by Lila Monroe
And, more importantly, I might actually have a shot at being with her this time around. Because over the past ten years, I’ve relegated my old dorky high school persona to the trash heap of history. Thanks to a growth spurt, some smart investments, a personal shopper, and the best orthodontia Dr. Middlestein has to offer, I’m kind of a catch these days.
At least, according to the Daily News’ annual list of Hot New York Bachelors, that is.
So why am I stuck pacing back and forth outside Jasmine’s studio, trying to work up the nerve to step inside?
One of the girls at the front desk sends me a friendly smile through the window. Shit. They’ve seen me. I turn on my heel and bolt to the safety of the smoothie store across the street. I pull out my phone and give Poppy a panicked call. “Where are you?” I demand.
“Just heading home. Why? Did she love the message?”
“She hasn’t answered yet! It’s been an hour,” I tell her.
Poppy just laughs. “Whoa, cowboy. Some people aren’t glued to their phones, you know. She’s probably still in a session.”
“Look, I need to talk to you. Get over here,” I tell her, then text the address.
Fifteen minutes later, Poppy arrives, toting two massive bags of groceries.
“This better be good,” she says, shifting the weight on her hip. “I have ice cream melting here.”
I’m distracted for a moment by the tank top clinging to her body and the summery skirt swishing around her bare legs. She looks pretty and fresh—until I get to the impatient scowl on her face.
“I’m the one who should be complaining,” I tell her, shaking it off. “I trusted you to deliver the goods.”
“And I did!” she protests. “Tailor-made to melt her panties. Or her organic cotton bodysuit. Either way, mission: accomplished.”
“Then why hasn’t she responded?” I ask, holding my phone up. “The message was marked read, so she has to have seen it.”
“Unless she doesn’t handle her own social media,” Poppy points out, “Or has strangers blocked, or—”
“Shhh!” I fall silent. Jasmine has just entered the café, looking sweaty and radiant in a skin-tight yoga outfit that sends all my blood rushing south.
Holy shit, she’s gorgeous.
“Cover me,” I hiss at Poppy, trying to duck behind her, but it’s too late. Jasmine looks over from ordering with a curious smile on her face.
“Dylan?” she asks, her voice rising. “Dylan Griffin, is that you?”
“Hey.” I give her a wave. Fuck. I wasn’t ready for this. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” she beams. “I can’t believe this, it must be what, ten years since we’ve seen each other?”
“Twelve,” I blurt. “You look great . . . I mean, you always looked, you know, but now . . . Uh . . .”
Poppy looks at me like I’m an idiot. Which, to be fair, I’m doing a great impression of one right now.
“I, uh, actually messaged you,” I say, trying to pull my shit together. “I’d love to get dinner some time and catch up.”
“That was you?” Jasmine looks surprised. “Oh, I get so much spam all the time, I figured you were just another creepy guy hitting on me.”
“Imagine that,” Poppy murmurs beside me, clearly trying not to laugh.
I elbow her.
“Nope, all legit and above board,” I reassure Jasmine, trying my best to look casual. “What do you say? Tonight. For old times’ sake.”
“How sweet,” Jasmine smiles. “But I have plans.”
“Oh.” I try not to feel disappointed. “How about drinks then, tomorrow? Or Friday?”
“Maybe!” she agrees brightly. “I’m slammed right now, but I’ll let you know if something opens up. Next month should be easier. It was great to see you, though.”
“You too . . .” I reply, but she’s already sauntering out.
Poppy barely waits until the door swings shut before she bursts out laughing. “What was that?” she crows.
“Shut up,” I groan. Could that have gone any worse?
“I mean it!” Poppy exclaims, looking delighted. “I’ve never seen you tongue-tied around a woman before!”
“Way to rub it in.” I sigh. Clearly, the usual tricks won’t work on Jasmine . . . which only makes me more determined. Maybe it’s fate, us crossing paths like this. Maybe it’s my second chance to show her I’m the man for her.
So I do what I always do when my gut tells me to go for it. I double down.
“I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars if she goes out with me,” I announce.
Poppy snorts. I hold her gaze and watch realization dawn.
“Wait, you’re serious?” Her jaw drops. “Dylan, that’s insane!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not a matchmaker, for starters,” she blusters. “Plus, I can’t force someone to date you. There are laws against that!”
“You always said the right words can make anyone fall in love. So, prove it,” I challenge her, warming to the idea now. A little extra motivation, that’s what she needs. “Fifty thousand bucks, to help me win Jasmine’s heart. Let me know when you’ve thought up a plan.”
And I walk out, leaving her with ice cream dripping down her leg.
Because I’m not a quitter, not anymore. The old high-school Dylan might have slunk off and licked his wounds (and some comfort Oreos) in defeat, but I’m not that guy anymore. All I need is a chance to show Jasmine that same fact, and she’ll see what she’s missing.
And Poppy’s my secret weapon to make it happen.
5
Poppy
“Is he serious?!”
“About as serious as Dylan Griffin gets.” I sit up on the counter and swing my feet, watching April assemble a gorgeous bouquet of tulips. The next morning, I’m at her tiny flower shop for some expert consultation . . . and gossip. There’s a lone man deliberating over some carnations, but aside from that, we’re alone.
“Is it just me, or is there something weird about it?” I ask. “I mean, I already jacked up my regular fees for him, but paying fifty thousand dollars just to get this girl to go on a date with him? That’s crazy!”
“You know he’s rich as hell. Rich people are eccentric sometimes. Besides, love can make a man do crazy things.” April smiles indulgently, ever the romantic.
“Umm, I’m not sure it’s love on his mind . . . or other body parts,” I mutter.
She laughs. “Aww, come on, give the guy a break. You said you’d never seen him act that way around a woman before.”
“True,” I answer thoughtfully. “He was all stammering and awkward… It was pretty adorable, seeing him lost for words. The guy can usually talk a Knicks fan into cheering for LeBron.”
“Umm, sports reference?”
“Sorry.” I laugh. April has zero interest in anything involving balls . . . In the sports arena, at least. “He can normally talk an Austen fan into believing Marianne would have been happier with Willoughby. Better?”
April gasps. “OK, that is smooth talking! And totally wrong, by the way. Colonel Brandon was perfect for her.”
I laugh. “So, you don’t think it’s shady—trying to make Jasmine go out with him so I can cash in? I know they went to high-school together, but there’s something . . . I don’t know, kind of pimp-like about it. Pimp-adjacent.”
April pauses her flower arranging. “Well, let me put it to you this way: would it feel so weird if he was offering you five hundred bucks instead?”
I think about that. “No . . .” I reply at last. “I mean, this is my job. Clients pay me to craft the perfect invitations and love notes.”
“And do they tip you extra afterwards if everything works out?”
“Sometimes, yes. Remember that Gino down at the deli?” I ask. “We were rolling in sliced meats for a month after I composed that letter for his anniversary.”
“So, there you go.” April gives a shrug. “If Dylan wants to reward your hard work with
a truck-load of cash instead of a lifetime supply of salami, why stand in his way? Weren’t you just saying you needed to step it up to afford your dream office space?”
That office . . . I sigh with longing. Fifty G from Dylan wouldn’t just pay the security deposit and rent, it would hire a couple of freelance writers . . . help clear my student loans . . . let me at least pretend to start putting aside a 401k account . . .
“You’re right,” I decide. “I shouldn’t look a gift playboy in the mouth. It’s not like I’ll be paying anyone to date him. And if Dylan wants to lavish me with gratitude, I can take cash or credit cards.”
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” April smirks. “You actually have to make Jasmine say yes first.”
“Good point.” I hop down. “Which is why I’m here, to get your amazing guidance.” I bat my eyelashes, and April laughs.
“Flattery will get you everywhere. What do you need?”
“Well, I started with the usual coffee opening move—although for her, it was a smoothie. That struck out, so we need to up the stakes with flowers.”
“You came to the right place.” April gestures around at the tiny storefront, which is crammed with buckets of blooms. “I just went by the market. There are some gorgeous roses, if you want to stay classic . . . Or these tulips.”
“Hmmm . . .” I inhale the floral scent. “Not roses, she seems a little more unconventional. What do these mean?” I ask, holding up a vibrant bunch of orange lilies.
“Pure loathing,” April replies cheerfully.
I laugh. “Maybe not.”
“If you want something with meaning, how about sunflowers?” she suggests. “They stand for pure thoughts and adoration.”
“Dylan? Pure?” I snort. “Sure, why not?”
“They’ll look amazing with these irises . . .” April is already plucking more flowers to add to the bouquet. In no time at all, she’s assembled a glorious bunch, vivid with yellows and blue.
“You’re a true artist,” I praise her. She smiles.
“What’s going in the note?”
“Percy Bysshe Shelley,” I reply. “Nothing in the world is single/All things by a law divine/In one spirit meet and mingle/Why not I with thine?”
“Sexy!” April laughs, and I smile.
“I told you, it’s going to take the big guns!”
“I’ll bill his usual account?” she asks, adding some pretty tissue paper and brown twine.
“Yes please!”
“See, you’re not the only one benefiting from Dylan’s romantic streak.”
“Romantic . . . sure, that’s one way to look at it.” I laugh. “Incorrigibly horny is another.”
“Potato, potahto.”
She’s just wrapping up the flowers when her customer finally approaches, holding three tiny carnation stems. He’s middle-aged, wearing a fraying tweed jacket and gold-rimmed spectacles. “Oh,” he says, blinking at my extravagant bouquet. “Those look nice. How much is it?”
“Two hundred dollars,” April replies.
His eyes bug out. “For flowers?!”
“For the artistry,” I interrupt, giving him a look.
“I have some smaller posies, if you’d like.” April quickly steers him to where pretty bunches of daisies and tulips are arranged. “Who are they for?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Well, then you want something romantic. These are a lovely pink,” April says, beaming. “And they’re only twenty dollars.”
“Well . . . I suppose,” he says reluctantly. “It is for a special occasion. It’s our third anniversary,” he says, taking out his wallet.
“She’ll love them,” I tell him encouragingly. Because I know exactly what a few stems of carnations mean: “I couldn’t care less.”
“I hope so.” The man’s expression lightens as April wraps the flowers in pretty paper and even adds a few extra stems. She’s always been a sucker for true love. She hands them over with a flourish.
“I hope you have a lovely anniversary.”
“Thanks,” he replies, then looks around. “While I’m here, I may as well get something else, too.”
“Of course!” April beams. “Who are these ones for?”
“My wife.”
April’s jaw drops, and I have to keep from laughing. So much for true love!
“Do you have anything cheap?” he asks, adding insult to injury. “It’s not a special occasion or anything.”
Unless she calls a divorce lawyer.
“I think you better be going,” I tell him, steering him to the door before April can beat him over the head with a bunch of dahlias. “Don’t come again!”
The door swings shut behind him. “Can you believe the nerve of that guy?!” April exclaims. “Using my flowers to help him cheat!”
“Look on the bright side,” I say, comforting her through my laughter. “With his taste in gifts, his wife will be leaving him soon!”
* * *
I talk April down, then take the flowers over to meet Dylan. This time, a typed note or his assistant’s scribble won’t cut it—I need the man himself to take time out of his busy schedule of charm and shenanigans to transcribe the note that will melt Jasmine’s heart.
I step into the lobby of his hotel in Soho and make a beeline for the front desk. Everything at The Griffin is stylish and cool, a kind of rustic chic-meets-downtown vibe that makes you think the girl at the bar could be a supermodel, and those scruffy guys lounging on the plush velvet couches are actually a chart-topping rock act.
I peer closer. Wait, are they . . . ?
“Can I help you?”
I pivot to the scarily polished woman on duty. “Hi,” I say, smiling at her. “I’m meeting the CEO, Dylan?”
She gives me a slow up-and-down look that makes me wish I’d changed out of my denim cut-offs and threadbare T-shirt. Laundry day plus July in NYC equals fashion central over here. “He’s in a meeting right now,” she says, looking bored. “You’ll need to wait.”
“Well, I have a schedule too,” I say pleasantly. I don’t tell her that schedule involves me, a window AC unit, and some old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. “Where can I find him? He won’t want this to wait.”
Scary Chic presses her hand to her ear and murmurs something, and I realize she’s muttering into a headset. Then she gives me a nod towards the elevators. “Room 515.”
“Thank you!”
I head on up, admiring the mirrored paneling and plush details. I have to hand it to the guy, he knows how to make a space feel sexy and decadent. Although, I shouldn’t really be surprised. The first time I met Dylan for a quick coffee-shop meeting, he managed to pick up the barista and get the number of the girl behind us in line, and all before my Frappuccino came.
The guy can multi-task, I’ll give him that.
He can also wear a pair of jean like nobody’s business. When I reach Room 515, I find the door open and Dylan’s back turned, bending over the bed.
I pause, admiring the view for as long as is wholly professional.
And then maybe another five seconds longer.
“Dylan?” I finally announce my presence.
He straightens up and turns. “Poppy! Hey, come on in and lie down.”
“Excuse me?” I blink, my cheeks heating up. I’ve been half-expecting him to hit on me since we started working together, but I figured he would have more finesse than this. Buy me a drink, tell me I’m pretty . . .
“The bed. I’m testing mattresses. Come on.” Dylan gestures me in.
Right. Work. Of course.
I take a couple of steps into the room and set the flowers down before gingerly perching on the edge. “No, seriously, lie down, give it a good bounce,” Dylan insists. “This is a new vendor. He made me a bet that if I didn’t think it was the softest around, I could get a big discount.”
“Why would you want to order them at all if they aren’t the best?” I ask. “Isn’t that your whole thing? Quality is in th
e details,” I say, quoting the ad copy I’ve seen on his Griffin promos.
Dylan arches an eyebrow. “You’ve been reading up about me? I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. The pop-up ads follow me all around the internet,” I correct him. I glance around the hotel suite, which, of course, is flawless. There’s even a record player in the corner and a small library of books. I look closer. They’re all by New York writers . . . and have something else in common, too. “Would it kill you to stock a female author?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “I mean . . . Norah Ephron, Joyce Carol Oates, Edith Wharton . . .”
“Reading lists later.” Dylan shifts back on the bed and begins to vigorously bounce. “Five minutes. I want to know what you think. You seem like someone who enjoys spending time in bed.”
“I’m going to choose to interpret that as meaning I look well rested and fresh,” I inform him archly, but it’s clear Dylan won’t get around to his plans for romance until I give him my oh-so-important mattress opinions. I finally scoot back so I’m lying beside him on the king bed—a safe arm’s length away.
“Comfy,” I say.
“Yes, but is it like sleeping on a fluffy cloud?” he asks.
I sigh. “What does it even matter? It’s fine!”
“Fine isn’t good enough.” Dylan turns his head to me. “Fine is a night in a cut-price hotel with thin walls and scratchy towels. I want indulgent. I want unforgettable. I want the night you spend at a Griffin property to be sublime in every possible way.”
“That’s asking a lot from a mattress,” I say, smiling despite myself. I wriggle around some more. “Soft, yes. Sublime? Not really.”
“Then it’s a no.” Dylan leaps up and offers me his hand. “Next!”
“Wait, there’s more?” I ask, as he pulls me into the room across the hall.
