Lucky Love

by Nicola Marsh

  Nat glares, radiating disapproval. "You’re a bum magnet." She pronounces it like the queen bestowing a grand title.

  "Tell me something I don’t know."

  She leans over and hugs me. "Didn’t mean it as a reflection on you. It’s a simple fact. You’re attracted to the wrong type of guy and we need to do something about it."

  I sit back and fold my arms. "Excuse me for being a skeptic but what’s the solution? Turn me into Miranda Kerr?"

  "You’re every bit as gorgeous as her."

  Chalk up a Brownie point for BFF loyalty. Nat paused, tapped her bottom lip. "How about online? Speed dating?"

  I wrinkle my nose. "No way. Those things are for desperadoes.”

  Considering if I didn’t do something more proactive than hitting clubs I’d be jetting to corny Love in a month, maybe Nat had a point.

  “I prefer to meet guys the normal way."

  "Over the photocopier?" Nat had this haughty tone she used to perfection. Usually reserved for clueless clients in court and used to put me back in my place.

  "Vaughan was a momentary lapse in judgment."

  "What about Grant, Pete and Will? Were they lapses too?"

  The thought of my boring exes makes the coffee in my gut sour and I hold my hands up in surrender. "What’s with the interrogation?"

  Nat folded her arms. "How about you try it my way for a while? What have you got to lose?"

  "Pride. Dignity.” I stood and gathered my bags. “Besides, I’ve got someone lined up and I want to see how that pans out first."

  She must’ve believed me for the interrogation stopped. Almost. "What’s he like?"

  "Who?"

  "This new man."

  I was a lousy liar; could never sustain it.

  "Can we talk about him later? I don’t want to jinx it before it starts, you know?" Lame, but she bought it.

  "Fine. Just don’t forget to tell me all the juicy details. You know I live my life vicariously through you. I’m an old married hag now."

  Yeah, yeah, rub it in.

  So I do too. "Actually, last night was pretty cool. Flirt central. You know the guy on the phone commercial? And the new spokesman for Calvin Klein?"

  "You’re kidding?" Envy was etched into every line of her beautiful face.

  I smiled, reveling in the glories of being a single woman in the face of my best friend’s matrimonial happiness. “Fantastic night, real perv fest. You’d have loved it. Wall to wall hotties. Pity Marlon doesn’t let you out much."

  That was a low blow and totally untrue but I couldn’t help it. I was on a roll.

  "Enjoy it while you can, Jaz. Things do change when you’re married." Her wistfulness got to me and I was instantly contrite.

  "Married? I’m going to be the oldest spinster in Sydney. You’re lucky." And I meant it. Another Flo-ism: the grass is always greener on the other side and I wished I were a cow, a very happily married cow.

  "Want some help picking out an outfit for tonight?"

  I held up the various bags in my hands. "I think you’ve helped enough."

  That was another thing we shared; Shop-aholics Anonymous could have a revolving door for us. If we could tear ourselves away from the malls long enough.

  "Okay, though perhaps dress down a bit tonight? Don’t think those black boots, fishnets and mini I saw strewn around your room this morning would be right for Amanda’s housewarming."

  "What’s wrong with my fishnets?"

  "They’re so Rocky Horror."

  "Frank N. Furter was the coolest." I give her a quick rendition of the Time Warp, complete with pelvic thrusts.

  "Yeah, about thirty years ago. Move into the twenty-first century and get the Moves Like Jagger." Nat loved Maroon 5 though refuted it. Personally, I thought Adam Levine was hot too.

  "Whatever. I’m going home to get ready."

  "Call me tomorrow at work, okay?"

  Nat loved our post-party conferences when we traded theories on why the man of my dreams who I’d met the night before hadn’t called.

  "You’re working on Sunday again?"

  "Few big cases coming up and I’m way behind on prep. Crims don’t sleep. No rest for the wicked and all that crap."

  I love how my hotshot lawyer best friend struggles with forensics and precedents while I struggle with finding rhyming words for love: schmove, dove, shove … as in off.

  "So what’s Marlon doing with all his spare time? Isn’t he scared you’ll run off with some handsome John Grisham type?"

  It was her turn to snort. "We trust each other totally. Why get married otherwise?"

  "Tell that to guys like Vaughan," I mutter, hating how gullible I’d been.

  "Speaking of hubby, better dash. Good luck." She hugged me, waved and eased into the crowd, a stunning figure dressed in black jeans and cobalt tank cutting a swathe through the late afternoon shoppers.

  Her last words rang in my ears. Good luck. Despite the fact I loved Nat to death, I hated it when she said this before every date or night out. Who said luck had anything to do with it? I would arrive, I would check out the talent, I would conquer. Well, that was the theory. Shame the practice left a lot to be desired.

  With the prospect of a plane trip to Love in my future, I did need luck; tonight I’d carry a rabbit’s foot, a four-leaf clover and a horseshoe, all tucked into the stunning new handbag I’d blown a week’s wages on.

  I reached home in record speed, eager to start the preparation process. I tried on ten outfits, turning like a contortionist in front of the mirror. It always paid to check out all angles. Pity I didn’t have any; I was a beanpole, straight up and down without a curve in sight. I decided on skin-tight, black bootleg satin pants teamed with a red ribbed singlet top. My boobs looked great in the top; amazing what a push-up bra could do.

  Lesson A in trying to land a guy; men loved cleavage. Being an average B cup I utilized every push-up bra on the market to enhance what the good Lord has given me. My latest triumph was a spa bra, the under cups filled with fluid: firm yet soft, cleavage without the silicon. I looked sensational in it. However, after a close call with a friend’s toy poodle wanting to sink its teeth into it, I didn’t fancy a flood at the next dinner party so I’d reverted to the trusty padded variety.

  Lesson B consisted of preparing the temple for possible invasion. I could always live in hope. I showered, shaved my legs, loofahed, exfoliated, moisturized—and that was just my body. The face took much longer, plucking being the order of the day. My eyebrows hadn’t been waxed into shape for a while so I set my tweezers to work. Ten minutes later, I’d plucked enough to need an eyebrow pencil to fill in the gaps. Why do women do that, pluck out the hair to replace it with lead from a pencil? Weird, yet who was I to question the art of beautifying handed down over the centuries?

  The singlet exposed a lot of skin so I needed a quick bronzing. My lily-white skin needed all the help it could get. I reached for the tube of self-tanning lotion, vowing to spend more time at Bondi this summer. Natural was best and besides, I hated the orange tinge the fake stuff left. I always looked like a Cheezel in the morning. The sheets I’d slept on looked worse.

  Glancing at the clock, I realize I’m late for the party. Rather than doing my whole torso I tan my arms and chest. With my luck lately who’d see the rest of me anyway? My face looks strangely pale above its tanned counterparts so I complete a foundation and powder job in record time.

  I decide to go for the understated vamp look, smudged kohl and dark eyeshadow with a smidgen of lip-gloss. The lippy ad promised ‘kissable lips he couldn’t resist’. Still waiting. The last minute pash as I left a nightclub two weeks ago didn’t count; he’d been a jerk. A jerk who didn’t call. As usual.

  I glanced in the mirror. I looked sensational. How could any guy resist?

  No way would I end up in Love.

  Four weeks and counting.

  I drove to Amanda’s new apartment, vowing not to drink too much. She’d said there’d be loads of
eligible guys at the party and I wanted to make a good impression. All Amanda’s friends are classy and if she says there’ll be talent, I believe her.

  Amanda’s my boss. A formidable forty-something, she uses her extensive connections in the Australian media to score rich and famous clients to plan weddings for. She gets rich off the A-listers and I slave over their lousy invitations. The sad fact is I still commute daily to work and Amanda has retired, occasionally dabbling in the company from a multi-million-dollar apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. I’d like to be her when I grow up.

  Though I sound jealous, I like her. She’s feisty, competitive and driven, attributes I’d like to possess and don’t. For some unfathomable reason, she seemed to like me too and had recently promoted me to assistant wedding coordinator.

  I love my job. Where else would I get to rub shoulders with the snooty wealthy that try to outdo each other when it comes to matrimony? Not just in monetary terms either. The bigger the hairdo/gazebo/yacht, the better. I have no gripes about my work. Invitations are easy and I’ve been assigned to help coordinate the biggest celeb wedding this country has ever seen. Besides, I spend enough time lamenting my single status, if I complained about my job too I’d be a total loser.

  Coordinating events is fun. So far, I’ve learned sucking up and simpering were the most valuable attributes an aspiring function coordinator needed. And it’s cool I write soppy verses for the invitations. I’m a budding author, if you count my journal and the notepad I keep by my bedside to jot down dreams and inspiring thoughts.

  To be completely honest, I haven’t written in the journal since high school and the dream book only has a few pages filled (mostly with guys’ defunct phone numbers) but I know I can write. I have a million ideas in my head waiting to be published and in the meantime customers think our invitations are ‘so original’. Nat calls it a waste of my talent; I prefer to call it honing my craft.

  As I pull up outside the address on Amanda’s stylish invitation—not designed by me—a black Jag screeches to a halt behind me. I wind down the window to give the driver a mouthful when Channing Tatum steps out of the car and the abuse dies on my lips as I watch him shut the door with a bump of his sexy hip.

  He walks around the back of the car to the passenger side and opens the door. No doubt he has a date. I can’t see much through my mirrors so I get out of the car and casually glance over. He takes a cute plant, not a cute date, out of the car. It’s not Channing but a dead ringer for him.

  "Could you give me a hand? I’ve left my keys in my pocket and I’ve got my hands full."

  "Sure." I briefly wonder if giving him a hand means reaching into his chino pockets to remove the much-needed car keys.

  "Thanks." He smiles and his likeness to Channing is uncanny. "Reach into my jacket pocket and hit the button, it’ll lock."

  Somewhat relieved I wouldn’t be starting our relationship by playing pocket billiards, I reach into his jacket and locate the keys. My hands are shaking as the overwhelming scent of new leather and spicy aftershave wafts over me.

  Now I wish the keys had been in his chinos.

  "You’ve got it. Give it a press."

  The Jag’s indicator lights flash twice as I press the remote. "Done. Anything else I can help you with?"

  Carry the plant, take off the leather jacket, marry you?

  The killer smile again. "No thanks."

  He stares at me from around the fronds, checking me out from head to foot. I take a deep breath that thrusts my chest out. No harm in advertising. Hopefully Channing was in the market to buy.

  "Is that for Amanda?" I gestured at the plant, hoping the housewarming gift was all he was giving her at the moment. He was just how she liked her men: tall, dark, sex on legs. Damn, I envied her.

  He nodded. "Think she’ll like it? I don’t know her that well."

  My heart soared. He was a friend, unless she’d taken to inviting her one-night stands home, which I seriously doubted. Also, he was going to the party. Alone. And I had first dibs on him.

  That flight to Love? More remote by the minute, thank goodness.

  "She’ll love it."

  I followed him up the path, his back view every bit as tantalizing as the front. Nothing like a firm butt and long, lean legs to get the heart pumping.

  "Can you do the honors?" His voice matched the rest of him: deep, rich, mysterious. And lucky for him, unraveling the mysteries of the male species was a favorite hobby of mine.

  A shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. It was the first time in a long time that any man had affected me like this. Vaughan had been the last but a lot of that had been unresolved sexual tension that magically vanished once we’d done the deed.

  I rang the doorbell. "I’m not your personal slave."

  "Would you like to be?" He stared at me over the top of the plant and my mouth went dry.

  Before I could answer, the door swung open and Amanda squealed. "Sloan, you made it. Great to see you. You too, Jazmyn. Come in."

  As I stared at Amanda’s LBD, slashed to the waist in front and revealing her recently enhanced DD boobs, one word penetrated my brain. Sloan? Which narcissistic parents would burden a guy with a girl’s name?

  He delivered the plant to the gushing Amanda, who soon rushed off to supervise the hors d’oeuvres. Uncharacteristically shy, I gazed at the most gorgeous guy I’d seen in a long time. More amazing? He stared back at me.

  "Nice to meet you, Jazmyn. Though it seems like we’re already old friends, doesn’t it?"

  That warm, intimate smile again, as if I was the only woman in the world. Time for some witty anecdote or meaningful conversation.

  Predictably, I blathered. "Sloan’s unusual for a guy. Your parents must have eclectic taste."

  “I chose it.” He frowned, though it did little to detract from his gorgeousness. "I was adopted, didn’t like my name so I changed it by deed poll. A liberating experience. You should try it."

  Uh-oh. I knew this was too good to be true. Apart from the suave looks and sex appeal, he was a nutter.

  After I’d removed my size eight foot from my mouth, I answered. "I like my name." Time for damage control. "How about a drink?"

  The diversion tactic worked as his face relaxed into a semblance of a smile. "Sounds good to me. What would you like?"

  “Screwdriver please." The orange juice would counteract the vodka or at least turn it into a semi-healthy drink. Surely I could have one, despite my vow to never drink again after last night?

  He winked. "Coming right up."

  Apart from the name, he could lose the wink too. It detracted from his natural charm that right now, was shaky at best. Looks were important but could I handle yelling Sloan in the throes of passion? Or worse, pledging my undying love at the altar to a guy with a woman’s name? These important questions whirled through my head as I waited for my drink. And waited. And waited.

  I pushed my way through the crowd and headed for the bar, a sleek black and chrome design hugging a wall. The entire apartment was black and chrome; very hip, very Amanda. As I rounded one of the chrome columns near the bar I spotted Sloan deep in conversation with a striking redhead. He held a beer and Miss Titian held my Screwdriver. I sidled up behind him, unsure of my plan of attack.

  "The name’s Sloan. What’s yours?" Go get ’em, Tiger. Ten points for originality. Not.

  "Tatiana.” She actually batted her eyelashes. “Wow, gorgeous name. My favorite horse was a roan and your name rhymes. I loved that horse."

  I backed away as fast as I could. Titian Tatiana was welcome to him. They were a perfect match. Morons Inc.

  Determined to drown my sorrows, I headed for the bar. Screw driving home, pun intended. I’d get blotto and take a taxi.

  "A Caprioska, please."

  I barely glanced at the barman, scanning the room for potential talent instead. The sad thing was while I’d been interested in Sloan I hadn’t so much as glanced around.

  Okay, I’d taken a peek
but now I had some serious looking to do. Tonight was the night, remember? Step One of my Shove Love campaign. Flo wouldn’t rest until I either landed in Love or proved I had a guy to love.

  "Here you go. Hope it’s to your satisfaction."

  Something edgy in his tone caught my attention and I glanced up, surprised to see interest in his eyes. An unusual green, the color of a stunning emerald I’d seen in Tiffany’s window once and coveted since. No one had eyes that green. I blame the color on my lapse in sanity.

  I took a sip. "Delicious." A bit like you, sweetie, I want to say but thankfully don’t.

  "Plenty more where that came from." He smiled, not quite as movie-star-ish as Channing but cute nonetheless. Definite potential. "I finish at two."

  Direct. And I didn’t even know his name. I peeked at his nametag. James. A nice, normal name. Relief. He’d earned another Brownie point without trying, though I decided to play it cool. Looks weren’t everything.

  Tell that to all the single, ugly guys scouting the room.

  "So?" I’d aimed for cool and casual, ended up sounding bitchy. Ouch.

  He shrugged. "Thought you might like to take a drive later. Hang out a bit. Perhaps go down to the Harbor, have a hot dog, watch the sun rise?"

  Corny? Hell yeah, but cute. Very cute.

  Nat’s wise words bum magnet echoed for a moment. Closely followed by Flo’s Love challenge.

  Never one to listen to my voice of reason, I chose to go with the flow.

  "See you around two." I sashayed away, knowing my ass looked great in the bootleg pants.

  "Hey. What’s your name?"

  "Jazmyn," I threw over my shoulder, tossing my hair like a Pantene girl.

  “See you later, Jaz.”

  Impertinent and confidant. The guy had potential, not to mention extremely good taste in women.

  Who knew where a moonlight walk by the harbor and a shared hot dog could lead?

  Only one way to find out.