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

by Lauren Blakely

  Laughter seems to burst from him. “That’s not what I was going to say, but it’s good to know your ground rules. Just so we’re clear, are all types of sex off the table?”

  Twin spots of pink form on my cheeks. “Probably.”

  He steps closer, and I can smell him—his aftershave is woodsy and intoxicating. “What about kissing, can we kiss? Let’s say that I meet some of the marks on your checklist, do you want to have a kiss at the end?” he asks, and I’m nearly drunk on him already.

  I want a kiss right the hell now. “That seems reasonable,” I say a little breathy. Then my mind trips back to his comment. “What did you want to get out of the way, then?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Yes, Herb is my real name.”

  “I didn’t think it was a fake name.”

  “Who would pick that as a fake name, unless you were trying to scare somebody off?”

  “Your name doesn’t scare me,” I say, because I’m 100 percent unperturbed by his old-school name.

  “Are you sure?”

  I point to the light sculpture on the white wall. “I’m still standing here under this weird, bizarre, twisty-turny collage of rainbow neon lights. I’m sure.”

  He glances up at the art installation in question. “Isn’t that the coolest thing?”

  “It’s so weird, it’s like the perfect weird piece of art. I want to hang that in my apartment and have people come over and say, ‘What is that?’ And I’ll reply with ‘my innermost thoughts,’” I say, all haughty.

  “You’re devilish,” he says in admiration.

  “Perhaps I am.”

  I stare at him, amazed that it’s already going this well. “By the way, why did you mention your name?”

  His tone is softer, more direct. “I guess because I’m surprised you didn’t. Most dates bring up my name, since it’s unusual. They want to know if it’s a nickname, if it’s real, if it’s a family name that my mom had to give me. Or a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Why would someone think it’s a mistake?”

  He shoots me a steely glare. “Herb? Let’s cut to the chase. It ain’t Chase. It isn’t Hunter or Bennett or Foxface, or whatever cool names dudes have these days.”

  A smile crosses my lips, warming me from the inside out. “I don’t give a foxface if your name is cool or uncool. But is there a story behind it?”

  He chuckles in a self-deprecating way that’s thoroughly endearing. “Herb was my granddad’s name. It was supposed to be my middle name. But he passed away a few days before I was born, and well, my sentimental parents made it my first name.”

  “Aww. That’s touching. A very sweet story.”

  “I’m stuck with it, but he was a great man, so it’s all good. And I have the world’s simplest last name, so go figure.”

  “I like both of your names. The juxtaposition of the old-fashioned next to the familiar is a refreshing combo. It makes you even more unique, like this date.”

  “Normally on dates I count the seconds until it’s going to be over.”

  “Ouch. The seconds, really? Is it usually that bad that you have to count the actual seconds?”

  He nods vigorously. “It’s usually that bad.”

  “What’s the shortest date you’ve ever been on?” I query as we stroll through another hall of the art gallery.

  “I would say about twelve minutes and fifty-two seconds. We had nothing to say to each other, and it was evident when she wanted to talk about how to do her nails, then she showed me an Instagram video of how to do nails, and there was like sponges and glue, and it was Instagram. Have I mentioned it was Instagram?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and admit it. I do not get the fascination with every single life hack for every single thing, for every type of makeup or every type of possible decoration you could put on your body or face, but it seems like everyone in a certain age range wants to do everything they’ve learned from Instagram.”

  He smiles. “Is it too early to say this is the best date I’ve been on in a long time?”

  My grin matches his. “I don’t think it’s too early at all, but I think we really should reserve judgment until we finish the main attraction.”

  “Are you ready for it?”

  “I’m so ready.”

  We finish the appetizer portion of our date and head over to devour the main course.

  4

  Herb

  As we walk to the warehouse, we talk.

  “Ever been to an escape room before?” We turn down a lively block in Tribeca.

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “That sounds like a come-on.”

  “Maybe it is.” I dive into an exaggerated seductive voice. “Want to come see my . . . escape room, baby?”

  She purses her lips then drags a hand down her chest. “Oooh, yes. Show it to me now.”

  I growl, keeping up the routine, loving how easily I’m clicking with this woman. “Level with me. Are you an escape room virgin?”

  She drops a demure expression on her face. “I am indeed.”

  “Me too,” I say, returning to my normal voice. “But Evie thinks it’s perfect for us since I love puzzles and you presumably do too.”

  “Crazy for them,” she says, emphasizing the words with passion. “My job is kind of like a puzzle. Being an ethical hacker. You have to get into everything backward.” Then she talks more about some of the work she does, and it’s fascinating. She practices hacking into security for banks, then giving them advice on where they have holes. “And it’s sort of similar to what you do,” she says. “Which is a puzzle too.”

  Instantly I know what she means.

  “Since my patients can’t talk?”

  She smiles and nods. “Yes, that does make it quite a puzzle. It’s like you need a whole other language.”

  We chat more as we weave through the moonlit streets in lower Manhattan, and as we do, I take a moment to admire her. I was being honest when I said if she wasn’t pretty, it wouldn’t matter.

  And I meant it. To me, this kind of chemistry—instant and electric—matters so much more.

  But I still find it kind of hard to believe she’s as gorgeous as she is, and as interesting as she is. Clearly, something has to go wrong, like it did with Sandy.

  I tense momentarily, picturing my ex.

  Seeing her face.

  Feeling the gut punch of her news that she was leaving on a jet plane.

  But I don’t want Sandy to infect this night.

  I hoist those thoughts right out of my mind.

  We stop at a light, and I put a hand on Olivia’s arm then run my palm down her skin. “I hope I’m not being too forward by touching your arm.”

  She gazes at me. “You can definitely touch my arm. In fact, I hope I’m not being too forward by saying it gave me the shivers.”

  “Good shivers?” I ask as a cab screams by.

  “Definitely the good kind.”

  “I can work with good shivers.”

  The light changes and we cross. “Good shivers are another item on the checklist,” she says.

  I mime checking it off.

  She flashes a smile that ignites me, and I wonder why I took so long to say yes to Evie. But then the last time I felt this way was Sandy and—

  Nope. Not going to do it. Not going to let her ruin the best night in ages.

  No. Years.

  Just focus on tonight.

  When we arrive at the warehouse, the gamemaster opens the door and lets us inside, his tone that of a clandestine fellow from decades ago. “Hello, my secret agents. Welcome to the 1940s. We have your escape room ready for you.”

  The gamemaster ushers us down to a basement room, tells us our fellow agents were wrongly taken into police custody, and if we can find the clues and crack the case, we can set them free.

  The clock is ticking.

  I turn to Olivia. “Do you agree it would be completely embarrassing if we don’t find our way out of here? After we both talked about our sk
ill with puzzles?”

  “Failure is not an option,” she says, her tone intense.

  Quickly and methodically, we survey the room. There are wigs, trench coats, mustaches, and maps of the world that look like they belong in an old-time professor’s office. A framed portrait hangs behind a large oak desk with a green lamp.

  The portrait features a stern-looking man. “His left eye is wonky,” I say, pointing to the picture and the way the eye seems askew.

  She peers more closely. “It sure is.”

  She spins around, counting quietly. “And there are nine mirrors in this room.”

  I catalogue the reflective surfaces—mirrors hanging on walls, one standing on a desk, another next to a globe.

  “Mirrors and a wonky eye,” I say, tapping my skull.

  We spend the next thirty minutes with a laser focus, gathering clues, solving riddles, and cracking codes. We’re nearly there. I can feel it. We stand at the desk, poring over one of the last clues, tossing ideas back and forth.

  “This is so cool,” she says. “If we’re good at this, can we make it a thing?”

  I laugh, loving that she’s already decided we’re having another date. “We can definitely make it a thing. We’ll tackle all the escape rooms in New York City. How many do you think there are?”

  “Thousands,” she says softly, tilting her face toward me.

  I hold her gaze, not wanting to look anywhere else but into her sparkling blue eyes.

  “Olivia,” I say, stepping closer to her, a rush of warmth skating over my skin, “are you telling me one hour into this date that you’re having such a good time you want to go on a second date?” I don’t know why I’m being so forward, yet I know exactly why I’m being so forward. Because she’s fascinating. She’s interesting. I’ve never felt this kind of instant, quick, sharp, spicy, tangible connection with somebody. Rather than run away from it, I don’t want to let it go.

  A lock of her hair is out of place, so I brush it off her shoulder. Her breath seems to hitch. “Yes. I do want to go on another date.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m vaguely aware of a ticking clock. But I want this more. I run the back of my fingers across her cheek. “Is kissing on your checklist?”

  She gasps softly. “I would say kissing you is on my checklist, but you have to be a really good kisser to stay on my checklist.”

  I move my hand to her face, sliding my thumb along her jawline. “It’s on mine too.”

  “Let’s check it off.” Her eyes flutter shut.

  I lean closer to her and brush my lips over hers. I feel a whisper of breath that seems to ghost across her lips, and then the slightest gasp.

  She trembles. I’m not even holding her or touching her, I’m just kissing her lightly, softly. And she’s shuddering.

  It’s beautiful and too good to be true.

  But it’s all true, and it’s happening.

  She leans into me, inching closer. A soft sigh seems to fall from her lips, a sound that reveals how much she likes this soft, gentle kiss.

  I want to know what else makes her feel this way.

  I want to be the one to make her feel this way.

  The intensity of those twin thoughts shocks me, maybe even scares me a bit, given my past experience.

  But everything feels so right about tonight.

  And I know that we could easily spend the whole night in here kissing, but I also suspect she’ll be ticked if we don’t get out of here before the clock.

  I separate, even though my skin is buzzing, and my blood is humming. And I’d really like to do that again. Stat.

  She blinks. “Wow, now my head is foggy. I don’t know if I can concentrate.”

  “I don’t know if I can either. But you know what I like more than kissing you?”

  “I can’t believe there’s anything you like more than kissing me,” she pouts.

  I loop a hand around her hip, my thumb stroking against her. “I like getting to know you.”

  She practically purrs. “Herb, let’s get the hell out of here, go to a diner, and get to know each other more.”

  We work, solving the final clue when we position all the mirrors in the room so that they’re shining into the portrait’s eye. As soon as they do, his eye works like a laser, then opens the door to the escape room.

  We laugh and tumble out of the warehouse. The gamemaster tells us that was one of the fastest times that two people have actually executed an escape.

  “Guess we had something we wanted outside of the room,” I say, glancing at Olivia, who smiles back at me. We want to keep getting to know each other.

  I thank the man and turn down the street, reaching for her hand.

  She links her fingers through mine.

  And am I ever glad I’m moving beyond the past.

  Maybe this is insta-like. Heck, maybe it’s insta-falling. But screw it. I’m feeling it everywhere.

  We wind up at a nearby diner ordering burgers, French fries, and iced tea, and talking. We both agree Madison Square Park is our favorite park in the city, declaring the bench near the MetLife Building a great spot for kissing, then I tell her I like rock, and while she prefers pop, we agree we can coexist on the music front, since everything else is in sync.

  Oh, and we also manage to squeeze in some diner kisses. She slides over to my side of the bench, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders, then bring her in close. As kisses go, this one is relatively chaste. We don’t want to lose our diner privileges, after all. But the thoughts rushing through my head as I rope my hand in her hair and brush my lips to hers are anything but innocent. When I seal my mouth to Olivia’s, I’m not only savoring this connection, I’m imagining where it’ll lead to the next time, and the next. I’m picturing more nights, and dates that last well past midnight, and wind up in bed, tangled up together, sheets twisted, skin hot.

  And the mornings too.

  I’d like to wake up next to her.

  I’d like to have breakfast with her.

  I’d like to walk her home.

  Holy hell, is this insta-something?

  I’ve never been bitten by that bug before, but I’m feeling it now.

  This woman and I—we just click.

  And I don’t want to play games.

  We kiss and we chat until we close the place down.

  At the end, it feels like we’ve been on three dates.

  “Does this kind of feel like we’ve already hit the trifecta of three great dates?” I ask.

  “It kind of does.”

  “And each one has been better than the last.”

  “They’re all so good . . . it’s almost as if it’s too good to be true,” she says, her tone light and breezy.

  I stop, tug on her hand, and pull her flush against me. “But it’s real.” My voice is serious.

  “It is?” Her tone is pocked with nerves. She looks unsure.

  I nod, then cup her cheek and kiss her lips once more, savoring her taste, learning the flavor of her kiss, taking mental snapshots of how she feels in my arms.

  Like she’s giving herself to me.

  And it’s entirely what I want.

  One freaking date, and I’m sold.

  Yup, I’ve been bitten, and I don’t want the antidote. I just want more.

  “It’s not too good to be true,” I say as we break apart.

  “Are you sure?” She seems even more flummoxed.

  “I’m sure,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Besides, who are we to argue with Evie?”

  She laughs, but it sounds forced.

  “Let me walk you home.”

  “Okay,” she says, her pep and sass nowhere to be found.

  That’s okay. I’ll provide the pep for two.

  I take her hand, and along the way, I chat about the city, and the stores we pass.

  “That coffee shop has the best vanilla lattes in the city. Don’t tell anyone I drink vanilla lattes. But I’m just sharing that tidbit with you,” I say, tipping my f
orehead to a trendy café.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I blink.

  Her tone is . . . off.

  That’s odd.

  But I keep going. “Best part of New York,” I say, as a man scurries by, arms laden with delivery bags, a stuffed walrus poking out of the top of one, and a plastic robot popping its head from another, “is the delivery anytime anywhere of anything.”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  There it is again.

  She drops my hand.

  Something shifts in her.

  Her stance is stiffer. Her eyes are cooler. Her tone reads distant.

  When we reach her place, I squeeze her hand. “You okay? You seem a little off now.”

  She gives me a huge smile. “I’m great, but I’m so tired, and I need to go. Bye.”

  She spins around, heads up her steps, and darts inside without a parting glance.

  A kiss on the cheek.

  Or another word.

  I stand on the street wondering how we went from best date ever to what sure looks to turn into a ghosting.

  And I’ve no clue what the hell went wrong.

  5

  Olivia

  Misery is my companion.

  It trips me up on the racquetball court the next morning.

  With an unladylike grunt, I lunge for the ball, and I smack it wildly. It screams across the court, missing the mark by miles.

  Flynn thrusts his arms in victory.

  I’m not annoyed he won. I’m simply annoyed. With myself. My thoughts are only on Herb Smith, and how badly I botched last night.

  “Rematch?” Flynn asks, eagerness in his eyes.

  I don't have the energy to attempt to even the score with my brother. “Nah.”

  He sets down his racket on the bench. “Clearly something is horribly wrong. Confession time.” He pats the wood. “Tell me how you messed up last night.”

  I can’t pretend I didn’t. Misery slithers down my spine. “We were having the world’s most perfect date,” I say, forlorn.

  “Yeah, yeah, skip over the sex part.”

  “We didn’t have sex.”

  “Okay, you didn’t have sex, so how could it have been the world’s most perfect date?”