“Everything. Literally everything.”
I hum thoughtfully, like I don’t know it drives her crazy when I go full math geek on her. “I don’t know. Spreadsheets are mega hot. I think I’ll write back.”
She grabs my wrist, her blue eyes tinged with genuine desperation. “He could be dangerous. Why don’t we use a matchmaker instead?”
“Isn’t that what we already did though?”
“I mean, an official matchmaker.”
“Who does that anymore? Are we in Fiddler on the Roof?”
“No, but that’s a damn good musical.”
“True. That’s one thing we can agree on. But listen, I’m confident I’ll find someone online who shares my interests.”
“Question-asking, troublemaking, and high levels of sarcasm?”
I smile. “I also enjoy beaches, museums, and urban art, thank you very much.”
And, I’d like to find that certain someone who likes the same things. Who wants to learn from me, and who I can learn from. Someone to talk to.
Someone I can share my days and nights with.
Later, I send a simpler thanks-but-no-thanks letter to Henry, and he replies with a curt same, only solidifying my belief that I made the right choice.
The next morning when I open the door to my condo at Grams’s knock, she quirks a brow then breathes a sigh of relief. “You survived the night, I see. Now please tell me Porter didn’t lock you up in a supply closet.”
“No, I locked him up. Would you mind coming inside and helping me remove the duct tape from his wrists?” I deadpan.
She narrows her eyes. “You are always trying to pull a fast one.”
“Because you’re always trying to be faster.” I shoo her away. “Go see your friends, Grams. It’s Sunday Funday and you have poker club and the repo car auction.”
Her expression lights up, and she rubs her palms. “I do love seized cars. And how fabulous is your mother for finding me a new sale to check out?”
“She is most fabulous at taking an interest in our passions.” My mom, I admit, is pretty freaking cool.
“If I’m lucky I can finally nab a Camaro there for Betty.”
“Don’t forget, if you come across a Bugatti, you better bid literally everything on it for me. Like, feel free to use my brother’s rare baseball cards as collateral.”
“Do you seriously think there are any Bugattis at police auctions?”
“Hope springs eternal.”
She takes off, and on my way to the roller rink to work out—because skating equals killer cardio—I stop to grab a cup of coffee with my mom, updating her on Grams’s ax murderer concerns.
“You know what your grams is like. Too many crime shows. Besides, you have pretty good radar when it comes to people. Just don’t invite any men to your home, a back alley, a dark and deserted road, a public park, or any place with less than one hundred people. Oh, and be sure to text me before any dates with strangers so I’ll know your whereabouts too.”
“Oh yeah. Definitely. Want me to check in with you, too, every thirty minutes when I’m out on a date?”
Her green eyes, the same shade as mine, sparkle. “I would. Speaking of checking in, did Grams make it to the auction?”
I check my phone, nodding. “She says she’s enjoying the view.” I stare at her. “Your mom is a dirty bird.”
2
Cameron
I like to imagine my life in montage moments.
If this were a movie, I’d get to skip the lazy slug of traffic I’m stuck in and magically appear at my destination.
Admittedly, I could have made a better effort to get to the car auction on time, but I’d been distracted when I left my South Beach hotel and spotted a pack of flamingos on the beach. Naturally, I had to take photos of them for my business partner and for my collection.
Of flamingo photos.
Yes, I have one now, because I like to snap pictures of cool things, pretty things, and weird things, and birds that stand on one leg qualify on all counts. Plus, I suspect the pic is about to become a business expense, since Lulu’s unicorn avatar is flashing on my screen. In the interest of full disclosure, I did not set her avatar. She did. Everyone else just gets a name. Lulu gets a magical horse, and it’s blinking at me, so I swipe my thumb across the screen and chat hands-free.
“Cameron!” Lulu greets me in exclamation points.
“Lulu!”
“I have an idea. Wait for it . . .” Pretty sure I know what’s coming. “Flamingo-shaped chocolate.”
I nod as I tap the gas, nudging the car forward. “Go ahead. Call me brilliant. Call me a fortune-teller.”
“You are, but why would I call you a fortune-teller?”
“I knew that was what you were going to say.”
“And how do I know you knew that?”
I smile. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“But seriously. It’s a great idea, and since you’re in town working on the deal . . .”
“You want me to see if the chichi hotel near the Fontainebleau would carry them?”
“It’s like we share a brain.”
“That, and I’ve been working on a deal with them for the last week.”
“We should definitely make the flamingo ones for them, don’t you think?”
“A better idea there has never been.”
“What if we do quirky animal-shaped chocolates that are themed for the different cities where you strike distribution deals?”
“Aren’t animal crackers proof that animal-shaped food is, one, awesome, and two, profitable?”
She laughs. “Okay, I’ve convinced you, and you’ve convinced me. Let’s do it.”
“How about you make some samples, fly down here, and come with me to meet with them in person on Monday?”
“Fine, fine, twist my arm. I’ll book a ticket for tonight.”
“And we’ll pitch them together tomorrow.”
I say goodbye and will the traffic to move faster. Eventually it does, and I make it on time to the junkyard, where I park my rental and head over to say hello to Uncle Joe, who’s studying a folder of papers while leaning against an old school bus. I fist-bump the man. “Silver Fox. What’s up?”
He drops the papers to his side, giving me a stern stare. “It’s about time. I’m not sure I’m going to save the old beat-up Ferrari for you anymore.”
My eyes bulge. “You have a Ferrari today?”
His sky-blue eyes sparkle, crinkling at the corners, well-worn from the years. “Don’t you want to know.”
“Seriously? Are you messing with me?”
“What would you even do with a Ferrari? You live in Manhattan. You’re only here a few times a year, yet you keep coming back to the junkyard like you’re really going to buy some sweet, hot sports car and drive it down the Keys.”
I square my shoulders as if I’ve truly taken offense to his comment. “I might very well do that someday.”
He scoffs. “I bet on you not doing that.”
“A man can dream, and I dream of buying a Ferrari and cruising over the Seven Mile Bridge to the edge of the Keys.”
“I’m calling your bluff.”
“Why don’t you step on my dreams a little more?” I stick out my polished black wing tip and crush the toe against the ground like I’m squashing a bug. “Then maybe a little further. Just dig into my dream and destroy it.”
He laughs, eyeing me up and down. “When you ditch those New York suits in favor of some Miami Vice duds to match that whole blue-eyed-blond thing, that’s when I believe you’ll buy one of the cars I’m auctioning, rather than only coming here to window-shop.”
I shudder. “Salmon, puce, pink, and I do not get along. Also, nice to see you too.”
A smile spreads nice and wide on his face, and he yanks me in for a big hug. My mom’s older brother was integral to my life growing up here in Florida. I love the guy madly. “You have no idea how fun it is to give you a hard time.”
“Oh, I have a bit of an idea, since you do it all the time.”
He taps the side of the bus. Usually he conducts the auction from the steps of the vehicle, megaphone in hand. “I need to review the list of goodies up for grabs. Lunch is on you today.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
I wave him off and head for the pack of car buyers, spotting a familiar face in the crowd, Jeanne. I chatted with her the last time I was here, and she’s a hoot.
She’s perched on an old Dodge, likely reviewing the list of items up for grabs today, with purple reading glasses low on her nose and a studious look on her weathered face. And she’s wearing the least little-old-lady outfit I’ve ever seen—jeans and a basic black top. I imagine no elasticized waistbands of polyester have ever entered her home.
“Is this seat taken?”
She snaps up her gaze. “That depends on whether a handsome young man is going to park his butt on the hood of this car, or if some old fellow who smells like Vicks VapoRub will try to snag the coveted spot next to me.”
“Definitely no Vicks VapoRub on me today, Jeanne. But young? I don’t know. I’m pushing thirty-three.”
She tuts. “Practically a boy-child.”
I drop a kiss on her cheek, enjoying the faint scent of lilacs surrounding her. “What’s shaking? I haven’t seen you since that Mercury was up for grabs the other month.”
She groans dramatically, clasping her cheeks. “Don’t remind me. I lost out on that one, and I was dying for it.”
“How many cars can you have, woman?”
She narrows her brows and wags a finger. “I have four, thank you very much. And it seems a downright sin not to have a fifth.”
“Well, good thing you can make amends for that sin today.”
“Indeed.” She taps the list of items. “If I can snag the Camaro, I can fix it up and give it to my friend Betty.”
“That’s what you do with the cars?”
She smiles proudly. “It is. If I see any more of my girlfriends driving Buicks and Cadillacs, I will disown them. That’s why I bid on the sports cars on their last legs then fix them up for my girls.”
“Can I be your best friend when I’m seventy-five?”
She pats my leg. “Only if you play bridge, gin rummy, or poker.”
I raise a hand. “All of the above.”
“That so?”
I waggle my phone. “Online poker fiend at your service.”
“We have lots to talk about, then.”
“But first . . .” I glance at the school bus, where Joe is finishing his prep work, then whisper, “Why don’t I let Joe know to give you some sugar when it comes to the Camaro?”
She clasps her hands together in prayer. “I’d say I want to win fair and square, but we all know that’s a bald-faced lie, so anything he can do to grease the wheels would be fantastic. I’d be willing to pay a little more than the opening bid.”
“How much?”
She gives me a number.
“Let me see what I can do for you,” I say with a wink, and I return to Joe. He raises his chin, glances at me, and scrubs a hand across his silvery beard. “You again? I’m telling you, Cam, you need to take action here. Less talk, more buying.”
“I’ll get to it.”
He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “You always did spend too much time thinking. Everything had to be analyzed, considered, weighed. Even as a kid, you debated Should I play with the Matchbox cars or the Legos? Let me weigh the pros and cons.”
“Those were important choices. There is nothing wrong with thinking. It happens to be my . . . second-favorite activity.”
Joe laughs, pointing at me. “Good one. And I agree on the first.”
“Anyway, would you do me a solid? Any chance you can make sure the Camaro goes to a certain someone?” I tip my forehead toward Jeanne.
His eyes land on her, and he whistles low. “Babe alert.”
I stare at him, flustered. “Babe? Isn’t she about fifteen years older than you?”
“Are you an ageist when it comes to matters of the heart?”
“No way. I just thought you liked them the same age as you.”
He hums his approval. “I am omnivorous when it comes to the ladies.” He gestures to Jeanne. “What’ll she pay for it?”
I give him Jeanne’s price, and he says he’ll consider it. I return to her. “No promises, but he’ll see what he can do. Should be ready to start in five minutes.”
Jeanne squeezes my arm. “You’re a good man. How long are you in town this time?”
“Just a few more days. I have a couple meetings, then I take off for Vegas, then Chicago.”
“You need to see the Wynwood Walls while you’re here.”
“I heard there were some new murals.” The walls in that neighborhood teem with cool graffiti art.
“They’re fantastic. Also, hello, online-poker fiend. What do you say to a game before this show gets on the road?”
Smiling, I take out my phone and tap open my poker app. “What’s your screen name? I’m ready to take you down.”
“HotRodLover.”
I sputter. “That’s your handle?”
She shrugs. “It fits me.”
“A little double entendre there?”
“Shame on you,” she says with a smirk. “And yours?”
I smile, eyeing my getup. Joe is right. Once a suit, always a suit. “LuckySuit.”
We play a round on our phones. She beats me with an ace high, and then I even it up with a pair of kings. As the next hand is dealt, she looks my way out of the corner of her eye, asking as nonchalant as a cat padding into a library, “By the way, what ever happened to that woman you were seeing in New York?”
Briefly, I picture Isla, the clever investment banker I was seeing in Manhattan for a few months. She was pretty, witty, and chatty, all traits which attracted me, but eventually we ran out of topics to talk about. There are only so many conversations on the fluctuations in the financial markets that one man can bear listening to. Now, if she’d wanted to talk about the fine differences between rock music and indie pop, between Camus and Descartes, or between the work-to-live and the live-to-work approaches to life, we’d have shut every bar in the city down, chattering on well past the midnight hour.
“Things didn’t work out with Isla. We didn’t have too much in common. You know how it goes.”
“You need someone who wants the same things. Who likes to think about the same things. You want someone who thinks.”
“It’s like you can read my mind. I believe that’s the key to dating success. Opposites don’t attract, in my opinion. That’s for magnets. With people, like attracts like. Also, your turn.”
She plays one more hand, and I win with a trio of threes. She snaps her fingers. “But let’s shoot a selfie for my Instagram feed. The boy who vanquished me in online poker.”
“Thirty-two, Jeanne. Thirty-two.”
She waves a hand. “Still a boy.”
“Also, how the heck do you have an Instagram feed?”
“I don’t let anything pass me by. Just because I’m seventy-five doesn’t mean I’m not hip. I need someplace to post my cars.”
She leans her head next to mine and snaps a shot of us, complete with wide, cheesy grins. “There. Jeanne and the Lucky Suit. By the way, have I mentioned that my granddaughter is single?”
This is not the first time she’s mentioned her granddaughter. “Is that so?”
“That is indeed so.” She shows me a photo of a lovely brunette with the cutest glasses and a spray of freckles all over her cheeks. Her hand is wrapped around a telescope.
“She is one smart lady, never met a question she won’t ask, loves to stargaze, and, wouldn’t you know, she just got into online dating.”
I shudder. “I will never ever do online dating.”
“Really?”
I raise my right hand. “Swear to God. You don’t
know what you’re getting into, or if they’re who they say they are. And it’s missing that certain je ne sais quoi of meeting someone in person and knowing if you have an actual connection and chemistry.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Why is that a shame?”
She frowns. “Just think about all the women you’re missing out on. All the chances you’re not taking.”
“Chances to have a date blow up in my face.”
“Now that’s not true. For instance, did you know that fifty-five percent of women say they only date men they meet online? They worry about the type of men they meet in person. The days of meeting people at bars is well over.”
“Where’s that stat from?”
She stares at the clear blue sky, tapping her chin. “I think I saw it in some Psychology Today survey. It got me to thinking—if you don’t try online dating, it’s sort of like playing poker without the suit of diamonds. Think about all the hands you’d miss out on.”
Soon enough the auction begins, Jeanne snags the Camaro, and I leave wondering if there’s a winning hand I’ve yet to encounter.
Later that night, I get online.
3
Kristen
I’m a glass-half-full person. And with my glass of iced tea, I’m eager to see what awaits me online.
Tablet tucked under my arm, cool tumbler in hand, I head to my deck and park myself next to my favorite thing—my trusty telescope.
“Hi, Nicolaus.” I named the scope after one of my favorite scientists. After all, Nicolaus Copernicus did discover that Earth revolved around the sun, which is kind of a big deal.
I set down the tablet and glass, thread my fingers together, and crack my knuckles. I tap on the screen. “All right, algorithms of love. Who do you have for me tonight?”
A warm breeze blows by as I click open my dating profile.
“Whoa, Nelly.”
That is one full inbox.
“Maybe I’m a babe and don’t know it,” I mutter, then laugh.
Lucky Suit (Sexy Suits Book 1) Page 2