by Dawn Atkins
“I respect that.” He regarded her closely and she could almost see his opinion shift, deepen and lock into some place solid and safe. “I do.”
He respected her? Joy. And he wanted her. She saw that, too. This was awful, all this double meaning going on. For a second, dizzy with confusion, she wanted this over. The story would turn out now. Seth respected her, he’d gotten good quotes, he understood. Now he should go. Take off those surprisingly sexy shoe skates and mosey out of her life.
She closed her eyes, gathering her strength.
“So, what’s the story there?”
She opened her eyes, relieved to find Seth not staring at her demanding to understand what was going on between them, but nodding out at the rink at Samantha, a client, who was whipping by, arms swinging purposefully, eyes glued to the rink.
“She’s been taking two circuits for everyone else’s one for the last fifteen minutes,” he observed.
“Samantha is a Nervous Thirty.”
He chuckled. “Nervous because of her biological clock?”
She nodded. “Exacerbated by Singles-Bar Burnout. Nothing makes you feel older and less attractive than the club scene. All those twentysomethings with no flab, no wrinkles and all the energy in the world. When you’re thirty, singles bars are a source of deep despair.”
Seth laughed. She loved when he laughed. The sound was low and slow and sweet. Like he’d been surprised by something rare and wonderful he couldn’t resist. “The only time she even spoke to a guy was to ask him to pass the pizza or get out of her path.”
“The men here seem like losers to her. It’s partly the who-wants-to-be-in-a-club-that-would-have-me-as-a-member phenomenon, but also the singles-bar mentality. Once she stops thinking of herself and the men she’s meeting as selections from the butcher case, where the goal is to get the best cut, she’ll begin to value them for who they really are. First impressions aren’t always fair.”
“Hmm.”
“Like your first impression of Personal Touch, for example. I hope that’s fixed now?”
He hesitated and that ice water feeling flooded her veins.
“Would a bribe help?” she joked miserably.
He released a delicious laugh that melted her doubts. “No, but how about we go for a beer after this? I have a few questions still. There’s a microbrew pub down the street.”
“A beer? Oh, sure.” Her heart pounded against her ribs. More questions for the story, she reminded herself, but her toes curled in her skates and she could hardly draw a breath.
An hour later, she parked beside Seth’s motorcycle—a sleek café racer. It figured he’d drive the bad-boy vehicle of choice. He guided her into the bar with a light hand at the small of her back and her whole body went ridiculously soft in response. Get a grip, girl.
The blasting rock and loud chatter were a relief, since the ambiance was far from romantic, but they had to lean close to be heard over the din.
“So, why matchmaking, Jane?” Seth asked, his eyes twinkling at her.
A good question, but hard to answer when her nose was filled with his great leather-spice-man scent. This close, she spotted a darling beauty mark high on his cheekbone and noticed secret swirls of navy in his clear blue eyes.
She managed to provide her practiced answer. “I’m honored to be part of the most important decision people ever make.”
“No, really,” he said, his voice low, digging in. “Why you? Why this?” Tell me all.
No way would she destroy her credibility with her sad tale of bad beaus. “Look around.” She gestured out at the jam-packed bar. “All these people are looking for love.”
“I’d say they’re looking for sex.”
“Some settle for that, it’s true. And bars tend to attract Stubborn Singles—people who refuse to settle down. Many of my clients have had their hearts broken by them.”
“So these Stubborn Singles are dangerous?” He was teasing her.
“They can be tricky. The worst ones don’t realize that’s what they are. They seem available—and think they are—but as soon as someone falls for them, they break it off. There’s always a reason—she was too clingy or too aggressive or too quiet or too chatty….” She realized he’d asked her a question. She leaned closer. “Hmm?”
“Is this the voice of experience?”
She dropped back, desperate to hide her secret. “I’ve dated a Stubborn Single or two, sure.” She took a swallow of beer to keep him from catching on.
But it was no use.
“That influence you to become a matchmaker? Your own heartbreak?”
She couldn’t answer that. “I have a psychology degree and I believe relationships are the crucible where personality theories are tested.” Could she be any more intellectual?
“I see.” He didn’t buy it.
“I’ve learned even more from my clients. Many suffer from relationship fatigue. They’ve been hurt over and over by people who are wrong for them. One client marks off depression days on his calendar when he senses a breakup on the way.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“No, it’s realistic. Others get superstitious. One client wears her granny panties when she wants to meet a guy, figuring they’re the last pair she’d want a man to see her in, so of course she’ll score.”
“Good-luck granny panties? Cute.” He wrote that down, then looked up. “You paint a pretty grim picture. How do you stay so cheerful with your every-day-is-Saturday underwear, Janie?”
Janie. He’d called her Janie. She got goose bumps. Like a swooning fool. “I guess I’m an optimist. I believe that if you uncover and analyze key personality factors, you can narrow the search down to people with whom you’re truly compatible.”
“But compatibility isn’t enough.” The words came out flat and she saw a flicker of pain in Seth’s face, which surprised her. It seemed to surprise him, too.
“You’ve been there?” she risked asking.
He gave her a quick nod, then lifted his stein as their waitress breezed by. “Can I get another? You…?” he asked Janie.
She shook her head no. “Do you want to talk about it?” She kept her tone carefully neutral, wanting to help, and way too curious about him.
Do you want to talk about it? Seth looked at Janie, who was smiling warmly at him, a shrink patting her couch. Normally, he’d rather pass a kidney stone. But she looked so earnest, blinking those big eyes at him, that he wanted to tell her. Wanted to. Good God. Maybe all that love-match talk at the skating rink had gotten to him.
No way would he tell her about Ana. The Cindi thing was almost funny, so he’d go with that. “I was seeing this real estate agent back in Miami. We’d had a stupid fight, and I wanted to apologize, so I took some flowers to her—hokey, I know, but what the hell. I wanted to surprise her at an open house. I did. With her broker. Testing out the acoustics in the master bedroom.”
“Oh, no. How terrible.”
“Not to mention a violation of agent ethics.”
“That would upset anyone, Seth.”
He’d normally bristle at the sympathy, but she looked so easy about it. Bummer. How can I help? He found he felt…better. Not that the incident had affected him that strongly, really.
“We’d have broken up soon enough,” he said. “She thought I was boring. All I did was talk about journalism.” And think about Ana, which had been the real problem.
“But she’s not the woman you mean—where it didn’t work out?” she probed. “Despite how compatible you seemed?”
Dammit. “No, but, hey, that’s way over. Ana. That was her name.” What the hell? He was spilling his guts all over Janie’s couch, after all.
“Try not to give up, Seth.”
“Give up?”
“On finding someone special and having it work out. Eventually, I mean. I know you haven’t asked for my advice, but I talk to so many people who get hurt and give up altogether. It’s easy to think it will never work, that it’s not worth th
e trouble. But it is. I know it. I don’t know you well, but I think you have a lot to offer, a lot of love to give, and—”
Her eyes gleamed with faith in him and he liked it and that was weird, so he did what he’d wanted to do since he met her. He kissed her. And those lips were exactly as soft as they looked.
She made a sound, then broke off the kiss, her eyes wide and shiny as wet marbles, the pupils huge and black in the gold light of the bar. “Why did you do that?”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“But you’re writing a story about me.” She looked worried and frantic. And hot for him.
To which he couldn’t help responding. “Not for long.”
“For long enough.” She sat back against the booth.
She was right, of course. All that you-have-love-to-give sympathy had just gotten to him. Along with being so close to her for so long. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“You just got carried away.”
“Right. It was a bad idea.” But he didn’t quite care. He wanted to get lost for hours in her lovely eyes, in her incredible body, naked and warm and wet. Ah, wet. He loved wet. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, as though he needed her in his arms to feel all right with the world.
“Very bad,” she said on a shaky breath, wanting him, too, he could see. “My point was not to give up and, well, if you’d like, I’d be glad to work up a profile, set you up with some Potentials and—”
He kissed her again. He couldn’t help it.
She broke off again. “Write the story. I should go.” She scrambled out of the booth.
“Sure,” he said, standing, aware suddenly that he was damned lonely. Looking into this woman’s face, lonely seemed the worst condition in the world.
“I’ll be fine. Stay here. Finish your beer. Call if you have questions. Good night.” She backed away, watching him as if she feared he’d pounce.
He just might. He knew by the pinch in his gut, the bubble of adrenaline in his chest, the hot sweat springing out on his skin, that this wasn’t the end of the story. Not by a long shot.
9
“THIS IS A perfect time to talk,” Kylie told Cole, even though the line two button winked a frantic red at her. She never left people on hold, but her first-responder instincts had been dulled by Cole.
“I was putting honey in my tea and had to call,” he said so huskily she fairly throbbed in response.
“Honey? Oh.” Last evening—Mexican night, as she’d lovingly dubbed it—they’d drizzled honey on their sopaipillas…and elsewhere and she was still sticky in hard-to-reach places. Honey, oh.
The blinking light slowed to a languorous wink. Take your time, it seemed to be saying.
All wrong, she knew, but who cared? Mexican night had been spectacular. After “dessert,” they’d rushed to Cole’s place because of his doggie guest, where they’d made love until dawn.
Which had made for a brain-fogged day she was barely surviving. It had been a wildly out-of-character night. And it was over. So why was she neglecting a call? It was likely someone from S-Mickey-B with the specifics about the retreat and upcoming meetings. Blink, blink, wink.
“So, what do you need?” Cole asked in the same husky register he’d used last night.
“No, what do you need?” she replied in her sultriest tone, closing her eyes against the flashing line. She could spare a moment for a quickie on the phone, couldn’t she? “I mean, you called me.”
“But I’m returning your call, Kylie,” he said, amusement in his voice.
“Oh, right.” She sat up straight. She had called Cole. It was about the lawsuit. “Marlon Brandon called Janie back and she convinced him and his attorney to meet with us next week. So, I was thinking you and I should get together and go over our strategy.”
“Strategy, huh? How about my place?”
“Your place?” He’d got right to her secret wish—to combine business with pleasure. What could be more glorious? She was hanging by the last frayed fiber on the knot of her work ethic, but what the hell?
“Yeah. Because Radar gets lonely and we might run… long.”
“We don’t want Radar to get lonely on your rug.”
“Can you be here by seven? Or earlier, if you need more time.”
How about now? “Seven will be great.” That gave her three more hours in her office, after which she’d load her briefcase so that after the sex break that came after the lawsuit work she could do more on the Home Town Suites campaign.
She hung up from Cole and grabbed the call. Sure enough, it was an account rep named Gina from S-Mickey-B with details on the retreat and the account meeting next Thursday and Friday. Garrett had snapped up Gina last year, very much like he was doing with Kylie, so Gina had some words of advice and even offered her guest room until Kylie found a place she liked.
By the time Kylie hung up, she was feeling tense, but excited. Her future was just around the corner. She’d earned some relaxation with Cole, right? What could be better than healthy sex with a sunset clause? Cole needed it, too, with the pressure he was under.
This would enhance their productivity. Really, she told her sensible side, slumped listlessly in the corner mumbling about deadlines and workload and lost hours. Wasn’t she bringing work in her briefcase?
Maybe she’d swing by her place for a change of clothes. Just to be comfortable.
Oh, shut up.
WORK FIRST, SEX LATER, Cole reminded himself, tucking in the corner of the satin sheets he’d bought on the way home from work. They were so slippery, he and Kylie might slide right off the bed. He couldn’t wait to give it a try. After they’d worked, of course. Radar gave him a look: You are pathetic.
“Like you should talk,” he said to the dog, perched on the pillow at the head of the bed, king of all he surveyed. The minute Radar had laid eyes on Kylie, he’d melted onto his back for a tummy rub, head lolling in ecstasy, giving Cole the eye: This is how it’s done, pal.
Now the dog sneezed his disgust with Cole, hopped to the floor and trotted out to the entryway to wait for Kylie.
Cole flopped onto the bed, disgusted with himself. He knew damn well they’d make love all night and tomorrow he’d wear the same sleep-deprived look he’d worn today—like Trevor after a flight attendant weekend, except Trevor had the chops for wild nights. Cole was rusty. Not that he’d been very wild in the first place.
Now he itched—no, ached—to get Kylie in his arms. He could see spending more time with her. Lots more time. Time that neither of them had. Time to talk about their days, their work, their plans, their dreams, every little thing they cared about. And stuff they didn’t.
His phone rang. He had a moment of panic that she’d realized her mistake and called to cancel. If either of them came to their senses, it’d be all over. He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Cole Sullivan?” The female voice wasn’t Kylie’s and it crackled as if from a bad connection.
“Yes?”
“Well, hello. This is Deborah Ramsdale. Have I caught you at a bad moment?”
“Deborah? Oh. Not at all.” Except for the fact that a woman was on her way to have sex with him. He jerked upright, flooded with guilty surprise.
“Jane Falls suggested I contact you, since I won’t be back until the fourth of next month. To get the formalities out of the way? I know phones can be impersonal, but she insisted it would help?” The question in her sentences made her seem sweeter than her stern photograph.
“That’s a great idea,” he said, carrying the phone into the living room. This would fix her more firmly in his mind.
“I’m glad you agree. I have to say I was delighted with your bio. We have so much in common.”
“I liked yours, too.” Luckily, she hadn’t seen his video. He still needed to have Jane erase the mortifying junk Gail had dredged out of him at the end.
After an awkward silence, they both spoke at once.
“So, corporate law?”
“You�
�re in international—?”
“Sorry.”
“Me, too. Sorry.”
She laughed. “Yes. I’m in international law, but I’m reducing my travel to make time for a social life. You know how that is. You can work so hard that you lose track of yourself.”
“Believe me, I understand.”
“Of course you do. I read your file. And you read mine.” More silence. “So, you enjoy your work?”
“Very much. You?”
“Yes.” Another pause. “At first I thought, ‘A matchmaker? Isn’t that desperate?’ But the Personal Touch approach seemed so matter-of-fact and, well, realistic.”
“And efficient.”
“Exactly. No wasted time. And when Janie gave me your personality scores, I was impressed.” Paper rattled. “I mean we match completely in sociability…some variation in conformity, but we’re exact duplicates on financial views. Temperaments are a little different—I’m a little more volatile than you—but that’s workable, don’t you think?”
“I guess. Sure.” She was studying their scores?
Radar yipped sharply.
“Is that a dog?” she said. “You didn’t mention you had a dog.” A flicker of suspicion rose in her voice.
“I’m dog-sitting my neighbor’s terrier for a few days.”
“Oh.” She seemed to relax. “That’s kind of you.”
“Actually, it seemed like good practice for building balance in my life. Taking him for walks, getting home at a reasonable time so he won’t be lonely…” He thought about mentioning the Poop Warning System, or PWS, as Kylie called it, but somehow he didn’t think Deborah would appreciate it. Not yet, anyway. He’d have to know her better. Did she have a sense of humor? Too soon to tell. “Sounds lame, I know.”
“No, no. That’s excellent. Just…excellent.” She laughed. “I’m repeating myself. I guess I’m a little nervous. But I thought, seize the day. If we can’t get along long-distance, what’s the point of meeting in person?”
“Good point.”
She released a breath and so did he.
