “No. I happen to love upscale sushi best. But I like to think I’m adaptable, and that it’s one of my best traits.”
I quirk the corner of my lips. “And would another one of your best traits also be lubricating a conversation with a starter comment like that?”
She laughs. “Did you like that segue into the top three traits homework?”
“I did,” I say. “Actually, it was quite helpful, because it’s a strange thing to have to think about—the three things someone should know about you.”
“Did you think about it?” she asks as she scoops her chip into one of the hottest salsas, an orange creamy kind that I fear will burn her tongue off.
I point. “Be careful. The orange is nuclear-hot.”
Her blue eyes glint as she bites into the chip without breaking a sweat or fanning the flames in her mouth. She simply chews. Takes a drink of water. And waits for my answer.
“Holy shit,” I say as my jaw drops. “Are you an alien? Are you made of steel?”
“Why?”
“You just ate that and didn’t react.”
“I’m kind of immune to hot things.”
“That’s insane. Watch this,” I say, dipping a chip in the same tub. I bite it, and eat it, but my tongue goes up in flames, and my forehead grows hot with sweat.
“Dylan, have some ice water.” She thrusts a cup at me.
I drink it all, then breathe fire. “How did you do that? You’re truly not affected by spicy foods?”
“Not the way you are,” she says, teasing.
“Oh, that was a low blow.”
She leans closer, bumping her shoulder to mine. “Couldn’t resist. Forgive me.”
My gaze tracks to our shoulders touching, and when her eyes follow, she quickly jerks back. “You’re forgiven,” I say. “However, I’m going to need to test this superpower with more salsa. Which kind of ties into one of the points you asked me to share. I actually talked to my brother before I saw you and asked him what he thought defined me.”
She nods her approval. “Good idea. I suspect he’d know.”
I rattle off my traits for Evie—I’m a complete pain in the ass, I won’t take no for an answer, and I have a ridiculously happy disposition.
“Which one are you needing to test with me?” she asks.
“It might be that I’m a complete pain in the ass coupled with not taking no for an answer. Do you agree?”
She takes a beat as if she’s considering all the sides of the argument, then she nods. “Those seem accurate. But yes, you also seem like a happy person.”
“And that’s why we should test your superpower. Since it would make me happy.”
She laughs. “You’re determined to turn this salsa eating into my Achilles’ heel.”
“I am. That makes me an asshole, doesn’t it? Point one.”
“I think it just makes you determined, and that’s a good trait.”
We finish off some more nachos, trying the rest of the salsas, but none attain the level-five lava rating of the orange one, so I grab my phone from my back pocket and search for the closest shop. “Here’s the deal. We need cheap tacos, and we need to test your talent.”
I hunt for a nearby shop, but before I find one, I remember something. “I better take a photo of this place.”
“Why?”
“To post it on Google’s search for food reviews. I have more than five million views of my photos of cheap taco shops alongside my ten-word reviews.”
Her pretty lips curve up in a curious grin. “You do short and sweet reviews?”
I show her my last one from Captain Habanero in Chelsea. “Good rice, drippy beans, melty cheese equals unsatisfying taco experience.”
She points to the black sludge in the photo. “It’s like a bean mudslide.”
I crack up. “I need to amend my review. Hold on.” I hit edit on the text, make some tweaks, then show her. “Good rice can’t save bean mudslide lubed with melty cheese.”
It’s her turn to laugh deeply. “I love it. And you post these for fun?”
I shrug. “I get a kick out of it. It’s a hobby.” I toggle over to my food app. “Five blocks from here. Let’s try Mama June’s.”
“To Mama June’s it is.” As we leave, I find my gaze drifting over her body. She wears a royal blue mini-dress that makes her look like she stepped off the set of Mad Men, only her dress is shorter than most, the skirt landing right above her knees, showing off her strong, toned legs.
My imagination lingers on her bare legs. “Okay, fess up. Where’d you get those legs?”
She looks down, as if she only just now noticed she has them. “These things?” She waves a hand dismissively. “Ordered them from a catalogue.”
“That’s impressive, to pick up a pair of legs that excellent from a store. What’s the model number?”
“They’re called legs, courtesy of walking in Manhattan.”
“I thought you were going to say yoga again. Like yoga is the cause of everything.”
“Nope. I’m one of those people who is weirdly lucky. I build muscle quickly. I walk everywhere, and it makes my legs strong.”
“They’re great legs, Evie,” I say, since I can’t seem to stop admiring them. “And they look good in that cute dress with the floppy collar.”
She smooths a hand down the fabric as we continue our quick pace. “Thanks, it’s a Peter Pan collar.” She fingers the thick white collar. “I snagged it for thirty-three dollars at a shop in Brooklyn.”
“I’ve no idea what a Peter Pan collar is,” I say, but I know this—I find her body so damn fetching in it that I want to know what she looks like underneath it. Without it. And that’s where my mind travels for the next few seconds.
But that’s risky. That’s dangerous. My brain is trying to trick me, and I need it on my side. I need it to stop undressing Evie, because she isn’t the endgame. She’s the means to the end. She’s the one who’s going to find me the woman I’ll love undressing. I try to refocus my thoughts. “By the way, I checked out your blog.”
“You did? Are you a closet fashionista?”
“No. I like to research business partners. It was interesting.”
She tilts her head curiously. “Why was it interesting?”
I decide to go for broke and tell her, since I just realized what her blog reminds me of.
Chapter Eight
Evie
“It reminds me of me,” he says when we reach Mama June’s. The dull orange sign is missing a J. Mama une’s.
“It does?” For some reason this possibility makes me a little giddy.
“I’m kind of ashamed that I only just now connected the dots. But it’s not that different. You review fashion and clothes.” He taps his sternum. “I review cheap eats.”
“Your hobby is my hobby,” I say, and that giddy feeling zips through me, like a line of fireflies sparking against the night.
But that’s a risky feeling to possess for a client, so I dismiss it immediately. I march to the counter, order chips and salsa this time, and grab a table. The formica is scratched, the napkins fall apart from touching them, and the linoleum floors are badly in need of a scrub. This place is the definition of hole-in-the-wall. It’s not my style at all, but Dylan seems to get a kick out of it.
“Do you believe you’re a pain in the butt?” I ask, returning to my task of getting to know a client, rather than lingering on a newly realized shared connection.
He takes a chip and dips it into the green salsa, scooping out a dollop. “Probably. But isn’t it good to be honest about yourself?”
“I think it is.”
“What about you? What if you had to list the traits for a matchmaker that define who you are?”
I tilt my head to the side, considering. “I think I’m an upbeat perso
n. I like to find the positive in nearly everything.”
A smile crosses his lips.
“Why are you smiling?”
“You can’t steal my answer.” He points a finger at me in mock accusation.
My jaw drops. “How am I stealing your answer?”
He taps his chest. “Ridiculously happy disposition.”
I pretend to be offended. “You’re the only one who’s allowed to be cheerful?”
“Yes. I’m claiming good cheer and humor.”
I shake my head, narrowing my eyes. “You’re not allowed dibs on both, especially since you consider yourself a pain in the ass, too.”
“My brother said that. Do you think I’m a PIA?”
I scoop some fiery red salsa and crunch into the chip. It barely registers as mildly hot, while Dylan follows suit and quickly fans his face. When I finish, I dab a napkin on my lips. “I think you’re particular, but that’s not a bad thing. You seem to know what you like. Whether it’s taco shops, tea, robots, tapioca balls, sugar packet hockey, or your work.”
“Or finding a woman. Am I particular there, too?”
My answer comes swiftly. “You’re not. You’re surprisingly not that picky.”
He scoffs. “I thought I was.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” I say, reassuring him. “You’re open-minded, and that’s a bonus when it comes to matters of the heart. You’d be amazed at some of the requests I receive.”
“Try me.”
“There are men who only want to date models, or women who have C-cup breasts. Others refuse to see anyone who isn’t blond, for instance, or older than twenty-eight. That’s the biggest line in the sand. So many men have assigned arbitrary age rules.”
“Guys are dicks.”
“But women are dicks, too,” I say, taking another chip. “I have women come to me and say, ‘He has to have such and such money’ or ‘I won’t date anyone who makes less than seven figures’ or ‘Don’t set me up with anyone who’s under six feet tall’.”
“And do you find people for them?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. I turn them down.”
He snaps his head back. “You do?”
“Of course. You didn’t take every bit of funding you were offered for your company, did you? If memory serves, you turned down Crossroads Sycamore Capital because you didn’t like the terms.”
“You researched me?”
“I research all my clients,” I say with a smile.
He nods, as if he’s impressed. “Sort of like how I researched you earlier. Checking out your blog.”
The spark reappears, tripping over my skin, lighting me up. But what a silly reaction. I shouldn’t experience hummingbirds in my belly simply because he looked me up. “That’s why I don’t accept all clients, especially those with unreasonable expectations. I don’t think assigning limits is the way to find love or to be happy.”
“But I do think it would be great to have reasonable expectations exceeded,” he points out.
A smile creeps across my face. I raise a chip in the air. A toast. “To exceeding expectations,” I say, tapping my chip against one of his. We dip together, Dylan choosing the salsa verde while I opt for the hotter red salsa. Once he finishes, he takes a drink of water, then gives me an I’m waiting look.
“What?” I ask curiously.
“We’re not done with you,” he says, stabbing his finger against the table. “You’ve only told me one thing on your list of three.”
“You really don’t take no for an answer.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
“Fine. Fine.” I tap my finger against my lip, noodling on his question. I land on a basic truth about myself. “I can be particular about how I like things done. How I want the bed to be made, the drawers to be closed, the curtains to hang.”
His eyes bug out. “You’re one of those people?”
“First I was a text-destrian. Now I’m one of those people,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Text-destrian,” he says, clearly impressed. “Nice. And yes, you’re one of those people. A neat freak,” he says, as if it’s the plague I’ve caught.
“Neat and owning it. Don’t tell me you’re a messy slob?”
“No. But I don’t understand making beds. I don’t get it at all. Just explain it to me. For years, I’ve wanted to know why it matters. Literally, no one can ever explain the benefit of a made bed. But an unmade bed is genius. You just get back in it at the end of the day. Why make it?”
I draw a deep breath, my mind whirring with images of crisp corners, organized pillows, and carefully aligned comforters. My God, I so love a well-made bed. It brings calm to my soul. “A made bed is beautiful. It signifies neatness. It shows an organized mind.”
“Isn’t a cluttered mind a good thing? Didn’t someone famous say that?”
“Is your computer screen cluttered?” I counter.
He recoils. “No way. I have a neat, clean minimalist desktop.”
“And why shouldn’t a bed be the same?”
“Because a bed is for sleeping. A computer is for…everything.”
The problem solver in me comes out in full force. I must show him the beauty of a made bed. “Come with me.” I grab the basket of mostly-eaten chips, dump the rest, return the salsa tubs to the counter for cleaning, and reach into my wallet to leave a generous tip in the jar.
He clasps his hand over mine, shaking his head. “My treat,” he says, his voice a soft, sexy whisper. I want to protest, to tell him I insist, but he curls his hand tighter, and I’m speechless.
His hand on mine sparks a wave of goosebumps on my arms, my body telling me I like his hands on me. I want more of his touch. I imagine how I’d feel if he ran his hand up my arm, to my shoulder, through my hair. A shudder races through me, and I do my best to tamp down my reaction to a suddenly overactive imagination.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice like a feather.
“You’re welcome.” His eyes never stray from mine, and for a sliver of time he holds my gaze by the counter at Mama une’s.
Then I wrestle my attention back to my plan. We leave, and fifteen minutes later, I stroll through the front doors of the Luxe Hotel. My friend Nate Harper is the CEO, and I’ve texted him for a quick favor. The concierge greets me and hands me a room key card. Dylan and I walk past the chichi sushi restaurant in the lobby, head to the elevator, and soon arrive at room 521. I slide the card in the door.
Dylan sets a hand on my arm. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I’m not trying to seduce him at all.
I open the door, and a perfectly modulated blast of cool air greets us. We stroll across the navy carpet to a king-size bed perfectly appointed with a gorgeous white duvet and mountains of blue velvet pillows. I gesture to it, as if I’m a saleswoman, showing it off. “Tell me. Doesn’t this bed make you want to do everything on it?”
Then, to demonstrate my point, I fall back onto it, like a snow angel.
I prop myself on my elbows and meet his eyes. His green irises darken, and his lips part. He stares at me, and something shifts. The look in his eyes is no longer challenging. He’s not asking me to prove a point. His eyes are hungry. He stares as if he’s considering my question seriously, and I realize that maybe it does sound as if I’m trying to seduce him. I’ve pushed the limits here. I’m in a hotel room, trying to prove a point to a client, and in reality, my skirt is riding up my thighs, and I’m sprawled on a pristine, inviting bed.
This kind of bed is designed not only for sleeping, but for the best kind of sex in the world—hotel sex. The kind of loud, dirty, wild sex you can have when you don’t have to make the bed in the morning.
For a flash, I see Dylan hovering over me. Pinning my wrists. Pressing his body against mine. A wave of heat washes over me, and my skin is flush, my heart slamming hard against my chest.
I want that.
I want to feel that abandon.
And that goes against my personal code of ethics as a matchmaker—thou shalt not fall for a client.
I glance down, and see my skirt is riding up. It hits mid-thigh, revealing more of my legs. I tug it, and when I look up, Dylan is staring at me with darkened eyes. “Yeah. This bed makes me want to do everything on it.”
* * * *
In the elevator, I speak first. “The third thing is sometimes I push to make a point.”
“Do you?” He gazes at me as the elevator chugs downward.
I nod, swallowing. My throat is dry. “I do. I just did.”
His lips quirk up. “I think I like that side of you.”
I like a lot of sides of him, and that’s becoming a problem.
Chapter Nine
Dylan
I round the corner in Gotham and fire off a ray of light at an ad technology dude in jeans and a black hoodie. It lands right in the middle of his spine. I double back and ambush a redheaded woman who runs a business consulting firm. She curses admirably and crumples dramatically. I deliver a punishing shot to a short, bearded guy who peddles enterprise software, and I’m nine for ten.
When the game ends, my breath comes fast from the running, and Mia shakes her head in admiration.
“You’re on fire today,” she says as we make our way out to turn in our weapons. “Glad I’m in town when you’re playing at the top of your game.”
I grumble something about needing the release.
“Sorry. Can’t hear you over your annoyed mood.”
“I’m not annoyed. Just…”
“Just what? Are you irked over the whole dating thing?”
“No. It’s just that…”
“Tell your friend Mia,” she says encouragingly.
“Why don’t you tell me about Patrick?”
She shakes her head. “How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing to tell?”
“Really?”
“We’re only friends. That’s all.” She slashes a hand through the air to emphasize how only friends she is.
Stud Finder (1001 Dark Nights) Page 5