Betty Boop: And yet it looks like you did.
Dax Powers: Shoot, I’m sorry.
Betty Boop: I’m not offended. I feel like if you were trying to pick up a woman for BDSM play, you’d be on a different app.
Dax Powers: Whew. Thank you. Which also reminds me that I need to switch over to my Paddle Me Please app and keep up the convo there with Ms. Bend Me Over the Chair.
Betty Boop: No worries. I’ll be on Spank Me Tonight, so I guess we’ll miss each other.
Dax Powers: Good luck. I hear all the pongers hang out on Spank Me Tonight.
Betty Boop: Oh damn, you are good!
Dax Powers: Thank you. I am indeed quite good. *inserts devil emoticon*
Betty Boop: And a little cocky too?
Dax Powers: Just a little. But you know what it’s like when you’re champion of a nerd sport, Miss Badminton Champion.
Betty Boop: Hey, you’re assuming I’m a nerd.
Dax Powers: Am I wrong, Miss Badminton Champion? *smirks*
I gulp, nearly dropping my phone in the drain as I cross the street. Shitballs on fire. How do I reply to this? I glance around as if I can locate the answer on the sidewalk.
Am I Peyton? Or me? Do I remind him I’m asking for a friend? It was in the profile though. The description closed with “asking for a friend,” for Pete’s sake.
It must be obvious.
Okay, fine, maybe he thinks I meant it to be tongue-in-cheek.
Someone could certainly read it as tongue-in-cheek.
Because the entire saying is tongue-in-cheek, and no one is ever asking for a friend—they’re asking for themselves.
Ugh.
So I was only honest on a technicality.
My stomach swoops, and a teeny bit of guilt weaves through me.
Who am I kidding? This is a massive, crushing tsunami of guilt.
Ping-Pong Lover Mad Flosser Dax Powers is a darling. Chatting with him is better than drinking a vanilla latte.
And I can’t lie. I won’t lie to this potential suitor.
As I walk along the park, making my way toward Little Friends, I return to the chat, drawing a deep breath.
Betty Boop: Moment of truth. I don’t play badminton. My friend does. Hence that’s why I said “asking for a friend” in my profile.
Dax Powers: Wink, wink. Got it. We’ll table badminton for another time. But thanks for the moment of truth. Here’s mine: I’m having a blast chatting with you.
And there goes my stomach again—swooping up, sweeping down. Not with guilt this time, but with tingles, butterflies, and everything good in the world.
Dax Powers is too much fun, too clever, too everything.
Guilt wiggles through me again because he doesn’t seem to have fully grasped that I’m not who he thinks I am, but I swat it away.
Because I am me.
If he’s having a blast talking to me, I must be doing something right.
That’s why I’m here. To practice confidence.
And maybe confidence comes with honesty.
So I decide to give him some more of that too.
Betty Boop: Another moment of truth: I’m having a blast too.
Betty Boop: But I do need to sign off. I have a volunteer thing, and I’m going to share the sugar-butter goodness with the other volunteers.
Dax Powers: I’m sure they’ll agree that sugar and butter are both good ideas. Certainly enough to outweigh the badness of bananas. Catch you later, Betty. I’m off to the park to go for a run. You know, so I can continue to crush it in Ping-Pong.
Betty Boop: Crusher! That’s what we’ll call you. A crusher!
Dax Powers: Works for me. Also, stop distracting me. Go. Do good. Volunteer.
Betty Boop: You were distracting me.
Dax Powers: Bye, Betty.
Betty Boop: Bye, Dax.
This time, I do end the chat. I sign out of the app, tuck my phone in my pocket, and map out the rest of my afternoon.
Even though I feel the slightest bit wrong, I remind myself that I was honest, I was up-front, and I’ll try harder again later. But tonight, I’ll talk to Peyton and tell her my plan. I can let her know how well it’s going.
I should prime her, after all, that I’m reeling in a big catch.
Because Dax Powers seems like one helluva catch indeed.
With my plan settled, I head inside and say hello to the woman who runs the place then join some of the other volunteers in the back room, where we sort donations.
“Hey, Madison!” I call out when I see the woman who wants to “talk shop” today.
She swivels around from where she’s stacking blankets and smiles. She looks fantastic in a V-neck tee that says “My dog was right about you.”
“Hey, Amy,” she says.
Before she can say another word, I point excitedly at her shirt.
“I must know where you procured the world’s most perfect T-shirt.”
She plucks at the hem. “Would you believe it? Duane Reade.”
“Stop. There is no way Duane Reade could peddle that.”
“That’s the God’s honest truth.”
“I know where I’m going when my shift is over.” I place the bread on a nearby table and sort through donations of leashes and dog beds for a few minutes, placing them into separate piles.
Madison clears her throat. “Hey, Amy.”
Her tone is completely different. It’s an I’ve got to tell you something voice, not a let’s talk shop voice. But what on earth would she need to tell me in that tone?
“Yes?”
She tucks a pink blanket onto a shelf. “The reason I said I wanted to talk shop last night is that I wanted to let you know I’m applying for the editorial post at your company.”
My stomach drops to my knees. To the floor. No, to the fucking magma center of the Earth.
Madison Turnbell, kick-ass editor at Athena Publishing, wants my job? Well, the job I’m gunning for.
“You are?” I rasp, my voice pocked with gravel.
“Yes. I assume you’re applying for it too?”
I nod, because speaking is too hard.
“I’m just not happy at Athena, and I hear great things about Bailey & Brooks, so I wanted to throw my hat in the ring.”
I already have to compete with the company’s golden child in Antonia, and now I have to compete with the industry’s badass-chick editor?
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks.
I swallow the vinegar in my throat. “Go for it,” I say. “Want some banana bread?”
“Sure,” she says, sounding as awkward as I feel as I thrust the baked goodness at her.
She takes a slice, smiling.
I take one too, hoping either the sugar or the butter softens the gut punch.
I message Peyton when I leave Little Friends.
Amy: You around? I have stuff to tell you. Good stuff, I promise.
Peyton: Ooh, my favorite kind of stuff. I’m heading to Tristan’s restaurant with my mom, but let’s talk later?
Amy: It’s a date.
Peyton: If it’s a date, why don’t you take me out for dessert? Dr. Insomnia’s tonight?
Amy: Twist my arm, why don’t you?
As I head to the pickle shop, I avoid the Boyfriend Material app. I’m not in the mood to be “on” after learning Madison tossed her hat in the fray.
But I also don’t believe in being a Debbie Downer.
And when I get in a funk, the most surefire way out of it is to focus on someone else. That’s what I’m thinking when I pick up pickles for my sister—some peaches too, since she’s craved those every day of her life. Then I pop over to the apartment she shares with her husband.
Vaughn is out, so I get to dote on my very large sister, whose belly is so touchable right now.
“You’re the cutest pregnant woman ever,” I tell her as I rub her belly.
“I bet you say that to all the pregnant women you see,” she teases, and I hand her the food gift
s.
“Bless you,” she says, setting her free hand to her heart. “Your Scrabble will now be safe because of peaches and pickles.”
She waddles into the kitchen, grabs a cutting board, and slices a peach. As she hands me a section, she asks what’s going on at work. I tell her the news about Madison, ending with “But that just means I have to try harder.”
The peaches-and-pickle visit is doing double-encouragement duty.
“Exactly. Don’t let it get you down,” she tells me. “There will always be other talented people vying with you. You can’t control what they do. You can only control what you do. And all you can do is be your best. You know what you do better than anyone?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You’re funny. You’re clever. You make people laugh. That’s your secret weapon. So don’t worry about Madison. I’m sure she is great at some things, just as I know you are the queen of others. Don’t forget—comparison is the thief of joy.”
“I love you. And thank you.” And because I’m a little stinker, I have no choice but to say, “And I won’t compare your belly to a house.”
She narrows her eyes and manages to give me a noogie, which I thoroughly deserve.
We hang out for a little while longer, then I say goodbye.
On my way home, my phone pings with an email. It’s from Tiffany, and she wants to know if I can stop by her office on Tuesday so she can give me pointers for my pitch next week.
Hell, yes!
I reply with I’d love to, as a smile hijacks my face.
I should text Josh or Quinn and tell them about this.
But the next person I think of is Linc. He’s the one I want to share this news with.
And that’s both a good idea and a bad idea.
Inside my apartment, I flop down next to Inspector Poirot, groaning.
What have I gotten myself into?
“What would you do if you liked two guys at once? Especially if you’ve earmarked one for your best friend?”
He licks his hindquarters.
“You’re so not helpful, Christian Grey.”
Linc
It’s official. I’ve been in New York for a little over two weeks, and I can find anything. Today I made it to the West Village to meet a college buddy for lunch, then walked to Bryant Park in Midtown, and after that, I ventured to the East Fifties to run some errands.
I tell my sister, Lisa, about my accomplishment as we walk to Tristan’s for dinner on Sunday night. “I don’t need a map or GPS. I can find anything in the city.”
She pats my head affectionately. “Linc, I hate to break it to you, but that is not an accomplishment.”
“I beg to differ. Finding your way around a new city is not easy.”
“If you were anyplace but New York, I’d agree,” she says, gesturing to a street sign as we cross the avenue. “But this city is literally a grid. It’s child’s play finding your way around here.”
“Do you let Katherine find her way around New York?” I ask.
“My daughter is one. Obviously not.”
“I rest my case,” I say as we reach the restaurant and I hold the door open for her.
Inside, we head to the bar, where I nod hey to Tristan. He’s chatting with a woman, and Lisa nudges me. “The redhead is pretty,” she whispers.
“You have a wife.”
“I’m married, but I’m not dead. And trust me, if Paige were here, we’d both be checking out the redhead, because she’s a babe. But my wife is home taking care of our child so I can have dinner with my younger brother, who wants to chide me for pointing out an attractive woman,” she says, shaking her head in dismay.
“And women wonder why men don’t understand women. I swear, women make no sense sometimes,” I say.
“I’ll second that,” Tristan chimes in, then slaps some cocktail napkins down. “I was just telling my friend that women are wonderful and inscrutable.”
The pretty redhead in question rolls her eyes. Something about her feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place her. “Why do I come here to suffer this kind of abuse?”
“I’ve been asking myself that for a long time,” Tristan says, then winks at her.
“You’re the worst.”
“I bet you say that to all the guys you’re friends with.” Tristan nods at her, then us, saying, “This is my friend Peyton. She’s a total pain in the ass.”
Peyton gives him a sharp stare. “This is my friend Tristan. He’s a complete ballbuster.”
“Ouch,” Tristan says, then doubles over as if she’s injured him. “Wound my pride a little more, woman.”
Lisa extends her hand to Peyton. “I’m Lisa, and this is my brother, Linc. He just moved here from LA. He’s single, gainfully employed, and doesn’t live at home with his parents.”
Peyton laughs. “These days, that’s about all a woman can hope for in a man.”
Tristan clears his throat. “Hello. I own my own business and my own apartment.”
Peyton smiles at him. “And on that note, I need to go to Dr. Insomnia’s.”
“Are you seeing other restaurants now?”
“It’s a coffee shop, silly. Also, I hung out with you for a full hour after my mom left. But I do have to meet Amy.”
My senses go on high alert when she says that name.
There’s no way she’s meeting my Amy, but even so, my mind immediately pictures the woman from the office.
Amy, sexy, brainy, bright, clever Amy. Who likes pockets and thinks the book is always better than the movie.
Wait.
Shit. It’s Betty Boop who said that about books and movies.
But I bet Amy feels the same way.
And just like that, I’m thinking about the woman I was trying not to think about.
I glance at the specials board, hoping it’ll get my mind off Amy, when out of the corner of my eye, I see Tristan watching Peyton leave.
Something clicks in my head. He’s into her. I can tell by how he looks at the woman who’s just a friend.
He seems to shake away some thought, then redirects his focus to my sister and me, gesturing to the napkins he slapped down when we arrived. “What can I get for you?”
After we order drinks and he heads to the end of the bar to hunt for my sister’s wine, Lisa gives me a pointed “Well. . .”
“Well, what?”
My sister nods toward Tristan. “He seems to like the pretty redhead. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
I give her a no way look, even though I want to tell her there’s sort of someone. “I just arrived in New York. I don’t have time to date.”
“Earlier you were bragging about mastering our complex grid in days. I figured you’d have learned how to master dating too.”
When she puts it like that . . . “There is this woman.”
Her brown eyes sparkle. “Tell me.”
There is nothing my sister loves more than stories of romance. I tell her how I got on Boyfriend Material and met someone I clicked with right away.
She practically bounces on the bar stool. But then she adds, “Just make sure she’s not married, engaged, or a rabid liar before you fall in love with her.”
“I’m not going to fall in love with her.”
“You might,” she says, nudging my arm with her elbow. “You should meet her in person.”
It’s not the first time the idea has occurred to me. It’s been occurring to me all day. Because Betty Boop is the first woman I’ve clicked with so quickly in a long time.
Besides Amy.
We clicked. We hit it off instantly. We had the same crazy chemistry.
But Amy is against my rules. Hell, Amy is the reason I got on Boyfriend Material in the first place.
Because I can’t pursue her. And if I can’t pursue her, there’s no reason I shouldn’t try with Betty.
When Lisa excuses herself to call her wife and check on the baby, I grab my phone, open the app, and see Betty’s o
nline. God bless the green dot.
Dax Powers: Hey. How was the rest of your day? Mine was great. I’m at dinner with my sister and something has occurred to me. And that something is . . .
I stare at the note in progress. Am I rolling this dice? Planning to meet someone I don’t know and can’t see an image of till the forty-eight-hour avatar-only window closes tomorrow night? It’s possible I won’t find her attractive. It’s equally possible she won’t dig my looks.
But life is full of risks, and this doesn’t seem like such a big one, so I finish the note.
Dax Powers: . . . I think it would be a good idea (i.e., the opposite of bananas, or the equivalent of banana bread) if we meet tomorrow night.
But when I leave the restaurant, she hasn’t replied and that seems like answer enough.
Amy
I waste no time. I’m not a hemmer or a hawer. I’m a confessor.
I don’t even spare a second for the guy who runs this place to finish making my vanilla latte.
Instead, the second my best friend walks into the café, I grab her arm, pull her close, and blurt it all out at the counter.
“I made an online profile for you to get back into dating, and I was going to do all the vetting so I could present you with the cream of the crop, and that way you wouldn’t have to do it, because I know that part is misery for you, especially after the yoga incident.”
She gives me a quizzical look, then says, “That’s sweet.”
“It was, and you got a ton of responses because you’re so freaking awesome, and I didn’t even use your picture, but the way I described you was legendary, because you are legendary, so of course everyone wanted to meet you. But one guy stood out and I’ve been talking to him all day and . . . now I sound crazy,” I say, then gesture wildly to my mouth. “Like, as I hear the words pour forth from my piehole, they sound borderline insane. But we just clicked. And we’ve been talking all day, and he asked me if I want to meet tomorrow night, and I do, but, Peyton, he’s your potential boyfriend.”
Her face is expressionless.
Beautiful and stony.
Meanwhile, Tommy stifles a laugh as he works the espresso machine.
Or maybe fifty laughs.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 149
