HotRodLover: Inquisitiveness.
But once I send that, it’s not enough. So I add a little something more.
HotRodLover: As you can see, since I’ve demonstrated it tonight. I possess it in buckets.
LuckySuit: Indeed you have, and it seems you have amassed quite a bucketful. Can I assume that inquisitiveness extends to the heavens above us? The stars in all their glory?
Whoa. Grams’s friend is reeling me in with his talk of my favorite thing. He’s getting the full seal of approval.
HotRodLover: My curiosity extends to the far reaches of the Milky Way and beyond. After all, knowing the stars helps us to know ourselves, I like to say.
LuckySuit: And why do you like to say that?
HotRodLover: They remind us of our place in the universe—how vast the universe truly is, but how we can still play valuable roles in it.
LuckySuit: Ah, is there anything better than philosophizing on why we’re here?
HotRodLover: Nothing, nothing at all!
My face glows. He’s so not a serial killer. He’s perfect for me.
I mean for her.
He’s perfect for her.
He’s absolutely ideal for Grams. I start to tap a reply, when my own phone dings. I ignore it at first, but it chimes again, and I check it.
Mom: Hey, has Grams said anything to you about the guy she met at the car auction?
I squint at her question like it holds some clue to who the guy on the other end of the poker chat really is. I play coy to see what else Mom knows.
Kristen: No. What guy? Did she tell you anything about him?
Mom: Not enough! I’m trying to figure out if she’s gone on a date with him yet. She mentioned to me that they’d chatted after she snagged the Camaro, and I was hoping it would lead to something more. :)
Kristen: Well, did you ask her?
Mom: Gee. Why didn’t I think of that? ;)
Kristen: Want me to play spy for you?
Mom: Yes, go full 007.
Kristen: Anything for the woman who owns the high-rise building and lets her mom and me live here at cost.
Mom: Cost? Lady, I let you two live there at way less than cost.
Kristen: The things we do for family.
As I hit send, I spot a reply from the dating site, and a new sensation blooms inside me. Hope.
Hope that ThinkingMan has reached back out, because chatting with LuckySuit reminds me how much I liked talking to ThinkingMan. And that’s exactly why I started a profile in the first place—to find that connection.
I click over, and there he is.
ThinkingMan: Hey, Telescoper. Are you looking at the stars again tonight? I hear Cassiopeia is going to show off and twinkle.
Telescoper: She always struts her stuff! But right now? I’m chatting. And thinking.
ThinkingMan: They are two of my favorite activities.
Telescoper: I’d like to ask what the third is, but that might be too forward. So let me ask something else—why don’t you believe opposites attract?
ThinkingMan: It’s a myth. A fairy tale. It’s handed down from storytellers because it makes a good story.
As I type, Grams’s man replies on her phone, and I whip my head to that screen, setting my phone down before I can write back to ThinkingMan.
I read LuckySuit’s answer, trying to remember what we were last talking about in the poker app. Like a juggler, I’m tossing the conversation balls higher in the air, trying to keep my eyes on all of them. First ball—Mom and I were discussing some guy Grams met at the auction. Second ball—ThinkingMan and I are chatting about stars and opposites repelling. Third ball—Grams’s friend LuckySuit and I were gabbing about . . .
We were talking about understanding how we all fit into the bigger picture. That’s what his reply is about.
LuckySuit: I had a feeling you liked all things logical, scientific, and mathematical.
HotRodLover: Math is the bomb. I could do it all night and never grow tired.
LuckySuit: All night long? That’s some serious numerical stamina.
I shimmy my shoulders back and forth. It’s like I’ve consumed ten energy drinks and I’m tossing the balls in a dazzlingly high arc. I am a most excellent spy.
HotRodLover: I once entered a multiplication marathon. I won.
LuckySuit: Impressive. How long did it last?
HotRodLover: Why, I thought you’d never ask. ;) Seven hours and ten minutes. I won a calculator. Have you ever done a marathon?
LuckySuit: Yes. Do you want to ask how long it was?
HotRodLover: As a matter of fact, I think I do want to ask that. :)
I reread my last reply. And the one before. And before.
My jaw drops.
I’m falling too far out of character. I don’t sound like Grams. I sound like me talking. Admittedly, Grams’s guy is kind of cool and interesting, and he’s passing all my screening tests. But I need to make sure I don’t sound too much like her twenty-eight-year-old granddaughter.
Or like I’m flirting with him.
Wait. Am I flirting with this guy? Maybe a little?
It’s kind of weird that I’m enjoying it.
I take a breath.
I’ll just go chat with ThinkingMan for a bit, so I don’t get too carried away with the charade again.
I toggle over to exit the poker app when LuckySuit replies, and my eyes pop wide.
LuckySuit: And might that be because you’re actually Kristen?
Busted. The balls tumble down.
6
Cameron
Someone turns up the speakers, and Panic! at the Disco takes over the evening air poolside.
Smiling to myself, I reread the conversation. I had a feeling, and I was right.
And I have to admit, I think Jeanne might have been onto something when she dropped her anvil-size hints yesterday at the car auction about her granddaughter being single. She clearly thought we’d be a good match, and maybe she had the right idea.
Kristen is one fiery lady, and I dig that.
I dig that a hell of a lot.
But I especially like honesty.
And Kristen’s showing it right now when she answers my question.
HotRodLover: Gulp.
LuckySuit: Would that be a yes?
HotRodLover: I think it’s patently obvious the answer is a yes. As in yes, I’m Kristen. I’m the scientist. I’m her twenty-eight-year-old granddaughter. I’m weirdly good at poker. I also did a multiplication marathon post-college, so you can call me a geek girl, but I’ll have you know I competed in Roller Derby in high school and college, so yeah, they balance each other. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
LuckySuit: Let’s talk about this Roller Derby. That’s seriously impressive.
HotRodLover: Hold on. We can’t keep talking. I can’t talk to you like this. I was simply trying to ascertain what your intentions were with my grams!
I spit up my drink. Seriously? I stare at the question on the screen. She seriously just asked me that? I crack up as I type.
LuckySuit: My intentions with Jeanne? That’s why you were working me over like a detective trying to shake down a perp?
HotRodLover: That’s exactly the effect I was going for. I see it worked.
I swear I can picture the bespectacled brunette perfectly—hands on hips, arms akimbo, chin up. Challenging me. And yes, for the record, she looks cute in the photo my mind just snapped. I don’t need Photoshop for her.
LuckySuit: Let me get this straight. You were slinging your litany of questions at me to determine if I’d be a good man to date your grandma?
HotRodLover: Of course. Someone has to look out for her. Family is important, like we were saying.
LuckySuit: Family is mega, super-duper, supremely important.
HotRodLover: So . . . ticktock. Intentions. What are they, mister?
She is too adorable. Too in your face. Too bold. And I like it.
LuckySuit: Let me lay things out for
you. I have no intentions with her other than friendship. And there are many reasons for that. But one of them starts and ends with family—my uncle is interested in her! Which also means . . . wait for it . . . I’m not your Grams’s age.
She doesn’t reply right away, and as the indicator lights bounce around, I snap a photo of the darkening sky then take in my surroundings, enjoying how different Miami is from my current home in Manhattan.
I breathe in the salt air and the warm breeze. I hear someone splashing, and I wish momentarily that this life was mine. I take the time to savor everything that’s not New York City, from the pace, to the pools, to the waves, to the vast stretches of sand.
Most of all, to the mood. I do love the vibe of this tropical city. Especially now.
HotRodLover: So your uncle is the guy from the car auction?
LuckySuit: He runs it.
HotRodLover: He’s not an ax murderer?
LuckySuit: Not that I’m aware of.
HotRodLover: Because you’d know if he was? He’d tell you?
LuckySuit: We’re close. I’d like to think he’d divulge his profession as well as his hobbies.
HotRodLover: How do you think that sort of thing comes up? “By the way, last night I accomplished a career high of six bloody murders.”
LuckySuit: Ah, so he’s not just an ax murderer but a successful one? Also, it’s adorable that you’re screening her beaux. I suppose on behalf of Uncle Joe I should inquire if Jeanne’s into him.
HotRodLover: Not to be direct, but also to be totally direct, who are you? I thought you were some man-friend of hers, and it turns out you are indeed her man-friend, but you’re also not her age. You’re younger. Please say you’re not a teenager!
LuckySuit: I’ve been out of my teens for a while, but my AARP membership is still a ways off.
HotRodLover: Fine. The other question. Who exactly are you?
I glance at my shirt, my shorts, my drink. I consider the photos I take. I think about the eclectic mix of rock and indie music on my phone. I imagine my friends in New York. Who am I? I’m a lot of things.
LuckySuit: I’m the guy who believes in luck and chance. I’m the dude who plays online poker with your grandma because she’s a riot and she makes me laugh, and she has ever since I met her at the car auction the other month. I’m the person who likes music and books and philosophy. I think chocolate is heaven on earth, and beer is a damn delicious beverage. And I like people. Always have. It’s possible the word “gregarious” has been used to describe me. That’s probably why I get along well with Jeanne. I’m outgoing, and so is she. She’s also proud of you.
HotRodLover: That’s quite a résumé you shared. Almost like an online dating profile. By the way, what has she said about me? Maybe that I’m an inquisitive troublemaker?
LuckySuit: Oh, I figured that out on my own. :) As for Jeanne, she brags about you, but she never mentioned Roller Derby, and now I’m dying to know all the details. Color me intrigued. What was your derby name?
HotRodLover: Calcu Lass.
LuckySuit: Was Zero Sum Dame not available? Wait. Don’t answer. Calcu Lass is officially the best name ever.
HotRodLover: Why, thank you. I sure did rock a pair of high socks and skates. But enough about me. Who are you? What’s your name?
LuckySuit: I’m Cameron. And in case she hasn’t told you, I’m from New York, I’m in the chocolate business, and I have my sights set on a Ferrari, but I’ve yet to pull the trigger.
HotRodLover: I’m in the market for a Bugatti, for what it’s worth.
HotRodLover: Also, gotta go.
She logs out of the app.
7
Kristen
The front door slams shut, and I sit up straight, my breath coming quickly.
Shoot. I don’t want Grams to read what we were saying in her app. I will never hear the end of it if she knows how badly I flirted with her friend.
Or how well, I should say.
Because that was some seriously good flirting, and am I ever glad he’s not her prospective man.
“The red beauty is nearly ready for Betty,” Grams says, exhaling with relief, her work boots clomping across the floor.
My shoulders tighten, and my thumbs fly across the keyboard. “That’s good.” I scroll up, delete the conversation with LuckySuit, and sign out of the app. Then I grab my phone and exit the dating app, right as Grams turns the corner into the kitchen.
She’s smiling.
I’m smiling too.
Wait. I need to wipe this smile off my face. I can’t let on how much I enjoyed chatting with Cameron.
Or can I?
“Did you crush my friend?” she asks as she heads to the sink to wash her hands.
“I did.”
“So it was an excellent night of poker and perhaps conversation?”
“We chatted a bit.” The words come out stiffly.
“And?”
I’m still not sure what their connection is, so I backpedal. “I grilled him. To make sure he’s good enough for you. I don’t want him to stalk you or grandma-nap you.”
She slaps her thigh and bursts into laughter. “He’s thirty-two. He’s your age. Not mine.”
Even though he told me he wasn’t too much older or too much younger, I’m glad to have the confirmation. “Oh, thank God.”
“Why do you say that?” She pounces, and I suppose there’s no point being coy.
I admit the truth. “Because he’s quite fun and interesting and clever.”
She beams, a smile that stretches to Neptune and back. “Cameron sure is, isn’t he? And quite a looker, I might add.”
“Really?” My voice rises. I try to erase the stupid bit of hope in it. I shouldn’t be happy he’s good-looking, but holy hell, I am. I almost want to ask for a photo, but that’d be gauche.
But then I remember something he said.
And I deflate.
There’s no point in a photo. He lives in New York.
“He’s in town for a few more days,” she adds, and my heart balloons back up.
But still, with all my willpower, I resist asking to see him. He’s leaving, so it’s pointless. “That’s great. I’m seriously behind. I need to go.”
I grab my tablet and phone and skedaddle out of her place. But being next door is too close, too claustrophobic, and there are too many online men occupying too much real estate in my brain.
I text my best friend, Piper, and ask if she can finagle a late-night meeting.
By the fifth hole, I’ve caught Piper up on all my online dating escapades.
“This is fabulous news,” Piper declares as she swings her golf club. She’s a whiz at miniature golf, and I wish I could become one by osmosis.
“And why is this such a fabulous development?” I position my purple golf ball on the tee, the bright lights illuminating the course even at this late hour.
“So many of my clients these days are meeting online.” Piper is something of a wedding planner, so she knows the intricacies of how couples meet and bind in holy matrimony. “Many of the online matches get engaged and married sooner, and often they seem to get along better. That’s what those of us in the wedding biz call a hole in one.”
I look up from the ball, club in hand. “What percentage of your clients have met online?”
She screws up the corner of her lips and glances toward the sky. Piper lives in New York, but she’s in town prepping for a wedding she’s working on. “Well, since you are sort of obsessed with numbers and statistics, I’ll say seventy-six percent. But it’s also entirely possible I might have pulled that number out of thin air.”
“Well, why don’t you pull it out of un-thin air? Why don’t you tell me how many people really meet online?”
She pats my shoulder then gestures to the tee. “Take your turn first.”
I whack the ball, watching as it rolls underneath a swinging pirate ship, landing miserably far from the hole. “You’re trying to get me to mess up.”
Lucky Suit (Sexy Suits Book 1) Page 4