Easy Love: A Modern Romance

by Piper Lawson

  Easy Love

  A Modern Romance

  Piper Lawson

  How to Find Love in New York:

  1. Meet for tapas.

  2. Pretend you care more about his day than your career circling the drain.

  3. Stumble to your place. Kick him out before he trips on dirty laundry. (Literal or figurative.)

  It’s easy. That’s how I like it.

  Before you crown me the least romantic twenty-something in Manhattan, meet my competition.

  Dr. Wesley Robinson.

  Keen blue eyes and fell-out-of-bed hair. Unhealthy obsession with 80s movies. Drier than a gin martini. Drive that makes Tony Robbins look like a slacker.

  Yep. The hot genius I’m helping sell his DNA dating app has a plan:

  Scale the highest peak of Mount Nerd. Then ride off with his genetic Cinderella.

  I shouldn’t fall for him.

  Even if Wes kisses like there’s something dirty under that perfect tie.

  Even if he opens me up like no man has.

  Even if guarding my heart’s getting harder each day.

  Because New York isn’t Wes’s mountain. I’m not his princess.

  And nothing this easy can last.

  From USA Today bestselling author Piper Lawson comes a slow-burn, opposites-attract romance about a hot nerd falling for the girl he could never have - with a little help from science!

  1

  Rena

  “To surviving. We are brave warriors in a glorious battle.”

  “We are modern women in New York marketing.”

  Kendall clinks her can of Coke Zero against mine. I take a long swig.

  “You made it through your first end of quarter,” she says from across the plexi divider between our desks. “Did you get that account?”

  “Crotchmaster?” I choke on my pop. “After the pitch, they told me it was looking positive. And the first thing we’re going to do is change the name.”

  I scan our bright office. A dozen desks are arranged on the birch floor under chrome light fixtures, the furniture trendy and functional at once. The walls of the high-ceilinged space are white, except the longest one, which is painted hot pink. A conference room in one corner has a wall made of springy-looking plants that professionals tend to weekly, and our boss’s office is next to that.

  Don’t let the décor fool you. Our boss is tough. She’s the Olivia Pope of relationship PR. She knows what people need—even when they’re too embarrassed, self-absorbed, or ignorant to admit it—and how to give it to them.

  She’s also responsible for most of the awards in the glass case lining the wall.

  Watch out, world. Those are going to have my name on them someday.

  “And you’re celebrating by… stripping. This is new,” Kendall comments, folding her arms as she leans back in her chair.

  I make a few wardrobe adjustments, including unbuttoning the top of my blouse and tugging out my ponytail holder. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Hot date?” Her eyes gleam.

  I slick on another coat of my favorite red lipstick. “Never met him. He’s a friend of a friend.”

  “No ponytail. You’re optimistic.”

  “Guys prefer hair down. It’s a primal thing.”

  Which is strange because Neanderthal women probably didn’t have dry shampoo. Or shower ever.

  I take a section of straight hair that’s been most colors—this season it’s white blond—and twist it around the cordless curling iron I keep in my desk drawer.

  “Are you looking to get laid in the restaurant?”

  I debate. “Saves moving locations.”

  I’m not expecting a hookup, but I figured out years ago that we’re given bodies that fit together for a reason. If we weren’t meant to have lots of sex, they wouldn’t have made it so fun. Despite what every serious dating app commercial would have you believe, hooking up doesn’t have to come with romantic walks, “Honey, how was your day?” conversations, or his-and-hers hand towels. I get my social and emotional needs met by my friends.

  And wine.

  Kendall sets down her soda to gather her pens and notebooks and tuck them into her black leather backpack.

  “I need to pick up Rory. My new nanny flaked again. I have client meetings Thursday night, and I’m going to have to reschedule.”

  I grab my phone, which I’d put on silent for the last hour so I could work, from the corner of my desk and glance at my calendar. “I can watch Rory Thursday if you want.”

  She cocks her head, considering.

  “I can tell you’re trying to decide if you should let some random chick you met three months ago watch your pride and joy.” Kendall’s crazy dedicated to her son. I’m not looking to procreate soon, but she’s like a postcard for Coney Island—she makes it look way more fun than it is.

  “It’s not that. We’ve worked together enough that I trust you. But full disclosure, he’s learned some new songs at school that make you want to pull a Van Gogh.” She mimes sawing off her ear.

  “It’s not a problem. I can bring Scrunchie. He’s a big hit with kids.”

  I glance down, realizing there’s a voicemail on my phone.

  I listen to the message three times.

  The second time in case my caffeine high’s making me jittery.

  The third time in case the tone of his voice is giving me a seizure.

  By the time I hit End, there’s a low-grade buzzing in my stomach.

  Kendall raises a brow. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the client I pitched yesterday. He said I don’t understand the nuance of their product. It’s called Crotchmaster, Kendall. They make underwear that keeps guys’ balls at the right temperature. Seriously? Do they fry like a frog if their junk’s too hot? Do they get hypothermia when it’s too cold?”

  “It’ll be fine. It’s not like you counted them in your business report for the past quarter.”

  I cringe.

  The look on Kendall’s face says it all.

  I’m screwed.

  The buzzing in my gut has dialed up from background static to “ate some dicey tacos” level.

  I’m still the new kid. Having been hired at Closer three months ago, I’m under the most scrutiny. Plus, there are only a dozen employees to start with, so every person matters and has to pull their weight.

  I glance at the time. 4:50 p.m. “I can fix this.”

  First, I call back my contact. His message said he’d be in the office until five thirty this afternoon.

  No answer.

  “Dammit!”

  I shut the top of my laptop without bothering to shut it down—who even has time for that? Probably the same unicorns that install their iOS updates the same year they come out—and race down the stairs to G.

  The streets of Manhattan are flooded with people, but I’m a pro at navigating in heels while opening Uber on my phone.

  Every eighties movie has a scene where the main character gets beat down and gets back up again. Where she fights adversity and ultimately overcomes society or evil or mean girls or whatever.

  I’m really hoping this is my scene.

  Except… there’s a message on my account.

  “What the hell? How am I suspended from Uber? Doesn’t that require a felony?”

  I dash to the subway. Of course my metro card’s down to zero, and I swipe my credit card to refuel it.

  “Card Declined” flashes at me.

  That’s why I’m suspended from Uber.

  I dig in my bag for change, but I only have two quarters next to my Dior lipstick, two tissues, a single yogurt-covered raisin, a pack of cinnamon gum, and a hair elastic from high school.

  The gum mig
ht be from high school too.

  Shit. I can’t call a cab. I’m twenty blocks away with zero purchasing power.

  I feel the rush of adrenaline as I jog back to street level.

  Here’s the thing. All women in New York are warriors.

  Hell, women everywhere.

  It’s not about the industry you work in or how you do your hair or even if you like to hook up on a first date. It’s about the fact that the deck is stacked against you, but you get up every day, ready to meet the challenge head-on.

  Today? I only have one option to make it twenty blocks by five thirty.

  I run for it.

  I hit a contact on my phone on the way.

  “Stanisky and Byrne,” the perky voice says.

  “It’s her daughter,” I pant. “Can you put me through?”

  The phone rings again, this time to the private line.

  I’m forced by a light to pull up, and I try to get hold of my wheezing as I check the time. 5:10 p.m.

  “My credit card was declined,” I say, trying to keep my voice level.

  “Did you overspend?” my mother’s sharp voice demands.

  “I’ve been paying my own bills since college. But I forgot the card was in Dad’s name.”

  “Some of our joint accounts are being changed around.” She sighs. “This is the first you’ve called in weeks, and you’re calling about money.”

  I don’t point out that she didn’t see me for weeks on end when I was in college in Philly or when I worked at a record label there for two years after graduating.

  The light’s about to change, and I dash across early, just missing being hit by a cab. The driver honks, and I hold up a hand. The taco-level anxiety clicks up another notch.

  “I’m working on my career. I have my own life. I’m a grown-up,” I insist as I run down the street in heels that were not designed for the sprint or the marathon, trying not to throw up lunch from my bubbling volcano of a stomach.

  “God knows what you’re doing when we don’t see you,” she goes on as if I didn’t speak.

  I think you mean who I’m doing.

  I realize too late I’ve said it out loud.

  “What am I supposed to tell my friends when they ask about you?”

  I can see the building from here, and I nearly collapse in relief. I rub my nose, which is itchy from sweat, as I lunge across the final cross street to my destination.

  “You mean because I’m not running a company or refurbishing a heritage house in Southampton with my high school boyfriend? I don’t know, Mom. But don’t worry about me. I have a job, and I’m good at it. And as for love? Love is easy. You can find it in a million people every day. For an hour, a night, whatever you need. It’s not complicated.”

  I’m regretting the outburst almost immediately. But all she says before hanging up is, “Some things aren’t meant to be easy. Someday you’ll learn that.”

  I jam the phone in my bag and pick my way through stopped cabs at the final intersection, lifting the hem of my shirt enough to fan my stomach.

  She wants me to date someone, but she doesn’t want me to sleep around. The hypocrisy’s thicker than Cronut dough.

  Pulling up in front of the building, I bend over double, bracing my hands on my knees for a heady moment before forcing myself through the glass doors.

  It’s 5:20 p.m. when I get up to their receptionist and ask for Brad.

  “I’m sorry. He’s gone for the day.”

  “Gone,” I echo. “He said he’d be here until five thirty. Does he have a cell you could give me?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “It’s important. I was discussing an urgent issue with him.”

  “What’s urgent?”

  I swallow. “Crotchmaster.” How I say it with a straight face I’ll never know.

  “You can leave a message.”

  I come up with a few words, which she jots down—hasn’t this woman heard there’s an app for that?—and I close my eyes. I hope I’m not getting fired for this.

  The low-grade buzz of anxiety has long since evolved into a churning stomachache.

  My boss, Daisy, is not going to be happy. Either because I screwed up my paperwork or because I failed to land the client. The woman could sell collagen injections to the Michelin man.

  A notification sounds, reminding me of my date in five minutes.

  I have two options: skulk home and roll around in my own panic or find a diversion from the stress and churning.

  The mirrored panel across from me confirms it: I look as if I’ve been through a tornado.

  But I shaved my legs this morning—not because I’m planning to sleep with the guy, but because Murphy’s law says if I don’t shave them, he’ll turn out to be a Hemsworth.

  My hair’s down, but instead of sexy waves, it’s in limp noodles over my shoulders. Though I don’t have acne anymore, the pressed powder that keeps down what’s left of it is long gone. I’m pretty sure I have boob sweat going on, but at least it doesn’t show in my sleeveless black top and my leggings are fake leather, not real, which is the only reason I’m not chafed.

  Kendall would remind me to find something to be grateful for.

  I settle on clear antiperspirant as I return to the elevator, punching the button for G as if it’s Brad’s patronizing face.

  The maître d’ looks at me expectantly. “Reservation?”

  “I’m meeting someone at the bar. Six feet. Dirty-blond hair. Dirty blue eyes.” He doesn’t get the joke. “Last name Robinson.”

  He nods. “Mr. Robinson has a table.”

  My date is at a trendy new tapas restaurant. I probably look as if I came from SoulCycle, minus the glow of endorphins and virtue.

  I scan the room as I follow the maître d’ through the restaurant. Every table is occupied, plus each seat at the bar. The happy-hour crowd is just the right blend of eager and chic that only this city can pull off.

  When my friend Jake called to set me up for Monday afternoon drinks with one of his friends from Baden, the high school we both went to, I was intrigued.

  My gaze lands on the man I’m meeting, and I’m glad I shaved my legs.

  Wes Robinson is the reward for my long-ass day. His shoulders and chest fill out his suit jacket perfectly. He’s tall but broad enough you’d trust him to carry you safely out of a stampede, or Macy’s on Black Friday.

  The hair falling across his forehead is actually light brown, not dirty blond. It’s an odd length, as if he was trying to decide whether he could get away with having it obscure his eyes.

  Apparently he decided he couldn’t.

  I’m glad because when I get close enough, I see those eyes are blue-gray, the opaque color of an unfamiliar lake. The kind you don’t know how deep it is and could spend all day trying to decide whether diving in headfirst will kill you or give you the rush of a lifetime.

  He’s got that mysterious vibe that men in this city seem to project, like a good cologne that’s light enough to drive you crazy while promising something infinitely better if you’ll only be patient.

  The maître d pulls out my chair, and the man I’m meeting holds out a hand.

  “I’m Wes. You must be Rena.”

  His voice is lighter than I expect. Deep enough to be masculine, but not that heavy baritone that makes it sound like a guy’s fighting narcolepsy.

  “That’s me.” I drop into the seat, grabbing the maître d’s arm before he can leave. “Can I get a glass of pinot grigio? A big one?”

  “Your server will be right over.”

  “Yes, but you’re here now. And you look like a guy who knows where they keep the wine.” Annoyance flits over his brow, but it’s gone as fast as it appears.

  He leaves, and I turn back to my companion.

  “I preferred dinner to drinks,” Wes says, shifting to lean his forearms on the table. “Getting to know someone takes time.”

  “I look forward to it.” Because, God, he’s handsome.

 
; Still, in this restaurant full of laughter and loud voices, his sculpted mouth and a square jaw are both set. It’s as if he’s facing a prostate exam instead of a date.

  But hey. Given the day I’ve had and the volcano lurking beneath the tectonic plate of my sternum? I’m not at my best either.

  “Jake says you’re a friend who’s recently come back to the city?” I prompt.

  He nods. “I finished a postdoc at the University of Washington in April. Before that, I was at Johns Hopkins and Caltech.”

  Fancy.

  “I went to UPenn. First, second, only.” The waiter sets my glass in front of me. It’s at my lips the next second, the flavors of dry white with a kick of sweetness rushing over my tongue like a balm. That’s when I remember, wincing. “Ah. I have a slight issue with paying tonight.”

  If it bothers Wes, I can’t tell. “I asked to meet you. I’d expected to pay.”

  It’s strange the way he says it, but I roll with it. “Thanks. But just so we’re clear, I’m not a woman who expects men to pay for everything. Something happened with my credit card, and I haven’t had a chance to straighten it out yet.”

  “Noted.”

  I glance down at the menu. “This reminds me of this great vegan place I eat at sometimes.”

  “You’re vegan.” His nostrils flare.

  “No. But vegan places have the best vegetables. They have to, it’s all they’ve got. You want good vegetables? Order the vegan special somewhere and then ask them to add meat.” He blinks. “I couldn’t actually be vegan. Have you seen some of those people? They’re like, ‘OMG, this cauliflower with cashew cheese is divine.’”

  A brow lifts—or maybe two. I can’t tell under the thick fall of hair.

  “A person shouldn’t have an orgasm from a vegetable,” I explain. “Unless you’re sticking it somewhere.”

  The wine is doing its job.

  “Well,” he says at last, “there’s lots of meat here.”

  I let my gaze flick down his chest and back up. “I see that.” His hand stills with his glass halfway to his firm mouth.