Dating Mr. Right: A Collection: Four Standalone Romantic Comedies

by Lauren Blakely

  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.

  Please, if I were a babe, I’d be well aware. I’m simply the friendly neighborhood math whiz, the girl the boys asked to be their math tutor, their science tutor, and their applied calculus tutor.

  As if applied calculus is hard.

  Please.

  But I suppose it can be if you don’t spend all day mired in the gorgeousness of math problems.

  That’s what dating is. One giant math variable waiting to be solved. All I have to do is figure out the way to that connection and closeness I crave. I’ll crack the code to a relationship. I know I will.

  I click through the chat with Porter, but as he tells me about a new article on astrophysics, I keep picturing him with ladies’ panties.

  I switch over to Wallace, but as we opine on spreadsheets, I wonder if he has an ax somewhere in his house.

  “Shake it off, shake it off.”

  Maybe I need an entirely new man to chat with. Someone Grams doesn’t know about yet. Someone whose image she hasn’t sullied in my head.

  I return to the inbox and murmur appreciatively when I spot a new name, alongside a handsome picture of a thirty-something man with a fantastic smile, blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a face that, quite simply, looks kind.

  ThinkingMan is his name. I laugh then scan his profile. His mantra is “Opposites attract” is for magnets only. Oh yes, it is, ThinkingMan.

  I click open his note.

  Dear Telescoper,

  As you may have surmised, I’m not a big believer in the “opposites attract” theory. But I do love theories, and from your profile, I can see you do too. While I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not, and I can’t claim to be conversant in all things mathematical, I do love theories, debating them, dissecting them, and deconstructing them.

  Also, stargazing rules. Did you know that the Andromeda Galaxy is going to crash into the Milky Way in 4.5 billion years? Of course you do. But what do you think that collision will look like?

  Best,

  ThinkingMan

  That’s literally one of my favorite things to discuss. With a crazy grin, I reply in the chat box.

  Telescoper: Greetings, ThinkingMan! I don’t believe opposites attract either. In fact, there was a University of Kansas study that debunked the entire theory as it applies to relationships.

  ThinkingMan: I do enjoy a good debunking. Especially since true similarities play the biggest part in pairings.

  Telescoper: They do! Also, I like to think that collision will look like two stars ramming into each other, monster truck–style. But I suspect it’ll be more like a river merging into an ocean.

  ThinkingMan: I like that analogy. I can see that perfectly. One massive, bright, and beautiful galaxy flowing into another. I do think it’ll be quite loud.

  Telescoper: We’re talking cover-your-eardrums loud.

  ThinkingMan: Louder than the big bang?

  Telescoper: I’d bet on it. By the way, did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is visible to the naked eye tonight?

  ThinkingMan: I’m looking at it right now. It’s always lovely on a moonless night.

  Telescoper: I’m looking at Orion Nebula right now.

  ThinkingMan: Don’t even tell me you have some top-of-the-line NASA-style telescope. I’ll be too jealous.

  Telescoper: I’d hate to make you jealous, then, especially since it is an awfully big scope.

  ThinkingMan: Oh no, you didn’t just go there!

  Telescoper: Oh yes, I did! It is huge though. After all, what I don’t spend on shoes and cosmos, I spend on my telescope.

  ThinkingMan: So you gave up cosmos for the cosmos.

  Telescoper: Nice wordplay. Ten points to you.

  ThinkingMan: And for ten points, I’ll go check out the Orion Nebula too.

  As we chat about the constellation and how it looks this evening, and I gaze at the night sky, I don’t have to wonder if he’s looking at the same stars. He is.

  And even though it’s premature to think this means anything, I’m giving my first swing at online dating a gold star.

  I’ll admit it.

  I’m eager to talk to ThinkingMan again the next evening after I come home from work.

  He’s not online though, so I put aside my disappointment, burying myself in a presentation on new ways to harness wind power to make dishwashers run more efficiently.

  Midway through, Grams knocks on my door, dressed in her mechanic coveralls. “I need to do some work on my Camaro. Can you babysit my Crock-Pot?”

  “Isn’t that the point of a Crock-Pot? It babysits itself?”

  “It does, true. But dinner should be ready in a few minutes, and I want you to turn it off.”

  I grab my tablet and head to her place next door. When I reach the kitchen, she hands me her phone. “Take this too.”

  “Your phone also needs babysitting?”

  She shoots me a duh look. “Of course it does. I’m in the middle of a game. I’m close to hitting a poker streak, but I need to get some work done on this car for Betty. Can you take over my game?”

  “Sure. Do you want me to crush your opponent or just whup her butt gently like you usually do?”

  She laughs. “A gentle whupping will suffice. But it’s not a she I’m playing with.”

  I furrow my brow. “Who am I crushing on your behalf, then?”

  “My new poker buddy. I met him at the car auction, and he’s quite friendly.”

  “You’re flirting with a poker friend?”

  “Did I say I was flirting?”

  “Knowing you, you’re probably flirting. You said the view was nice.”

  “I meant the view of the cars! The junkyard was full of gorgeous, lovely cars calling out to me.”

  “Ah, so you were perving on the cars. Got it.” I tap my temple like I’m filing away this piece of intel.

  “Just. Play. The. Hands.”

  “What if he wants to chat?”

  “Chat with him,” she says breezily.

  I arch a brow, adopt a spooky tone. “What if he’s an ax murderer though?”

  “He’s not, because I met him in person.”

  “Question: do you think ax murderers wear name tags that identify them by profession?”

  “I think you are as inquisitive today as you were when you were thirteen and I took you to the zoo and you had a gazillion questions. And do you know what I encouraged you to do then?”

  I smile. “Talk to the zookeeper and ask all of them.”

  “Yes, so feel free to screen this man to your heart’s content.”

  “I will definitely handle your man-friend.” I wink.

  She heads down to the garage, and I open her poker game, perusing the status. I see
a chat window open, and I decide this is my chance to vet Grams’s new guy. To find out if he’s good enough for her. Just call me Inspector Kristen.

  All right, LuckySuit, let’s see what you’ve got.

  4

  Cameron

  A pocket-size monkey swings from a tree branch.

  I snap a photo of the primate then several more as he somersaults to another branch inside Monkey Jungle.

  Lulu points at my subject. “You’re going to tell me you want monkey-shaped chocolate next.”

  “Sounds brilliant. Seems my photographic pursuits are good for our business. Maybe I should work on poker chips and slot machine pictures for good luck since Las Vegas is next on the itinerary.”

  “And I have all the faith in the world you’ll nab more deals there, and soon Lulu’s Chocolates will be carried in the swankiest hotels on the Strip.”

  “From your mouth to the dotted-line’s ears,” I say as we wander through the wildlife park teeming with monkeys of all shapes and sizes. When Lulu discovered the existence of a place called Monkey Jungle near our meeting location, she begged me to take her here once business was done.

  She squeezes my shoulder. “And holy smokes, did we kick butt today or what?” She high-fives me for probably the tenth time since our pitch meeting with the hotel. They loved her and her energy, but especially her chocolate. And they love the deal I’m putting together for them.

  We amble over to the swimming hole, chatting as I capture a series of shots of a monkey bathing. “What a little exhibitionist.”

  “I don’t know. He looks kind of shy. Maybe it’s his first public bath,” Lulu suggests.

  I linger on that word.

  First.

  I’ve no plans to take a public bath, but as we walk, I keep mulling over a little thing I never thought I’d do—online dating.

  It’s not my style.

  Not one bit.

  I believe in the personal zip and zing. I believe in looking in someone’s eyes. I believe in instinct. Heck, that's how Jeanne and Joe met, and they seem to have hit it off and, I suspect, will be dating any day.

  I’ve been single long enough, and while I don’t need to put a ring on anyone today or tomorrow, I’d rather get down on one knee sooner rather than later. I’d like to find the right person. The person I want to spend my time with.

  “Hey, what do you think of online dating?”

  Lulu squeals, grabbing my shoulders as a monkey with a raccoon mask stares at us. “Are you trying it?”

  “I might be . . .”

  She pounces all over my answer. “Seriously? Are you? Can I help you set up your profile?”

  “Maybe I already set it up,” I tease her.

  “Can I see it?” She sounds like she’s about to bounce off the trees.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see it?”

  “Yes, I would. That’s why I’m asking you. I want you to find your soul mate.”

  “And you think my soul mate is online? Hanging out somewhere on the interwebs, chilling and waiting for her man to upload his profile?”

  “Yes. And when you find her, you’ll know it.”

  “How will I know it?”

  “You won’t be able to stop talking to each other. You’ll chat about all the things that keep you awake at night. You’ll talk until the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Is that how things are with you and Leo these days?”

  Lulu brings her finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  “Why are you shushing me? Leo’s in New York. He can’t hear you.”

  “I know that, but I don’t want to jinx it. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “I don’t believe in jinxes.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  “I believe in chemistry and chance when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  A little later, I take her to the airport and send her back to New York, letting her know I’ll see her again in Manhattan. As I head to my car, I do some quick photoshopping on my phone then send her a picture of the gawking monkey now perched on her shoulder.

  She replies with a string of monkey emoticons.

  I return to my hotel. Since it’s June and high eighties even in the evening, I head to the pool area, grab a lounge chair, and enjoy a little sunset breeze and people-watching. A woman in a silver bikini rides a unicycle, followed by an Elvis impersonator on stilts. A sign hangs from his neck—Photos free, Hugs $5.

  I snap a free photo.

  As the sun dips lower on the horizon, I turn to the poker app, thinking about online dating as I consider how many cards to hold and how many to fold. They’re all stinkers, so I draw mostly fresh cards.

  Can online dating truly lead to a soul mate? Call me skeptical. But curious too.

  As I study the new cards—they aren’t any better—a chat window pops up.

  HotRodLover: I’m doubtful you can win a single hand.

  Whoa. Jeanne is going all in on the trash talk. That’s not usually her style, but I can play this way. I crack my knuckles.

  LuckySuit: Is that so? Me beating you repeatedly isn’t enough?

  HotRodLover: Tonight, prepare to be vanquished.

  I blink and scrub a hand across my jaw. What has gotten into Jeanne? She’s so feisty today.

  LuckySuit: Try me. Just try me.

  HotRodLover: I will. There you go.

  She plays her hand, winning easily. I regroup, order a beer from the poolside waiter, and we play a few more rounds. She demolishes me.

  LuckySuit: Fine, fine. You’re on fire tonight. I’m man enough to admit you brought your A game.

  HotRodLover: Don’t I always?

  LuckySuit: That you do . . .

  HotRodLover: Speaking of A games, what would you say is the most important thing on the path to happiness?

  I crack up. I swear, this woman is a hoot.

  LuckySuit: You’re awfully philosophical all of a sudden. You don’t want to segue into a new conversation topic? You just go for it?

  HotRodLover: Please. Who needs segues? Plus, I like philosophy. And happiness. And contemplation. So fess up.

  LuckySuit: I suppose I’d have to say kindness, fine chocolate, friends, family, giving back, good wine and great beer, and exotic travel.

  HotRodLover: Ooh la la. You’re fancy-pants in a lucky suit.

  LuckySuit: I’m not all about the jet-setting lifestyle! I did mention family, friends, giving back.

  HotRodLover: I’m all for those things too, except wine, just for the record. Now, tell me what family means to you . . .

  I laugh at her question. It’s like I’m being quizzed all of a sudden. I take a gulp of the beer.

  LuckySuit: Wait a second. It’s my turn. What are your happiness must-haves?

  HotRodLover: You can’t ask the same question!

  LuckySuit: Why not?

  HotRodLover: Rules.

  LuckySuit: Rules? What rules?

  HotRodLover: The rules of conversation say you must ask a new question.

  As a woman in a black bikini dives into the pool, I look up, thinking of new questions and briefly wondering why my car auction and card-playing friend is so sparky tonight. A possibility tugs on my brain like a fish on a lure. I’m not sure if I’m right, but I’ve got a feeling, so I play out the line to see what bites.

  LuckySuit: Do you believe in luck, chance, or fate?

  HotRodLover: I believe fate is the creation of nonscientists. I believe luck is random happenstance and chance is simply a variable we scientists have to account for.

  And that’s another clue. Right there, dropped like a delicious bread crumb. I pick it up.

  LuckySuit: “We” scientists?

  HotRodLover: I mean “we” as in the royal “we.”

  LuckySuit: Now you’re royal?

  HotRodLover: Royally going to beat you in the next hand.

  And she does just that. Then she kills me again. Each time, she’s sassy. She’s witty. She’s firing off all sort
s of one-liners, and it sure seems like my fishing line is catching something.

  HotRodLover: Are you ready to admit defeat at my hand?

  LuckySuit: Never surrender. I’ll soldier on.

  HotRodLover: Ah, I see you are relentless. Would you describe yourself as relentless?

  That’s an easy question to answer. All I have to do is look at the elbow grease Lulu and I put into building the concept of the stores and her line of chocolate. Yes.

  But before I reply, I set the phone down on the wooden table next to my lounge chair. I stare up at the darkening sky, twilight falling at last. The stars will shove their way to the blanket of night soon enough.