by Lila Monroe
“Couldn’t your client fall for a masseuse?” Natalie asks. She’s given up following the routine and is sitting cross-legged, scrolling on her phone. “Or a cheese-maker? I wouldn’t mind helping you with background research if it involved half a pound of brie.”
“Hold that thought, I’m sure he will—next week,” I remark. “But for now, he seems fixated on winning over Miss Flexible here. Which, to be honest, I can’t blame him for. What do you think she uses on her skin?” I ask in a hushed voice. “It’s luminous!”
“We’d be luminous too, if we ate a vegetable once in a while,” Natalie laughs. “And no,” she cuts me off before I can reply. “Carrot cake doesn’t count.”
“It should,” I protest. “Plus, cream cheese frosting is dairy. That’s good for our bones!”
“Now I have a huge craving for cake,” April pipes up from my other side. “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome,” I grin. “Magnolia Bakery after class?”
“I can’t today, I have that wedding I need to prep for,” she sighs.
“And I need to finish my article,” Natalie adds.
“Then I better get to work, too,” I agree. “Something tells me Jasmine isn’t going to just fall head over heels for a cute movie quote. I’ll need to break out the big guns.”
“Good luck!”
* * *
After Pilates, I shower and change, then head over to my favorite work spot: the New York Public Library. It’s a gorgeous beaux-arts building in Midtown, with marble floors, intricate wood paneling, and—of course—enough books on hand to check anything from Shakespeare to Emily Dickinson. I’m just entering the reading room when my cellphone rings. I get stern looks from the staff, so I quickly silence it and fall back to answer.
“Hey sis, what’s a good gift for a one-month anniversary?”
It’s my brother, Noah. His girlfriends usually last about as long as his clean laundry, but to the whole family’s surprise, he’s actually found an amazing girl and seems seriously loved up.
“You mean your usual gift of dirty dishes and an IOU for sex isn’t going to cut it?” I tease.
Noah laughs. “Seriously, I’m trying to figure out what to get Eve. Or is it too much? I’m taking her out for dinner at the bar where we first met, but I can’t decide if a gift is over the top, too.”
“Depends on the gift,” I reply. “Diamonds might be pushing it.”
He laughs. “It’ll be a while before I can afford one of those. I was thinking more a weekend in Big Sur. Spring for a fancy hotel, something romantic.”
“Business must be good,” I note.
“It is.” Noah sounds happy. “I have some new clients, planning all kinds of big social media campaigns.”
“That’s awesome,” I congratulate him. Then I get a thought. “Hey, you know all these Instagram celebrities. Have you heard of a woman called Jasmine Michaels? She goes by GlowGirl online.”
“Oh yeah, she’s huge,” Noah answers immediately. “People love her because she only promotes stuff she really loves. I heard a big vitamin company tried to get her to do a bunch of sponsored posts, offered big bucks, but she turned them down. She didn’t believe in the product.”
Beautiful, kind, and with morals too? Never mind Dylan, I think I may have a crush on her soon.
“What’s all this about?” Noah asks.
“Nothing. Just research for a new client, that’s all.”
“When are you going to take a break from getting everyone else hooked up and find a guy for yourself?” Noah asks.
I groan. “Come on, not you too! Mom’s already on my case about grandkids. I thought you were all about playing the field and not getting too serious.”
“That was before I found the love of a good woman,” Noah teases.
“And don’t forget who called that one, back when you were insisting you guys were just friends,” I remind him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Noah chuckles. “So how about using some of that romantic juju for your own life?”
“I’m going now,” I tell him. “Say hi to Eve for me!”
I hang up before he can lecture me anymore. It happens a lot—and not just from my family. People think that just because it’s my job to spread hearts and rainbows in other people’s lives, my own romantic schedule should be full to bursting, too. After all, if I know the perfect pickup lines, why aren’t I using them myself?
But it’s not so easy. Not at all. Composing the perfect love note is different when I’m signing my own name at the end of it, and as for jazzing up people’s online dating profiles? I can write a snappy, laugh-out-loud post that gets a hundred swipes—for somebody else. But when it comes to my own heart? It’s much harder to find the right words.
Plus there’s the fact that between working all hours hustling for clients and making sure their romantic lives are effortlessly eloquent, it doesn’t leave much time for my own. I don’t mind so much . . . most of the time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my clients’ revolving door of conquests and crushes, it’s that finding someone you really connect with is no easy task. That spark of connection . . . The butterflies in your stomach—and the fireworks in the bedroom . . . It’s rare to find, and when you do, it’s worth holding onto. So, until the day my Mr. Right happens to show up, I’m not going to stress about it. Not when my clients are projecting more than their fair share of stresses onto me.
Like Dylan.
I’ve barely found a spot in the reading room and settled in when he sends me a text.
Anything yet???
Cool your jets, I text back. Just working now.
I tuck my phone away and pull out my laptop, ready to craft an opening message that will sweep Jasmine off her feet.
A little How do I love thee, let me count the ways . . . ?
Nope. Too flowery for a first date.
Some You are thirst, and thirst is all I know?
Too, well, thirsty.
I flip through my notebook of quotes and songs, looking for something just right. I keep notes of everything I see that’s romantic or moving. I’ve even used Taylor Swift lyrics in my time (and yes, he accepted the proposal), but for some reason, today, I’m coming up a blank.
What does Jasmine want from a man?
I pause. Who says Jasmine even wants a man?
I quickly click through to her profile and scan the pics. But there it is, way down the page: a photo of her making out with a hot guy, almost a year ago now. There’s no sign of him recently, just lots of girls trips, #whoneedsaguy, so I’m guessing he’s out of the picture again.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Well, that’s one thing Dylan has going for him.
Aside from that, a brief tour through GlowGirl’s online presence tells me that Jasmine loves the great outdoors, yoga, crop tops, fancy fruit-and-yogurt bowls, and inspirational quotes.
In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you – Deepak Chopra. She’s posted the quote, with a picture of her doing a headstand in a bikini on a rooftop at sunset.
The photo has 232,000 likes.
But it gives me somewhere to start, at least. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the language of love it’s that it’s really a million different languages. We all have our own favorite songs, and movies, and things that matter to us. The trick is to speak to someone in their own particular voice. A Star Trek fan isn’t going to swoon over a quote from The Fast and the Furious, and someone who loves heavy metal is only going to look at that Celine Dion lyric and laugh.
Which is crazy, because Celine is the best.
But anyway, if Jasmine is looking for some spiritual guidance, then I need to show that Dylan is her fellow traveler. And a quick browse through some Chopra is all I need to get the creative juices flowing.
Love is the beginning of the journey, its end, and the journey itself.
I text it to Dylan, who replies immediately.
THAT’S IT?????
My p
hone starts vibrating with a call from him, so I answer in a whisper. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is that I need something to sweep her off her feet! Not a line that you got off the side of an herbal tea box!”
I stifle a giggle. “First of all, Deepak is a highly respected philosopher,” I tell him. “Oprah loves him.”
“I’m not trying to seduce Oprah.”
“Good thing, too. She’d see right through you.”
“Poppy!”
“OK, OK,” I smile. “Look, this is your opening move, right? You don’t want to go over the top with a whole essay and scare her off. Just send this as a direct message, reminding her where you met, and saying you’d love to buy her dinner and talk about wellness. Include your cell number. I guarantee she’ll call.”
“What if I sent some candy, too?” Dylan asks. “One of those three-tier chocolate things?”
“She’s not the candy type,” I reply. “Me, on the other hand . . .”
“Don’t push your luck,” Dylan replies, sounding more relaxed now. “But if this works, then I’ll take you on a spree at CandyShack, how about that?”
“I prefer the cash, but sure,” I agree. “Let me know how it turns out.”
I hang up and pack my things away. Not to toot my own horn, but I already know Jasmine is going to go crazy for Dylan’s opening move. Plus, once she actually gets a look at him—and he turns on that irresistible playboy charm—there’ll be no turning back.
At least until his next assignment.
And until then? I feel a celebratory cupcake coming on . . . No kale allowed!
4
Dylan
Love is the beginning of the journey, its end, and the journey itself.
I type the message the way Poppy said, then stop. Because really? She has to be pranking me. She’s been threatening it for months, every time I send her a new name to woo on my behalf. One of these days, I’m going get an outraged reply from some woman, demanding to know why I tried to pick her up with Ted Bundy’s final words.
But this one is different. I can’t risk anything screwing it up.
Maybe I should go for the candy. Women love candy, right?
“Lara?” I bellow.
My assistant materializes in the doorway and gives me a look. “What did I say about yelling?”
“That it’s an unnecessary display of masculinity,” I reply with a grin. “But where would the fun be if we whisper? I need a three-pound box of chocolate.”
“Is it that time of the month?” she asks, arching one pierced eyebrow. Lara looks like she just stepped out of a punk club, circa 1982, but there’s nobody better to keep my day running smoothly—and not wind up with an inconvenient crush. It’s not just my ego talking, I’ve had to let go three previous assistants because they tried to take things out of the office . . . and into the bedroom. I even came home one night to find a new hire draped across my bed in Victoria’s Secret’s spring line. She’d used her employee privileges to let herself up and get the party started early with a couple of her (very flexible) friends.
I fired her, of course, before we took things to the whirlpool tub.
I’m only human, after all.
“Funny,” I tell Lara—who is in zero danger of stripping naked in front of me for anything other than a political statement. “Just for that, I won’t tell you when Martha Stewart is due to check in to the hotel.”
Lara’s eyes widen. “What? No! I take it back! Martha is the boss!”
“Candy,” I repeat, amused by her fan-girling. “The biggest box they have, sent to Jasmine, at GlowGirl studios.”
“Sure thing.” Lara makes a note, just as my buddy and general manager, Kyle, comes strolling in.
“Jasmine . . .” He pauses. “Didn’t we know a Jasmine in high school?”
“Nope,” I lie, and I quickly change the subject. “So, the Catskills opening . . .”
“Is right on schedule,” Kyle replies, dropping into the chair opposite my desk. “Construction crew is installing the final fixtures, and I’m going up for a walk-through tomorrow to make sure all the details are taken care of.”
“The kitchens?”
“Fully staffed.”
“Entertainment?”
“Locked and loaded. A dozen canoes, a couple of speedboats . . .” he checks off his list. “We have more games of horseshoe than you can toss a stick at, and we did a dry run of the outdoor movie screening system that turned into a wet run, but it’s waterproof and ready.”
“Good.” I give a sigh of relief. Opening a new hotel location upstate has been years in the making, but we’re finally at the finish line. I’ve personally selected every piece of reclaimed wood in the whole lodge, not to mention the furniture and tech equipment.
Some people—like Lara—would call it impossibly anal. I prefer “details-oriented.” I haven’t built The Griffin into one of the hottest hotels in the city by just sitting back and letting other people do the hard work. If this new location is going to be a success, I need everything to be so perfect, the guests barely notice—because they’re too busy having the best trip of their lives.
“Jazz!” Suddenly, Kyle snaps his fingers. “That was her nickname, right? She used to tutor you in math, you were hopelessly in love with her.”
“I was not!” I protest, but I’ve known Kyle too long for him to buy my bullshit.
“Madly, unrequitedly in love.” He grins. “Didn’t you have a panic attack trying to ask her to prom?”
“I inhaled a bug.” I glare at him. “The paramedics totally overreacted.”
He smirks back. “Whatever you say, buddy. So, what’s her deal? Is she in town?”
I give a casual nod. “I saw her at a bar the other day, figured we could catch up, for old times’ sake.”
“Uh huh.” Kyle keeps smirking. “Old times. Where you just happen to prove how rich and charming you are these days and sweep her off her feet.”
“If she wants to get swept, who am I to stop her?” I smile back.
“Just don’t get distracted,” Kyle warns me. “The Griffin Lake launch needs to go off without a hitch.”
“Since when have I ever let a woman distract me?” I counter.
“Not since you were so busy mooning over Jasmine Michaels, you flunked out of trigonometry in tenth grade.” Kyle shoots back. “Which is why I’m getting a very bad feeling about this.”
“Seriously, don’t stress about it,” I insist. “It’s not a big deal. We’ll go out, we’ll have some fun, until one of us decides to move on . . .” I give a shrug. “You know me, I don’t get caught up with feelings and drama.”
“Yet,” Kyle mutters darkly.
“You worry too much,” I tell him, chuckling.
“That’s what happens when you have kids,” Kyle replies. “You see worst-case scenarios at every turn.”
“How are the munchkins?”
“Tormenting me with their new drum kit. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“My pleasure,” I grin. As godfather to Kyle’s five- and eight-year-old, I see it as my duty to shower them with gifts. And if they just happen to annoy the hell out of Kyle? Even better. “You should bring them up for the soft open next week,” I suggest. “Sarah, too.”
Kyle pauses. “Are you sure about that? Screaming kids don’t exactly fit the Griffin brand.”
“Fuck branding, you guys deserve the break,” I insist. “Plus, how are you going to solve all those last-minute emergencies if you’re singing lullabies over Skype every night?”
“Good point.” Kyle grins. “But could you maybe tell Sarah it was my idea? I’m still in the doghouse for falling asleep during date night.”
“Ouch,” I laugh. “Whatever you need, buddy. I’ll figure out a luxury suite.”
He heads out, leaving me to deal with my massive to-do list . . . and a phone that hasn’t buzzed with a reply to my text.
What’s the deal? I messaged Jasmine nearly twenty minutes ago. She
should have read it by now. And replied, taking me up on that dinner invite, and adding a flirty message of her own.
Unless Poppy struck out with that opening line.
I turn my phone over in my hand. Poppy’s good, I only hire the best, and she’s never let me down so far, but nobody bats 100 all the time.
Or what if Jasmine lost her phone? Or has strangers blocked. Or is at some no-tech meditation retreat for the week . . .
I stop myself before I can fall head-long into the vortex of uncertainty. Why is this so hard? I’m used to my love life coming easy, I don’t think I’ve ever just sat around, waiting for someone to reply.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. I don’t need elaborate messages or gifts to make an introduction—I meet women all the time. What’s to stop me just running into Jasmine in person and saying a casual, “Hey”?
I spring to my feet. “I’m heading out to lunch,” I tell Lara, striding out of my office.
“You already had lunch.” She gives me a suspicious look.
“Coffee, then. Hold my calls,” I say, and then exit fast, before she notices I’m acting like a crazy person.
Or Dylan Griffin circa Washington High.
* * *
I head downtown to Jasmine’s Pilates studio. I figure I can just drop in and strike up a conversation, but when I reach the building, my feet don’t get the memo.
I pace back and forth on the sidewalk outside, trying to get my shit together. What the hell is wrong with me? I can see through the front windows; there’s a dozen women in class, and normally, I wouldn’t hesitate before strolling in and flashing my most charming smile. Hell, being surrounded by beautiful women is just a regular Friday night, as far as I’m concerned, but this is different.
This is Jasmine.
Kyle was right. I was hopelessly in love with her in high school—but of course, she didn’t even know I was alive. Not like that, anyway. To her, I was just the dorky, tongue-tied guy who stammered his way through our tutoring sessions. But even though she was a goddess, even back then, she was still one of the nicest people you would ever find. Sweet, and friendly, and totally out of my league. She dated popular jocks and college students: guys who would come pick her up after school in their vintage Mustangs, leaving the rest of us in their dust. I haven’t thought about her in years—I figured she was just an embarrassing memory from my dorky past—until I saw her at that bar, and I realized she could be the one I’ve been waiting for.
