Cupid for Hire

by Lila Monroe

  And if that just happens to set Jasmine’s pulse a-racing, and her heart a-fluttering?

  Even better.

  I finally clamber out of the hot tub and head back to the dressing room. I’m just changing when I notice that there’s only one other person’s stuff in here, and by the looks of the raw snack pack and essential oils peeking out of her bag, it must be Jasmine’s.

  I look around, then dart over to take a closer look. I know that a woman’s purse is her sovereign territory, and it’s against the girl code to ever trespass, but I need info, and it’s just sitting right there . . . Almost inviting me . . .

  I nudge it open. There’s a FitBit step-tracker watch (already showing five billion steps this morning, or something close), a small journal marked Affirmations, some raw vegan snacks, and a paperback novel. I pull that one closer to check it out: it’s a story about women in 1940s Hollywood and actually looks really fun. I’m just about to dig deeper when someone walks past the doorway, and I leap back, guilty.

  What am I doing? Enough snooping, I’m already feeling bad enough about bending the truth with Jasmine about why I’m really here. I don’t need any additional bad vibes.

  I pull on my sandals and head out, looping back along the lakeshore path towards the main lodge. For a test run, everything with the hotel seems to be running smoothly: guests are lounging happily by the shore and playing out on the water, and I even pass a beach volleyball game, where people are actually playing—as well as pausing every ten seconds to snap video and pics.

  I make my way to the dining hall and find Dylan going over some papers with Kyle. I figure he’s busy with work, so I just wave from across the room and get settled on the terrace for lunch, but I’ve barely placed my order for a club sandwich when Dylan sinks into the seat opposite me with a thump.

  “So?” he demands, looking expectant. “What did she say?”

  “What did who say?” I ask, momentarily distracted by just how good he looks today. He’s clean-shaven, wearing a rumpled linen shirt and jeans, like something out of a European fashion spread. Shouldn’t there be a dress code or something for people just out here trying to do their jobs? It’s distractingly sexy.

  “Jasmine,” he replies, and just the name is a metaphorical cold shower to me.

  Right. Her. The woman he’s actually crazy about.

  “The spa schedule had you both booked in at the same time,” he continues. “Did you see her? Did she mention me at all?”

  I exhale. “Yes, we talked. She liked the song and hanging out last night. She said you were sweet.”

  Dylan’s face falls. “I’m doomed.”

  “Sweet isn’t a bad thing!” I protest.

  “Small children in bunny onesies are sweet,” Dylan says gloomily. “Videos of kittens climbing out of the sink are sweet. Men you want to date are definitely not sweet.”

  “First of all, you have some interesting theories on masculinity,” I inform him, “but second, you’re missing the point. She likes you, enough not to flee the room when you approach, at least. You have an opening, what’s your plan next?”

  “I’m inviting her on a special picnic this afternoon.” Dylan’s expression lifts again. “I’ve got it all figured out. We’ll take a horseback ride through the woods, where there’ll be a private chef waiting with a luxury tent and a five-course meal, with a string quartet, and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, easy there, Romeo!” I stop him, laughing. “Did you play romance roulette and just pick everything on the menu? Just one of those things would be fun, you don’t need them all.”

  He frowns. “I want to blow her away.”

  “You’re going way over the top for a first date,” I insist. “She’s not into the bells and whistles, she told me.”

  “Women say that, but they always like them when they come with a bouquet of roses,” Dylan argues, looking stubborn.

  I roll my eyes. “Unless the woman in question has a pollen allergy. Seriously, just invite her out for ice cream. She loves ice cream. No need for the full Philharmonic.”

  But Dylan has that look in his eyes: the look a man gets when he’s about to do something stupid, but won’t hear otherwise. “Leave the date-planning to me,” Dylan insists. “I just need you to compose a love poem, something including all the things I like about her. I made you a list.” He pulls out a piece of notepaper, and I quickly scan the handwritten notes.

  “Her smile, her eyes, her dimple . . .” I arch an eyebrow. “Anything that isn’t purely physical here?”

  “Item eight: she makes me feel really calm,” Dylan points out.

  “Uh huh.” I fold his list and tuck it away. I’ve conjured a heartfelt romance ode out of less before, but somehow, it’s disappointing Dylan is still focusing on the superficial things about her. “I’ll see what I can do. But seriously, you might want to rethink that luxury picnic. Stick with a simple hamper by the lake, she’ll love it.”

  Dylan doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t have time to bring him around, because I suddenly see Tyler saunter into the dining hall with some other guys.

  “Crapwaffle!” I curse, ducking down in my seat. Has he seen me yet? I peek over, but thankfully, Tyler is still chatting to the hostess. Then they all turn towards the terrace. I duck lower and slide all the way out of my seat.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan looks at me like I’m crazy, which, to be fair, is a safe assumption when somebody is crawling around on the floor.

  “Shh!” I poke my head up. They’re sitting at a table right by the doors, which means my exit is blocked, unless . . . I look around wildly and spot a possible escape route: there are some steps leading down from the terrace to the back lawn. If I can just make it over there without him seeing . . .

  “Earth to Poppy?” Dylan turns to check out what I’m staring at.

  “Don’t look!” I hiss. “Pretend like he’s not there.”

  “Who? That guy?” Dylan frowns.

  “Sorry, got to run!”

  I grab my purse and begin to crawl towards the steps, trying to stay out of Tyler’s line of sight. I wait until he’s ordering, then scramble to my feet and make a dash for it, hunched over and low to the ground. I skid down the stairs, and race across the lawn to the tree line, not stopping until I’m safely out of sight—and panting for breath.

  Maybe I should have tried those cardio classes on a two-for-one deal at the gym. I mean, if they’d told me it would help with sprinting for my life every time I saw Tyler, I would have signed right up.

  I straighten up and head back to my cabin. Operation avoid my ex is well and truly underway . . . And meanwhile, I’ve got a love poem to compose. After I order room service, of course.

  With extra fries.

  13

  Dylan

  Poppy is wrong. She has to be. After all, what woman wouldn’t want to be swept off her feet with a lavish, multi-part romantic extravaganza? If all those schmaltzy rom-com movies I’ve wound up watching over the years have taught me anything, it’s that grand gestures work . . . especially if they’re accompanied with a soundtrack of pop ballad hits.

  Hmmm, I wonder: can the string quartet play some Ed Sheeran?

  I head into the lodge, more determined than ever. Walking Jasmine back to her cabin last night, I did my best not to babble all over the place. Which means I mainly smiled and nodded and mumbled short questions. But while I may have avoided making a fool of myself, it didn’t exactly help us connect. In fact, most of the walk was downright awkward. I don’t understand what’s making this so hard, but I need to get my shit together ASAP and really blow her away. Getting her out here to the lake was hard enough; I’m not going to get another chance to make a great impression . . . since I’ve already screwed up my first, second, and third tries.

  Inside, I check in to see if there are any guest problems or concerns. I’m just looking over the bookings list when I see the preppy-looking guy Poppy was freaking out over earlier: the one who sent her bolting away
before her food was even delivered.

  And when that woman leaves a sandwich on the table, you know something is seriously wrong.

  “Who’s that?” I ask Julia at reception. Part of the reason I hired her is that she never forgets a face. Sure enough, she barely has to check her computer.

  “Tyler Hawkins,” she replies. “He’s one of the people Dapper sent.”

  Tyler, huh? I pause. Poppy hasn’t mentioned anything about a Tyler . . . or any other guy. In fact, I know exactly zero about her love life . . .

  Except the way her kisses taste.

  I get an inconvenient flash of that night in the back of the cab. Her hot body pressing against me, her bare neck shivering against my mouth . . .

  Down, boy.

  I snap out of it. We both agreed it was a mistake. And I’m supposed to be focused on winning Jasmine. But still, I can’t resist detouring to where this Tyler guy is lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

  “Hey there,” I say, greeting him. Up close, he’s got that hipster-intellectual look, with a trimmed beard that’s been groomed within an inch of its life. This is the guy who sent Poppy into a tailspin? I hide my surprise and extend a hand to shake. “Dylan Griffin, pleasure to meet you.”

  “The man himself?” Tyler looks surprised. “Great to meet you. Excellent hotel you have here.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Weak handshake. Huh.

  “So you’re a writer with Dapper?” I ask.

  Tyler chuckles. “I prefer to think of myself as a man of letters,” he says. “But every struggling artist needs to eat.”

  I try not to roll my eyes. A weak handshake and pretentious. Isn’t this guy a peach?

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable,” I tell him, keeping up the host act.

  “Actually, there is something,” Tyler says. “You got a library around here? The books in my room . . . Well, let’s just say, if I wanted to read chick books, I’d drop by the drugstore.” He chuckles, and now I really can’t believe Poppy would care what this guy thinks. Because seriously?

  “I guess our tastes are different,” I say pleasantly. “You’re welcome to make a list if you think we’re missing anything important.” I spot Kyle heading outside and take the opportunity for a tactful exit. “Enjoy your stay.”

  I jog to catch up with Kyle.

  “Everything OK?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at my scowl.

  “When did we decide against a ‘no asshole’ policy?” I reply. “Because that should be number one on the list. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone who acts like a smug dick.”

  And anyone who makes Poppy so anxious she flees the building.

  Kyle chuckles. “If we implemented that policy, we’d barely get above twenty percent occupancy.”

  “But it would be worth it,” I mutter.

  “Someone getting your panties in a twist?” Kyle asks.

  “My panties are just fine.” I exhale and try to put Hipster Tyler out of my mind. Poppy is a grown woman, she can handle her own affairs. And meanwhile, I have my big romantic picnic all planned . . . and in need of a guest. “Have you seen Jasmine anywhere?”

  “Sorry,” Kyle tells me. “I’m heading over to the boathouse, if you want to come and at least pretend to be working while you look for her?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I agree, refusing to rise to the bait. “How are things looking so far? Any hiccups I need to know about?”

  “Just a few first-week wrinkles, nothing to worry about,” Kyle replies. He checks his tablet screen as we walk, scrolling through a list. “We underestimated the towel count for the cabins, but I put a word in to laundry, and they’re turning that around. Had a couple of requests for more gluten-free and vegan dishes, so chef Carlos is adding some to the menu tonight. And we’ve lost ten badminton shuttlecocks in the lake already, so I put a bulk order in. That’s pretty much it.”

  “Seriously?” I blink in surprise. The whole point of a soft opening is to deal with the big, unexpected disasters . . . and there are always a ton of them. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to keep me from losing my shit? I was expecting a few five-alarm fires, at least.”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate the new Zen Dylan, but it’s looking like a smooth opening.” Kyle shrugs. “As long as you keep that Dapper guy on our side, we should be set.”

  “What do you mean?” I look over.

  “That Tyler guy you were talking to before?” Kyle replies. “He’s the one who loves ripping places to shreds. Remember that review he did of the McCallan hotel down in Palm Beach?”

  “Shit, he wrote that?” I wince, remembering the hit job. “What was it he said: it’s like Hotel California, you’ll be begging to check out, but you can never leave the bad memories behind?”

  “Yup,” Kyle says. “It went viral, totally tanked their opening. Occupancy is still down, and six months later, it’s still the first google hit.”

  “I know Pete,” I sigh, thinking of the owner. “He’s a good guy, and his hotels are great. He didn’t deserve that.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the fun in an even-handed, honest review?” Kyle counters. “Nobody’s going to click on that.”

  “So Tyler likes to get the knives out.” I’m hating this guy more by the minute. “Good to know. Let’s make sure to keep him happy. Whatever the man wants, he gets it—with a smile.”

  “Already on it,” Kyle replies, just as I spot Jasmine. She’s sitting under a shady tree, reading. Kyle follows my gaze and snorts, amused. “That’s my cue to leave, I take it?”

  “Uh huh.” My mouth goes dry. “Sure. Great.”

  “Good luck, boss.” He smirks and saunters away, while I try to pull myself together. What is it about this woman that makes me feel like a dorky sixteen-year-old all over again?

  Oh yeah, the fact I have years of memories as said dorky teenager to make her forget.

  Here goes nothing.

  “Hey, Jasmine.” I stroll over. She looks up and smiles.

  “Dylan, hi. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “Gorgeous,” I agree. “I ordered it especially.”

  Jasmine looks blank, and I cringe. “Sorry, bad joke,” I blurt. “Obviously, I can’t change the weather.”

  “Oh, ha,” she gives a polite laugh.

  “Although, that would be a cool superpower,” I continue, unable to stop myself. “Or time travel. I always wondered about going back in time. Everyone in movies always does cool stuff like meet Mozart or visit the Wild West, but I figure most of us would just catch smallpox and die.”

  Just. Stop.

  I finally force my mouth shut before I can fit any more of my foot in there.

  “I . . . never thought about it much,” Jasmine replies, looking kind of confused. And to be honest, I don’t blame her. Superpowers and time travel? Real cool.

  “Did you need something?” she asks.

  You mean, besides another chance to embarrass myself?

  “I was thinking, since you came here to get back to nature, I’d love to take you for a picnic,” I say, flashing her my most charming smile. “I have it all set up. Do you like horseback riding?”

  Jasmine looks startled. “Actually, I’m allergic.”

  Shit. OK, scratch the horses. “That’s OK,” I recover smoothly. “We can take a stroll through the woods to get to the picnic site. I had the chef whip up a really amazing spread for us—all vegan, of course.”

  Jasmine gets to her feet and brushes grass off herself. “That sounds lovely,” she says, sounding regretful. “But I already ate. Maybe another time though,” she smiles, looking like she’s about to walk away, and I suddenly remember what Poppy told me.

  “Ice cream!” I blurt.

  She pauses.

  “I mean, even if you’ve eaten, there’s always room for dessert, right?” I ask. “And I happen to know where we keep the good stuff. Perks of ownership,” I ad
d with a wink. “You couldn’t turn down a cone of double-chocolate chunk, could you?”

  Jasmine pauses, and then her face spreads in a smile. “I guess not,” she says with a laugh. “That sounds great.”

  Yes!

  I refrain from punching the air in victory. Cool and charming, remember? I offer her my arm instead. “To the kitchens, then.”

  Jasmine joins me, and soon, we’re scooping ice cream from the industrial-sized tubs in the back of the kitchens. It would be a cute, romantic moment . . . if Chef Carlos and the rest of the crew weren’t bustling around us, yelling out orders and instructions. “So . . .” I start, wracking my brain for something to say. “When did you get into yoga?”

  “A few years ago,” Jasmine replies, licking her cone. “I was just coming off my corporate job, and looking to really change things up—”

  “Excuse me,” Chef Carlos interrupts, reaching between us for a pan. Jasmine jumps back.

  “Sorry!”

  He harrumphs and moves off.

  “You were saying?” I prompt her. “Looking for a change?”

  “Oh, yeah. I took my first class, and it was a real light-bulb moment for me. You know when you do something, and it just feels right?” Jasmine asks. “Like that.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever felt that way. Except when it comes to ordering pizza,” I crack.

  Again, Jasmine just looks confused.

  “Anyway, I wondered—” I start, but Chef Carlos strides between us again and gives me a look that says, Get the hell out of my way. And since he’s a Michelin-starred chef with a temper, I figure it’s best to leave him to his genius.

  “Let’s leave the master to his work,” I say, steering Jasmine out—and trying to think of something we have in common to talk about. It shouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to just have a friendly conversation, but for some reason, I can’t find a rhythm with her. And sure, sparkling conversation hasn’t always been on the top of the list of things I look for with a woman, but I manage it with someone like Poppy, no problem. If Jasmine is really the one for me, we should be able to chat more naturally than this.