by Lila Monroe
“This one is the UltraFeatherlite brand, with extra toppers.” Dylan hurls himself onto the bed with enthusiasm. “Ooooh, I like this one.”
What the hell. I take a running leap and flop down with a bounce. It’s like being a kid all over again, except this king-sized is way better than my rock-hard twin bed. I sink back into the pillowy bedding with a happy sigh. “Now this has definite sublime potential.”
“I think so too,” Dylan agrees. “Now, for the all-important thrust test.”
“The what now?”
Dylan scoots up the bed and starts rocking violently—sending the headboard thumping against the wall. I sit up with a jolt.
“Dylan!” I protest. “Stop it!”
“What?” he grins. “Everyone knows hotel sex is the best sex.”
“But whoever’s next door . . . They’ll think we’re . . .” I stop, blushing even harder now.
“Then we may as well put on a show.” Dylan winks and rocks again. “Poppy,” he says loudly. “You little minx!”
I roll my eyes. “Dylan!”
“That’s right, baby. Read poetry to me!” His voice gets louder. The bed thumps harder.
Two can play at that game.
“Oh no, Dylan, that’s OK!” I raise my voice. “I don’t mind. It happens to every guy.”
“What? No!” Dylan exclaims. I have to muffle my laughter at the look on his face.
“It’s not a big deal,” I continue loudly. “Whoops, bad choice of words. It’s a perfectly average-sized deal!”
“You’re going to pay for that,” Dylan warns, laughing. I scoot off the bed before he can push me.
“You asked for it!”
“So, what’s the verdict?” he asks, as I catch my breath again—and not just because of the bouncing. He’s lounging back in the pillows, giving me a come-to-bed smile, and everything about him screams indulgent. Unforgettable. Sublime.
Ahem.
“The mattress is great,” I blurt quickly. “Go for it.”
“I’ll order 500, ASAP.”
I blink. That seems like a lot for a boutique hotel. “Are you going to stack them, three a bed?”
Dylan laughs. “I’m opening a new location upstate,” he explains, sliding off the bed and getting to his feet. “Griffin Lake Hotel, up in the Catskills. We’re doing a soft opening next week to work out the kinks . . . but a bad night’s sleep won’t be one of them.”
“Good luck with that,” I say. “But what about your big date plans for Jasmine? Or have you already changed your mind about her?”
Dylan gives me a look. “Do you really think I’m so fickle? Don’t answer that,” he says, before I can reply. “And no, I’m actually going to invite her to come, as my guest.”
I whistle. “Upping the stakes, huh? OK, here, I picked the perfect poem for you. It’s all about nature, she’ll love it. Just copy it by hand and put it in with the flowers with your invitation. She’d have to be a fool to turn it down.”
“Why, because I’m such a catch?” Dylan teases.
“No, because an all-expenses-paid trip to the lake sounds amazing right about now.”
I hand over the page, and Dylan gives it a brief glance before stuffing it in his pocket. “I trust you,” he says. “When have you ever let me down? Aside from calling my manhood into question,” he adds with a smirk.
“Your manhood is doing just fine,” I laugh, opening the hotel room door. I stop. An older couple are just exiting the room next door. The woman gives me a sympathetic look.
“I couldn’t help overhearing about your . . . predicament,” she tells me in a whisper. “Viagra’s what you need. One little pill, and he’ll be good to go.”
I choke back a laugh. “Thank you!” I say as they head down the hallway—with a spring in their step. “Did you hear that, honey?”
Dylan throws a pillow at me. I jump back, just in time.
“Remember, hand-write the note,” I call to him. “And lead with the whole luxury vacation part!”
Lucky Jasmine. I head out, feeling slightly wistful that there’s nobody out there composing a grand seduction with me in mind. But that’s how the extra-chocolate-chunk cookie crumbles: some people get swept off their feet with extravagant bouquets and getaways, and some of us have to settle for Popsicles and a night in with Netflix.
At least with Netflix, I know McDreamy will never let me down!
6
Poppy
Despite my current gig as Dylan’s literary gigolo, most of my work is actually pretty pure and heartwarming. Guys wanting help penning an emotion anniversary note . . . Women trying to craft the perfect online dating messages . . . From wedding toasts to funeral speeches, with love notes in between, I do it all.
And sometimes, I even get to share in my clients’ success stories, too.
“What do you think about the peach? It’s very flattering.”
I shift on the dressmaker’s podium, trying to keep a smile on my face. I’m getting fitted for a dress for Betsy Martingdale’s wedding: an exuberant woman of a certain age who’d all but given up on love before she met her true love, Hank, in a bird-watching forum online just days after her sixty-second birthday.
He was actually the one to hire me first. After two divorces, he knew his limits when it came to finding the right words. Enter me, to craft the perfect opening note about the plumage on a rare snow goose, spotted in Central Park. One thing led to another, and soon the pair of them were getting cozy in the birding hut every weekend. When Betsy got wind that those heartfelt notes had actually come via my pen, she didn’t even get mad—she just hired me, also, to write all her letters to him as well.
Sure, it wasn’t exactly a traditional courtship, passing back and forth messages they both knew the other one hadn’t actually written, but somehow, they didn’t seem to mind. After all, they both said I have a way with words!
Now Betsy is so grateful, she’s insisting I be a part of the wedding. But anyone would think I’d murdered her favorite kitten, by the looks of this crime against human decency—I mean, bridesmaids dress.
“Very . . . peachy!” I say brightly. I know it’s a law that bridesmaids dresses need to be ugly, but this one puts Little Bo-Peep to shame. I have lace and ribbons spilling over my neckline, and matching pink ruffles all the way down to the floor. “Are you sure you don’t want something simpler?” I ask tactfully. “You don’t want to distract from your big moment.”
“Nonsense!” Betsy insists, beaming. She clasps her hands together. “Look at you, a vision! I never thought I’d get my big wedding, but look, here we are, after all these years . . .” She starts to tear up.
“No crying!” the seamstress insists. “You’ll get mascara on your dress!”
Betsy grabs a tissue and blows her nose with a honk. “Now, have you thought about your plus-one to the wedding?” she asks, as the seamstress finally finishes pinning me and I can start shimmying out of the peach monstrosity.
“I think it’s going to be just me,” I reply brightly, but from the look on Betsy’s face, you’d think I just told her I was joining a nunnery.
“You still haven’t found that special someone?” she asks, looking stricken. “But that’s just a crime against nature, honey.”
“I think Vanilla Coke is higher on the list,” I joke, but she’s undeterred. Betsy whips out a stuffed address book and starts flipping pages.
“There’s Hank’s second cousin’s boy, but he’s seeing that tramp from Hooters . . . My friend Darla’s nephew is single, but he’s into that whole swingers scene, not your taste at all . . . Oh! Mildred!”
“Mildred?” I blink. “Sorry, Betsy, but girls aren’t my thing. I tried kissing my roommate in college,” I add. “But that was after five tequila slammers, and we decided never again.”
The kissing or the tequila.
“No, no, Mildred’s out of your league. I meant her cousin, Chris,” Betsy exclaims. “He does something in television—very successful—and
he just broke up with his girlfriend and moved back from LA. He’s on the rebound, ripe for the picking.”
“Umm, thanks?” I say, stifling a laugh. “But that’s OK. I’m fine getting dates on my own.”
“But are you?” Betsy gives me a look. “Let me set you up, it’s the least I can do. After all, you’ve brought such joy into my life. Me and Hank spotted a Mandarin Duck the other day. Do you know how rare they are?”
Before I can stop her, she dials on her cellphone and starts chatting to Mildred. By the time I’ve pulled my clothes on again, she’s set a date with the famous Chris for tonight.
“Wear something pretty,” Betsy says, patting my shoulder—and eyeing my shorts. “And maybe change your hair? You look so pretty with it pulled back from your face.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I tease, giving her a kiss on the cheek on the way out.
Who needs the Queer Eye guys when I have my one-woman makeover machine right here?
* * *
Even though tonight’s fix-up is practically a pity-party for the sad state of my romantic life, I try to look on the bright side. And the photo I find on Chris’s social media doesn’t hurt, either.
Blonde hair, brown eyes, a kind smile . . .
Who knows? Maybe Betsy is right and I have a ton of good romantic karma coming my way. I haven’t heard back from Dylan yet today about Jasmine, but no news could be great news there. She probably flipped over the flowers, and they’re jetting off to Paris for a romantic dinner under the stars—or whatever it is that obscenely rich and beautiful people do on their dates.
Either way, by the time I make it back to my apartment, I’m feeling mildly optimistic. I open the door and step inside to find music playing and Natalie making popcorn in the tiny galley kitchen. “Movie night?” she greets me, tossing a puffed kernel in my direction.
I try and catch it in my mouth—and fail.
“I can’t, I have a date,” I tell her, grabbing a handful instead.
“A what now?” Natalie holds her hand to her ear. “A date? Explain this foreign thing of which you speak.”
I laugh. “You’re single by choice.”
“If you mean my choice not to sleep with guys who think telling me female superheroes are overrated is foreplay, then yes, you’re technically right.” Natalie smirks as April comes out from her bedroom.
“Poppy has a date?” she demands excitedly. “Who? Where? Details!” It must have been a hard day at the florist, because she’s already traded real-world clothes for a soft pair of pajamas and a pair of slippers with bunny ears on them.
“Easy, cupid,” I warn her. “It’s just a fix-up. Betsy is determined to see me plus-oned by the wedding.”
“Aww, Betsy!” April breaks into a smile. “She and Hank are so cute. We went over the floral arrangements the other day, and they only cared about picking flowers that would attract birds to the ceremony.”
“Not too many, I hope,” Natalie quips. “The Hitchcock vibe isn’t exactly romantic.”
We laugh. “Here’s hoping for no murderous crows then,” I agree. “For their wedding, or my blind date with Chris.”
“Chris. . . That’s a good name,” April decides.
“I mean, I can’t think of any serial killers named Chris, so it’s a good start,” Natalie agrees. “But he could always be the first.”
“Gee, thanks,” I snort, and I reluctantly step away from the popcorn bowl. “I better go get ready for this thing. I still need to pick out something to wear . . . And take a shower . . . And I should probably wash my hair, right?”
“Shave everywhere,” April advises me. “Just in case!”
“See, this is why I don’t date.” Natalie collapses on the couch with a yawn. “It’s so much effort! There should be a service that just sends a hot guy to your door to tend to all your needs.”
“I’m pretty sure there is already . . . and it’s frowned upon by the New York Police Department,” I tell her, grinning.
Natalie laughs. “I didn’t mean those needs. I was talking about Chinese takeout and a foot rub. Sometimes, I think the only reason I sleep with a dude is so he’ll dig into my arches afterwards.”
“Dirty,” April giggles.
“I haven’t even started on my Achilles tendon . . .” Natalie smirks.
I leave them joking around, and head into my room. Part of me wishes I could blow off this date, and just stay home with my girls tonight. But then I remind myself: Natalie’s hot-guy-delivery system hasn’t been invented yet. If I’m going to find love, I’m probably going to have to get off the couch and go get it myself.
And even shave my legs.
Unless I skip that part, and just wear jeans instead . . .
* * *
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I’m waiting in the entrance of the fancy sushi place Chris chose—showered, blow-dried, and regretting that whole jeans part. Is it just me, or is this pair tighter than when I wore them last . . . A whole month ago?
“Poppy?”
I stop yanking at my waistband and turn to find an earnest-looking stranger approaching. He’s got sandy-colored hair and is wearing jeans and a neat button-down shirt. “Chris?” I ask hopefully.
“That’s right.” He flashes me a warm smile and shakes my hand. “Great to meet you. I hope you weren’t railroaded into this,” he adds. “My sister thinks I’m going to die alone with no-one but my cat for company.”
I relax. “What’s the cat’s name?”
“Mittens. It’s was my ex-girlfriend’s choice,” he adds. “Which is probably why the cat chose me in the breakup.”
I laugh. Attractive, funny, and doesn’t make the sign of the cross when he mentions his ex?
Nice job, Betsy, I send silent thanks.
We head inside and are shown to a table in the back. It’s a bustling, trendy spot, with chic booths and a busy bar area. There are plenty of couples here on dates, and for once, I don’t have to feel a wistful pang getting a front-row seat to their romances . . . because I might have one starting here of my own.
“So tell me about yourself, Chris?” I ask, smiling. He launches into a brief history—film school, work in LA, the move back home—and soon we’re digging into our salmon rolls and talking up a storm about our favorite movies and TV shows.
“I don’t care if it’s not realistic!” I protest, arguing over my favorite new drama. “If she wants to wear gorgeous clothes and catch killers, I’m here for it.”
Chris laughs, then pauses. He pulls out his phone, which is vibrating. “I hate to be this guy,” he says, making a face. “But it’s my agent, back in LA. Mind if I step out and take it?”
“No, go ahead,” I smile.
“I’ll be right back. Order another round of drinks, if you like,” he adds with a wink. “Depending on how this call goes, it might be my treat.”
He heads towards the front of the restaurant, and I pull out my phone. I already know there’ll be a message waiting when I check: Natalie, demanding an update.
What’s the verdict?
I send her a thumbs up. Because it is going well. Surprisingly so. Usually, my expectations on a blind date are basement-level low, but this one happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to wonder about all the worst-case scenarios—or comb through their online profiles and find all their dirty laundry.
Natalie replies with an emoji of a peach.
And another one.
And some spraying water.
???? I type back.
She sends me a link. We couldn’t resist doing some digging. Your guy has a way with words!!
I click the link, and find it takes me to an online literary journal. It’s a poem, credited to Chris, entitled “Full Moon.”
Full and round/ pale curves tempting me deeper
Forbidden/ you call to me
I part your cheeks tenderly/ slip inside your—
I slam my phone on the table, blushing. Because the next word in that sentence isn’t “mouth.�
�� And those cheeks he’s parting so tenderly?
They’re . . . much lower than I was thinking!
I stare at the poem again, hoping I’ve read it all wrong. But nope, there’s no mistaking it. Even if I’d worn a skirt tonight, it would have been in vain.
Because Chris, my seemingly perfect blind date? Is definitely more of an ass man.
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. I was prepared for an embarrassing taste in jean shorts or an inexplicable love of popping pimples. Hell, I even dated a guy who wrote Harry Potter fanfiction once. As an adult. But this? I have no idea where to even begin.
Help? I text Natalie, but she just writes back a row of peach emojis.
I hope you packed lube!
“Hey.” Chris arrives back at the table before I can even collect myself. I slam the phone down and try to hide my laughter. “What did I miss?”
You mean, aside from his erotic ode to the ass?
“Umm, nothing!” I blurt, still blushing. “Everything OK?”
“Yeah.” Chris sighs. “Just business bullshit. We’re negotiating my back end.”
“Your what?” I choke on my cocktail.
“Back end,” Chris repeats, oblivious. “The royalties I make after the deal goes through. Another round?” he asks. “I heard the peach cocktail is great.”
Peach. I snort—and hide it with a quick cough. “Sure! Umm, what are you working on, anyway?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“It’s a modern remake of Rear Window,” Chris replies, and I try to swallow back my hysterics. But now that I’ve read his poem, I can’t help it: everything he says has a double meaning.
“You know, I was kind of nervous about this whole blind date thing,” he tells me with a smile. “But this is going great. You’re such a warm person, you seem so open-minded and relaxed.”
“Uh huh . . .” I sip my water. Don’t laugh, I tell myself sternly. Don’t laugh.
“Perhaps we could take this back to my place after,” he suggests, reaching over the table to take my hand. “There’s a great roof garden at my apartment building,” he adds. “It’s supposed to be beautiful out tonight. A full moon.”
