by Monroe, Lila
I hit four balls before I start to hear chatter in the bay next to mine. It’s a woman on the phone. I try to tune it out, but the more she talks, the more I realize the voice is familiar.
“Yes, I’m serious, Poppy. He stood there and helped me spray two thousand roses! Well, except the ones he messed up at the beginning, but it’s not like the client noticed there were only like nineteen hundred and ninety something. But seriously, who does that?”
I slice the ball way right.
Because the girl in the next bay? It’s April.
So much for getting her out of my head.
9
April
“April?” I hear, just as I end the call with my bestie.
I turn and see . . . “Seth?”
My first thought is: Oh God, how much did he hear? My second has me putting my hands on my hips, indignant. “What the hell? Are you stalking me?” I exclaim, annoyed. “I told you I’m not interested in James. No amount of you hounding me is going to change that!”
I’m angry that he’s following me around New York. So why does my tummy flutter like it’s happy to see him?
Sigh. I know why. That kiss. Holy geraniums, that kiss. Everything a kiss should be and more, except repeated. Because the second it ended, he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
“I’m not stalking you,” he protests. “I had no idea you were here. How could I? It’s not like you put it on your social media.”
My tummy flutters even more as I think of him following my social media. For some stupid reason, I’m flattered, even though maybe I should think it’s creepy.
I twist up my lips, trying not to smile. Failing. “Can you blame me for not posting it? All that plaid and the goofy shoes? Golf is an old man’s game. So dorky,” I say, before quickly adding, “No offense.”
“None taken.” He chuckles. “The shoes are goofy. But I play the game the way the Scots intended.”
“Drunk?”
He shakes his head, grin wide.
“Hitting the ball with your bagpipes?”
He guffaws.
I am thoroughly charmed by his easy laughter. “Such a traditionalist. But then, maybe you should wear a kilt, no?”
My mind flashes an image of Seth dressed like Jamie from Outlander. Speaking in a sexy brogue. Och aye . . .
“So,” he says, his eyes dancing. “What are you doing here?”
I fiddle with the grip of my driver. “Back when my mom was dating Mike—my now stepfather—when I was in high school, she kept pushing us together to do some bonding. Golf was the thing we landed on that I didn’t hate.” I shrug. “It became our thing. Every weekend of my senior year we went out to either play a round or hit buckets of balls. It worked, I guess, the bonding thing.” I look up at Seth. “He ended up being a great stepfather to me. He’s great for my mom, too.”
Seth nods. “That’s cool.”
“So, yeah.” I shrug, self-conscious. “I come here to unwind sometimes.”
“Ah,” he drawls. “So you’re wound up.”
Damn him and his perceptiveness.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “We should get back to our balls.”
He laughs, even as my face heats.
“You know what I mean.” I grin.
“Sure, balls. I get it,” he says, amused. Then after a beat, he adds, “We can hit together. Unless you’d rather have privacy to . . . unwind?”
I ignore his double entendre. “No, I’m good. This is . . . fine.” Or you know, more than fine. Like the thought of him in a kilt. Which would be very, very fine.
He gestures at me to take my swing. I do, hitting it a respectable distance, surprised that I didn’t duff it with him standing there, watching.
“Nice one,” he says.
“Thanks.” I wave for him to take the next shot.
He lines up and blasts it hard, his stance perfect, his backswing powerful and graceful at the same time. All of him is hard and powerful and graceful, I think, my brain taking that thought down into the gutter. The gutter where all the good stuff happens. Like hard, graceful power, climbing on top of—
Down, girl.
Yikes. When did golf get so damn sexy?
I clear my throat again, desperate to distract myself from all his hotness. “So, what about you? Did your dad teach you to golf?”
“Nope.” He snorts. “You have to actually be around to teach your kid to golf.”
“I know that feeling,” I say, nodding. “My dad’s sailing around the Caribbean. At least he was, last I heard from him. Which was probably six months ago. More, actually.”
Seth gives me a sympathetic look. I shrug, over it. “My mom used to say he’s got itchy feet. Which I guess was her diplomatic way of saying he was an irresponsible deadbeat.”
“I’m sorry,” Seth says, and I can tell he gets it—it’s understanding, not pity, in his eyes.
“Thanks. It’s all good now—Mike’s ten times the father my real one ever was. And hey,” I say, waving at the tee, “now I play golf. We even still go sometimes when I go home.”
“Where’s home?” Seth asks, interested.
“Indiana. Home of the where nothing happens.”
He chuckles and nods me forward to the tee. I line up my shot and crush it. Dead straight. It’s satisfying that he whistles, impressed. “You’ve got a great swing,” he says.
“Thanks.” I try not to preen. Especially when it didn’t even feel like he mentally added “for a girl” to his praise. “So, what got you into the game?”
“I took it up to help schmooze potential clients,” he admits. “It’s a great way to network. Also . . .” He grins at me. “It’s a great way to unwind.”
I feel that blush creep up my neck to my cheeks. “I guess it depends who you’re swinging with.”
He wiggles his eyebrows as he lines up his shot. I take the opportunity to enjoy his . . . perfect form as he shoots another one out to the net.
He turns back toward me. “I can’t tell you how many clients I’ve signed on the course.”
I shake my head. “I still can’t believe you orchestrate meet-cutes for a living.”
“It’s a real job,” he protests, defensive.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to say it wasn’t. Just . . . I don’t know, I guess I’ve never really thought of it before. I always thought relationships were supposed to start organically. Isn’t that best?”
He shrugs. “If it does, that’s great. But if you have someone already in your sights and you just need to make it happen, why not use a pro? You have a much better chance of success when you have someone on your side who can see all angles and create opportunities for maximum connection.”
He has a point, but it still feels so . . . contrived.
“It takes a lot of planning and research,” he says. “Maybe it looks easy, but that’s because I’m good at it. Making it look effortless often takes a lot of behind-the-scenes effort.”
I’ve heard that line before from my friend Trish. “Like a party planner,” I say.
He laughs. “Not like a party planner at all!”
“Why? Because party planning is traditionally women’s work, and you won’t deign to be compared?” I challenge him.
“No,” he says patiently. “Because if I’m doing my job right, nobody even knows they were at the event to begin with.”
“Oh. Well, we’ll agree to disagree,” I tell him, smiling, before smashing my ball way into the back netting. “Fore!”
After another hour on the links, we finally hand in our clubs and head out. Neither of us seems in a hurry to get anywhere, so we walk along the High Line—the old rail line converted into an elevated park that runs along the west side of Manhattan.
We stop at one of my favorite food carts and he buys us each a hot dog and soda. I try to ignore that this doesn’t just feel nice, but strangely like a date.
A really good date.
“Mmm,” I blurt, a
wkward. “I hate how much I love hot dogs. How can something so wrong taste so right?”
Seth smirks at me, amused. “Right?” he says before taking a massive bite.
“I mean,” I say. “This one is good—maybe my third favorite.”
His eyebrows wing up. Sexily. “Third favorite? After Gray’s?”
“Gray’s Papaya is good too,” I agree. “Top ten for sure. Being new to the city, I discovered it after binging old Seinfeld episodes. I can’t eat one without laughing, thinking about Jerry and the gang. Kramer was right, though, they really are amazing.”
“As is the show,” he says.
“Yadda, yadda, yadda,” I quip.
“I’m very tired today,” he finishes.
“I mentioned the lobster bisque.”
“Did you just yadda, yadda sex?”
We both laugh. Although I have a feeling no one has ever yadda yadda’d sex with Seth.
Where did that thought come from?
“Alright,” he says. “So, tell me: What’s your top favorite hot dog?”
“Uh, Nathan’s on Coney Island? Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he grins. “Why?”
“When I first moved to the city, my mom and Mike got me settled in, and then we all went out there and had a great day,” I recall. “Every time I have Nathan’s it’s bittersweet, you know? I mean, it tastes like independence and home all wrapped in one.”
“Alright,” he says. “Second favorite?”
“Probably Shake Shack,” I say. “But mostly because of the frozen custard that comes after it. It’s the perfect meal. All food groups well represented.” I can’t help but smile as I tell him the other reason why. “Also, I went there with my friends to celebrate after I opened my shop. Poppy wanted to go somewhere fancy, but we were kind of broke. Fancy is nice and all, but a hot dog and frozen custard in the middle of a park in NYC seemed like the perfect way to celebrate my new business.”
He’s quiet for a long moment so I look over at him. He has a weird smirk on his face. “What?”
He shrugs. “Just that you’ve basically proven my point, about meet-cutes.”
I frown. “Huh?”
“You like food because of the happy memories you associate with them,” he explains. “That’s what I do with couples. I help them create shared memories that generate good feelings. Those memories become like their origin stories.” He pops the last bite of hot dog in his mouth.
“Wait,” I say, trying to untangle what he’s just said. “So you’re saying my love affair with hot dogs has been facilitated by a bunch of sense-memory meet-cutes that I now associate with tube steak?”
“Basically.” He nods, amused.
“Oh, well, then,” I laugh as I shove the last huge bite into my mouth. “I mean, it feels like a slightly unhealthy relationship, but OK. I see how that works out for you.”
“I’ll have you know, I have a near perfect streak of facilitating great relationships.”
“Near perfect?” I tease. “What’s the big miss?”
He looks at me.
“Oh, me?” I blink. “Sorry I broke your perfect record, but I’m not going to date James so you can keep up your average,” I add.
Especially when the truth is he’s the one I would date. Because those sparks Katie talked about? They’re happening like crazy.
“James will get over it,” Seth sighs. “Eventually.”
“Will you try to find him someone else?”
Seth shakes his head. “That’s not really how it works. I’m not a matchmaker—I just orchestrate the meetings. If he finds someone else and wants me to help, I will.”
Don’t be in the room when you do, I think. Because I can’t imagine any woman noticing James if Seth is there. He’s hotter, more dynamic, has a killer smile, and he’s sweet and funny too.
Oh boy, there go those sparks again.
“Anyway.” He glances at his watch. “I should get going. I need to meet with a client.”
It’s not like at my van when we kissed and he bolted. Now he seems . . . reluctant. Does he feel the sparks now, too? He has to. Doesn’t he?
I hear Katie’s voice in my head, asking me what the hell I’m waiting for.
I wipe my face with my napkin, hoping there’s no stray mustard anywhere. “Uh, well, this was fun,” I say, lingering.
“Yeah,” he agrees, looking straight into my eyes.
Go for it!
“Should we . . . do you want to . . .I mean . . .” God, I’m so bad at this! “Do you want to go out sometime? Like, a date, I guess?”
His eyebrows go up.
“I mean, if you want to,” I add, cringing.
“I shouldn’t . . .” Seth says, making a face. “It’s against the rules.”
“Oh. Right. The rules of your top-secret underground meet-cute agency.” I try to sound like I couldn’t care less.
I’m pretty sure I’m failing.
“If this is about James, he isn’t an issue,” I add. “We just went out that one time. It was nothing.”
“I still can’t—he’s a client.”
Maybe it’s my bruised ego talking, but I can’t help thinking he looks kind of . . . regretful? Still, it doesn’t make a difference. No means no.
“Right. OK, that’s fine!” I blurt. “I understand. Um, don’t worry about it. Forget I asked! No biggie. I mean, I’m the master of my domain and all.”
Oh God, April—stop talking!
But I can’t. Especially when his eyebrows wing up again. And he’s smirking. Like he’s finding my awkwardness . . . really, really funny.
“I mean, I was just thinking we could do a tour of the city’s best dogs, I mean wieners. Ugh, you know what I mean! I didn’t mean wieners like wieners—you know, like penises. Oh my God. Did I just say penises?”
Oh my God, April, you need to stop talking. Right. Fucking. Now.
Seth is clearly enjoying himself immensely.
“Anyway, I know you have an appointment, so I’ll let you go.” I turn, and it takes everything in me not to literally start running away from him.
“April?”
Now what? I slowly turn back toward him, cringing.
“Yeah?”
The next thing I know, he’s kissing me. Like, really kissing me, until I have to throw my arms around his neck or I’m going to melt into a puddle on the ground.
Holy sparks.
Seth groans against my mouth, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting me until I shiver and not from the cold; I am burning up from the inside out.
And then he’s pulling back, even as I want to yank him into a secluded corner of the park. I look up at him, at his stunning blue eyes. At his lips swollen from kissing. His messy hair that I must have run my fingers through.
“Damn,” Seth sighs. “I need to stop doing that.”
And then he gives a rueful shake of his head and walks away from me.
Again.
10
April
The next morning, I’m at brunch with my friends at our favorite greasy diner. It’s the regular crew: me, Poppy, and Natalie, plus Katie, now that she’s my official roommate. I manage to keep a lid on my romantic woes until the waiter delivers our first round of pancakes, but then I can’t wait any longer.
“I can’t believe he kissed me—again! And then walked off and left me standing like an idiot. Again! Why couldn’t he be the one I had the meet-cute with?”
Katie snorts with laughter. “You two met when he was trying to set you up with someone else. And now you keep bumping into each other—”
“And bumping tongues,” Natalie adds.
“See?” Katie says. “Sounds like a meet-cute to me.”
“Next up,” Poppy laughs, “sex-cute.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” I ask, despairing.
“Jump his bones,” Natalie says, munching on a slice of bacon. “Obviously.”
“I don’t know.” Katie pauses. “I don’t think that�
�s a good idea.”
Poppy frowns. “How is jumping a hot guy’s bones not a good idea?”
“Don’t get me wrong, normally I’m all about a good . . . bone-jumping, but in this case . . .” Katie gives me a comforting smile “I know April, and it sounds like she has some serious feels for this guy.”
I shake my head. “No! I mean, I hardly even know him.”
Although what I do know, I like. Probably too much—Katie’s totally onto me. But I can barely admit that to myself, let alone my friends. “And anyway, the second time, he kissed me.”
“You should totally jump him,” Natalie says. “You’re overdue for some mind-blowing sexytimes because of your . . . you know.” She glances meaningfully down toward my lady parts.
I mock-glare at her. “If you bring up my dry season, I will throw your mimosa right in your face. Don’t think I won’t!”
“She’s not wrong,” Poppy chimes in, never one to feel threatened by mimosas, or anything else. “You should totally bang him. He obviously does it for you.”
Katie still has that orange juice mixed with toothpaste look on her face.
I lift my eyebrows at her. She tilts her head and says, “It’s just that he’s had plenty of chances to make something happen with you, and he’s chosen not to, every time. If he’s not into it, and you pursue him, you’re just setting yourself up for heartbreak. Trust me,” she adds. “I know all about what happens when one person in a relationship is more invested than the other. It’s, like, the number two reason couples wind up needing my help.”
“What’s number one?” Natalie asks.
“Porn.”
“Oh, figures.”
“But he said he couldn’t go on a date because of work, not because he wasn’t into me,” I protest.
“If he wanted you bad enough,” Katie says gently, “he’d blow off the work excuse. I’m sorry, babe, I think this is a classic case of he’s just not that into you.”