Cupid for Hire

by Lila Monroe

  “Absolutely,” he grins. “Your wish is my command.”

  “I like this place already,” I grin, and soon, we’re flipping through the karaoke book with our drinks, while three of the super-stylish influencers belt out a surprisingly tuneful version of “My Heart Will Go On.” Ironically, of course.

  “What kind of music do you like?” I ask Jasmine, figuring I can multi-task and research some potential love notes that will set her heart swooning.

  “I know it’s cheesy, but I really love country music,” she replies. “The old stuff: Dolly Parton, George Strait, Tim McGraw.”

  “Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “They’re not cheesy at all. You’re talking to a writer, here,” I add. “I love a good story in a song. In fact . . .” I pause over one of the listings, but I’m nowhere near drunk enough. Yet. Anyway, I have work to do.

  I spot Dylan across the room . . . on his way outside.

  “Be right back,” I tell Jasmine, and then I make my way through the crowd to intercept him.

  He’s out on the deck, pacing. “What are you doing all the way out here?” I ask. “Aren’t you supposed to be courting your sweetheart?”

  “How?” Dylan replies, looking downcast. “You saw me earlier. I feel like everything I say, I’m either putting my foot in my mouth or boring her to tears.”

  I sigh, sympathetic—despite myself. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You didn’t expect her to just fall at your feet right away, did you?”

  Dylan gives me a sheepish look.

  I laugh. “Well, there’s your problem. This is the part us mere mortals call ‘getting to know someone.’ You know, the part where you talk about your interests and ambitions, before you go tearing each other’s clothes off? Or is that a foreign concept to you irresistible playboys?”

  “I get it,” Dylan says, finally cracking a smile. “So, what should I do next?”

  “Sit down with her, ask about her life, favorite books, where she wants to travel . . . literally anything.” I start to steer him back inside. “But if you really want to make an impact . . . some serenading never hurt anyone. And I know just the song for you.”

  I tell him the number, and Dylan pauses. “Is this another prank?” he asks, looking unsure.

  “Would I do that to you? Wait, don’t answer,” I say quickly. “But I’m not setting you up for a fall, I promise. I’m on your team, remember? Now go knock ’em dead.”

  I give him a shove towards the stage area and then rejoin Jasmine—who, of course, is now surrounded by other guys.

  “I think I’m calling it a night,” she whispers to me, reaching for her purse.

  “Stay for one more song!” I exclaim. “Look, it’s Dylan!”

  Sure enough, he’s getting up on stage and selecting his song. A moment later, the chords come and he starts crooning a flawless, husky version of “Always On My Mind.”

  Damn.

  Elvis has nothing on him, and neither does Willie Nelson. Dylan is sexy as hell up there, and showing a sincerity I’m betting nobody else has seen before.

  Jasmine sits back down—and watches, spellbound, like every other woman in the room, all the way until the very last note. Dylan has us all in the palm of his hand.

  The minute the music fades away—and the applause rings out through the room—Dylan hops down off the stage and makes a beeline for us.

  I mean, her.

  “Wow,” Jasmine says, sounding seriously impressed. “You can really sing.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing.” Dylan gives a modest shrug. “I love the old classics.”

  “Me too.” She smiles up at him, and this time, there’s a spark of interest in her gaze. And who can blame her? There’s not a dry pair of panties in the house after that number.

  “Can I get you another drink?” he offers.

  “I was actually thinking about heading back . . .” Jasmine replies, but is that a hint of hesitation on her face?

  “Then let me walk you,” Dylan says immediately. He chivalrously offers his arm, and Jasmine smiles.

  “Thank you! I just know I would get lost out here, stumbling around in the dark.”

  Dylan chuckles. “Luckily for you, I have my badge in orienteering. South Bend boy scout at your service.”

  I watch them stroll out, chatting together. I should be glad, but instead, I feel a strange sense of disappointment sinking through my bones. But that’s crazy. The serenade worked, just like I hoped, and now all that super-awkward ice between them is well and truly broken. Even Dylan seems more confident around her now, thanks to the adoring cheers of a room full of women. With any luck, a late-night stroll in the moonlight will be the touch of romance they both need to make a real connection.

  And meanwhile, I’m left here, un-serenaded and alone.

  “Poppy!”

  I turn to see Sarah is waving me over.

  OK, so maybe I’m not entirely alone.

  I smile and make my way back to their table. “What’s up?”

  “Kyle refuses to duet with me,” Sarah informs me loudly. Her cheeks are flushed, and clearly she’s been enjoying the complimentary drinks. “He cares more about being cool than doing something fun with his wife.”

  Kyle just grins, leaning back in his chair. “Believe me, there’s nothing fun about my singing,” he says. “But please, go ahead without me. Aren’t you always saying the strength of a marriage is in people having their separate hobbies?”

  Sarah gives him a playful shove. “Just for that, you’re doing breakfast duty with the boys tomorrow, while I take a leisurely lie-in. Poppy!”

  I blink at the whiplash change in topic. “What?”

  “You need to sing with me,” she insists, pushing the songbook—and another drink—towards me. “I can’t be the only one about to make a total fool of myself. Please? Pretty please?”

  “Save yourself the trouble and just surrender now,” Kyle advises me, smirking. “My wife is a stubborn beast.”

  “He’s right, I am.” Sarah beams.

  I laugh. What the hell.

  “Only if you duet with me,” I say.

  “Deal!”

  We head on up and I choose the song. An undeniably perfect karaoke belter. Sarah shrieks when she sees it. “Yes! Perfect!” She clasps my hand and tells the sound guy to hit it, and that’s how I wind up singing “Livin’ on a Prayer” to a room full of a hundred strangers.

  Because sometimes, you need to let it out. Especially when “it” is your unresolved weirdness about watching the man who just got your panties in a twist mooning over somebody else. But I’m not jealous. Not at all. In fact, as we belt out the chorus, the rest of the crowd singing along, I’ve never felt better. I’m tipsy, fabulous, and having the time of my life.

  “Whooooahhhhh! Livin’ on a prayer!” I warble, striking a pose for the final wail.

  And that’s when I see him standing at the back of the room: a lean, brown-haired guy with wire-rimmed glasses, a familiar smirk on his all-too familiar face.

  My ex. Tyler.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  Suddenly, I don’t feel triumphantly carefree so much as a total blathering idiot. What the hell is he doing here? I stumble, off balance, and bump into Sarah. She lets out a squeak of surprise and grabs onto me, but it’s too late. I flail helplessly, arms windmilling, but there’s no avoiding it now. Maybe if I’d drunk one fewer mojito . . . Maybe if I’d worn sturdier shoes . . . Maybe if I hadn’t just been air-guitaring for dear life, I could have stopped this from happening.

  But I didn’t.

  And I can’t.

  With a final desperate cry, I go tumbling off the edge of the stage and fall flat on my ass with a thump.

  Owwww!

  12

  Poppy

  When I wake the next morning, I’m not sure what hurts the most: the nasty purple bruise on my right ass cheek, or my poor, damaged ego.

  I bury my face in the pillows and groan. Am I ever going to live this down?

&n
bsp; I can’t believe Tyler showed up like this—just in time to see me make a total fool of myself. When I imagined running into my toxic ex again, I pictured myself glamorous and breezy, like, “Oh, hi there, I didn’t notice you because of all the fabulous success I’m having.”

  Not, “Hey, let me just caterwaul some 90s rock and then stage-dive flat onto my ass.”

  Dammit, what the hell is he doing here?

  Well, I already know that. I get up and reach for the Griffin Lake robe with a sigh. It’s amazing—just like everything else in this place. And Tyler was always a sucker for freebies, which is why he took the job at the Dapper website in the first place—despite ranting at every occasion about the soulless commercialism of online click-bait.

  A man of principles, indeed.

  So what do I do now? I didn’t stick around to see his reaction after I ate it in such an epic fashion. I bolted back to my cabin to wallow in my own humiliation, away from prying ex-boyfriend eyes. I don’t suppose there’s any way for me to avoid seeing him ever again . . . but I can definitely try.

  Starting with a mud wrap and two-hour massage at the spa. I mean, I’m not going to run into him in the soothing relaxation room now, am I?

  I get dressed and head on out, checking my map of the property to navigate my way through the trails—and peering around every corner to make sure I’m not about to run smack bang into Tyler again. It’s a gorgeous morning, and the lake is sparkling under a cloudless blue sky. I inhale a deep breath of the crisp, pine-scented air and begin to feel a little better.

  After all, what’s a little karaoke blunder between friends?

  People are already out, enjoying breakfast on the main terrace and some early-morning kayak action on the water. I pass the jetty, but there’s no sign of Jasmine and her early sun-salutation yoga session. I wonder if she’s taking the morning off or if she had better things to do.

  Things, or a certain hunky hotelier . . .

  Did her moonlight walk with Dylan lead to shooting stars? My stomach gives a lurch at the thought . . . or maybe that’s just because I skipped out on breakfast. Aside from those mini-bar chips, I mean. I’m hoping the spa has more to offer than lemon water and cucumber slices, and when I arrive at the tucked-away building further around the lake, I’m not disappointed. When I step through the doors, I’m met with the soothing sound of a water fountain—and the tempting sight of a delicious fruit plate on the front desk.

  “Hi there,” I greet the reception girl, spotless in her navy Griffin uniform. I casually sidle up to the fruit plate and take a slice of mango. “I don’t have anything booked, but I was hoping to get some treatments . . . ?”

  “Of course,” she beams. “Would you like to pick from the menu, or go for the full Escape package?”

  “Which is . . . ?” I ask, munching on a slice of fresh-cut pineapple.

  “Facial, massage, steam, full body wrap, and immersive sound bath experience.”

  “Sign me up!” I declare. “And also, do you have a plate so I can grab some of this fruit to go . . . ?”

  “Would you like a smoothie?” she asks, sliding a menu across to me. “We can order anything you like down from the main kitchen.”

  Music to my ears. “I’ll take the sunrise morning blend,” I decide, perusing the list of snacks. “With a side of bacon.”

  The girl doesn’t even blink. “I’ll bring it to your treatment room,” she says, handing me a key. “You can go ahead and change, and your therapist will be right in.”

  “Perfect!”

  * * *

  One soothing massage (and four slices of bacon) later, I’m up to my neck in the soaking tub, and up to my eyebrows in a mineral mud mask.

  Now this is what I call a vacation . . .

  I sink back into the hot water, inhaling the blend of herbal bath salts, and exhaling all my tension away as I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the peaceful view of the lake. It’s like I’m the only person in the world, suspended between the water and the—

  “Poppy!”

  I open my eyes in time to see Jasmine slide off her robe and slip into the hot tub with me. “Isn’t this great?” she asks with a smile—underneath her mud mask. “Now we can get pampered together.”

  “Great,” I echo, but to be honest, I’m feeling so chill, I don’t even mind the company. Jasmine isn’t the chattering type, and we soak there in silence for a few moments before the spa attendant quietly glides in to refill our drinks and add another bottle of something fragrant to the water.

  “Did you stay much later at the bar?” she asks, looking over.

  “A little,” I reply. “But things went, umm, kind of downhill from there.”

  Jasmine looks confused, and I sigh. “My ex showed up,” I admit. “And I didn’t want to stick around for that particular reunion.”

  “Ouch.” Jasmine winces. “I’m so sorry. Will you be OK?”

  “Fine, once my pride heals. It wasn’t a traumatic thing or anything,” I explain. “Just a long, drawn-out toxic mess. You ever look back at your past relationships and wonder if you had temporary brain damage?”

  She gives a rueful laugh. “All the time. That’s the reason they’re in the past.”

  “Except when they show up in the middle of the woods, when you’re trying to have a fun getaway,” I mutter, and she gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “You aren’t going to let this ruin your trip, are you?”

  “That depends. Can we strap him to a canoe and send him out to the middle of the lake?” I ask, only half-kidding.

  OK, a quarter kidding.

  “I just can’t believe I ever was crazy about him,” I sigh, remembering that smirk on his annoyingly still-handsome face. “What was I thinking?”

  “Don’t give him the power of controlling your emotions,” Jasmine says, sounding remarkably calm. “The past isn’t up for discussion, you don’t need to feel the need to apologize for your past self’s decisions.”

  I blink. “That sounds . . . mature. I was just going to stress-eat and make a list of all his most annoying habits.”

  “That works too,” Jasmine agrees. “After my last relationship, I tried to go full into meditation, you know, to cleanse my body and rid my mind of all those unproductive thoughts about him. After two days in a tent in the forest, I wound up hiking out and paying a cab driver just to take me an hour to the nearest Dairy Queen so I could cry into a pint of hot-fudge sundae.”

  “Sometimes a girl just needs a tub of rocky road,” I agree, liking her more by the hour. “With whipped cream and sprinkles on top. Wait,” I say, realizing something. “Does this mean you do eat sugar?”

  Jasmine makes a face. “I’m trying not to, but I have a weakness for ice cream,” she admits.

  “There’s no shame in that,” I reply. “Because, let’s face it, frozen yogurt is many things, but an adequate replacement for Ben & Jerry’s? Never.”

  She laughs, and I make a mental note for Dylan: the way to this woman’s heart may be via a pint of something sweet.

  Dylan . . .

  Damn. I should probably be doing my job right now, instead of just tightening my pores. “So . . .” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Was it a recent breakup? The ice-cream one.”

  “Last year,” she replies, and she takes a sip of her cucumber water. “We just weren’t meant to be. He was all about these big gestures, but that stuff just makes me uncomfortable. A relationship shouldn’t need all those bells and whistles, you know?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I agree, making a mental note. No big gestures allowed. “You seemed to hit it off with our host last night,” I add.

  “Huh?” Jasmine looks over.

  “Dylan,” I prompt her, surprised she needs reminding.

  “Oh, yes. He was really sweet, walking me back to my cabin. We nearly got lost and had to circle the whole place twice.”

  “That song he sang was really romantic,” I add, in cheerleader mode. “It looked to me like he was
singing it for you.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Jasmine sounds bashful. “Dylan seems like a guy with plenty of admirers.”

  “True, but he is looking to settle down and get serious,” I say. Which, technically, isn’t a lie. He’s plenty serious about Jasmine. “He’s not the kind of guy to mess anyone around,” I add. “He’s always really upfront about what he wants.”

  What he wants is usually no-strings flings with the flavor of the week, but even then, it’s not like he’s lying or cheating. Unlike some people. Named Tyler.

  “How do you know Dylan, anyway?” Jasmine asks.

  “Umm . . .” I think fast. “I’ve done some freelance work writing for him.”

  “For the hotel? That’s great,” Jasmine replies, and although I feel a twinge of guilt, I don’t correct her.

  Luckily, we’re interrupted by a gentle tap at the door. “Jasmine?” the assistant asks. “Your therapist is ready for you.”

  “Thanks,” she replies, and she gives me a smile. “See you later, enjoy the soak!”

  She heads out, and I linger a little longer in the water, thinking. The more time I spend with them alone, the more I’m coming to like both Dylan and Jasmine. It’s not a job requirement for me to bond with my clients—I’ve managed to Cyrano some people who I would rather jump out a window than hang out with over lunch—but this time, I’m actually having fun with them both. They’re smart and funny and haven’t become heartless monsters just because they’re effortlessly gorgeous. On paper, they would seem like the perfect couple.

  I just don’t know if they’re a good fit—together. Is Dylan really going to swear off meat and booze to go on a deep, spiritual wellness journey? And will Jasmine appreciate Dylan’s sarcastic sense of humor and focused ambition?

  Or the way his touch can make a girl’s knees go weak . . . not to mention other parts of her.

  But that’s not for me to figure out, I remind myself. I’m not a matchmaker. I don’t need to worry if they’re a recipe for true love. My job is to help Dylan express himself and be able to tell her how he really feels.