Lucky Suit (Sexy Suits Book 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  Lucky Suit

  Lauren Blakely

  Contents

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Lucky Suit

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © Helen Williams, Second Edition Book

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  One Love Series

  The Sexy One

  The Only One

  The Hot One

  The Knocked Up Plan

  Come As You Are

  The Heartbreakers Series

  Once Upon a Real Good Time

  Once Upon a Sure Thing

  Once Upon a Wild Fling

  Sports Romance

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Most Likely to Score

  Lucky In Love Series

  Best Laid Plans

  The Feel Good Factor

  Nobody Does It Better

  Unzipped

  Always Satisfied Series

  Satisfaction Guaranteed

  Instant Gratification

  Overnight Service

  Never Have I Ever

  Special Delivery

  The Gift Series

  The Engagement Gift

  The Virgin Gift (coming soon)

  The Exclusive Gift (coming soon)

  Standalone

  Stud Finder

  The V Card

  Wanderlust

  Part-Time Lover

  The Real Deal

  Unbreak My Heart

  The Break-Up Album

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Out of Bounds

  Birthday Suit

  The Dating Proposal

  The Caught Up in Love Series

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Playing With Her Heart

  Stars In Their Eyes Duet

  My Charming Rival

  My Sexy Rival

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

  Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

  After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

  One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

  A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

  The Joy Delivered Duet

  Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

  Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

  Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

  Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

  The Jewel Series

  A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

  The Sapphire Affair

  The Sapphire Heist

  Lucky Suit

  ABOUT

  I’m breaking up with set-ups. No more “can I introduce you to my son, nephew, grandson, the butcher, the guy down the street who mows my lawn.” Machines know what’s best, and I’ll rely on the great dating algorithms of the web to find the ideal man, thank you very much.

  Soon enough, it looks like I’ve found him — his nickname is Lucky Suit, and he’s hilarious, quick-witted and full of heart. But when I finally get together with him in person, I have the distinct feeling I’ve met him before.

  Turns out there’s more to our meeting than I had thought, and when we discover what truly brought us together, all bets are off.

  1

  Kristen

  I’ll tell Grams as soon as I see her.

  I’ll break the news to her and then explain why my new plan is the logical one.

  First, though, I adjust the aperture on my telescope, and one of my favorite sights comes into view. The Andromeda Galaxy is such a show-off tonight, and nothing beats that billion-star galaxy. It’s all yummy and triumphant in the sky, as if it’s saying to the Milky Way, “I’m coming to get you in four and a half billion years.”

  I’m savoring the view, because the night sky rocks, when I hear footsteps.

  “Tell me what?”

  I startle, yank my eyes away from the telescope, and stare at my grandma, who’s snuck out on the balcony we share, since her condo is right next to mine. “Were you here the whole time?”

  She quirks up her lips in a gotcha grin. She is so good at that. She could teach a master class in giving that grin to grown granddaughters.

  “Long enough to hear you had something to tell me.”

  “I said that out loud?” I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

  She parks her hands on her hips, still fabulous in her skinny jeans at seventy-five. Dear God, may I please have her genes, with a capital G? “Yes. So . . . spill. What do you have to tell me? You car-napped my Mustang and did donuts in the 7-Eleven lot last night? You borrowed my new Louboutins without asking? Or you’re selling your half of this Key Biscayne duplex because you feel guilty about the way you cramp my style?”

  “One, you don’t own Louboutins. You shop for shoes at Payless, and don’t deny it. Two, it’s a Corvette, not a Mustang. You can’t trick me on that count either. And three, I can totally handle the way I cramp your style.” I add a saucy finger snap for effect.

  “You take after me way too much,” she says, laughing. Her tone softens, the sass stripped away. “Seriously, what do you need to tell me?”

  I take a deep breath. “Sit.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  I p
oint to the table where I left my tablet. I swipe across the screen, opening it to an email I wrote earlier.

  Dear Mr. O’Leary,

  Please accept this letter as notice that I will be resigning from our third date, effective immediately.

  Thank you for the compliments, the cup of coffee (really, that was some seriously great joe), and the chance to chat for forty-six minutes after we learned how to coagulate cheese. You are a fine man and will likely prove to be an exemplary partner for a mate someday.

  If I can do anything to help with your transition in finding and training my replacement, please let me know. I feel it’s only right to tell you that I am officially 100 percent done with IRL dating. So it is with utmost honesty that I say, it’s not you. It’s definitely me.

  Sincerely,

  Kristen Leonard

  I look up to see the side-eye.

  Wait. That’s not the side-eye. That’s the you-can’t-be-serious eye.

  Then it morphs into the doubled-over-in-laughter hoot.

  And I maintain my best oh-so-stoic face.

  “What?” I feign confusion. “Is it because I didn’t spell out IRL? He’ll know what it means, right? Was I too internet-y? That’s totally possible.” I play up my innocence, like little ole me made an etiquette faux pas. “Sometimes I get caught up in the lingo. I can just spell it out. You want me to spell it out?”

  She fans her face like she can restore the oxygen she lost from her laughing fit. “Training a replacement? It was only two dates.”

  “Two dates too many.” I straighten my shoulders. “And I thought I should be considerate in sending a breakup letter. Establish a new standard, if you will.”

  One eyebrow climbs. She studies me quizzically, scanning my long brown hair, my green eyes, my freckles as if she’s never seen me before, then her eyes narrow. “Wait. I’m onto you. Did you simply google resignation letters?”

  I let my smile spread. It’s not often I can pull a fast one on her, and it’s glorious. “Gotcha.”

  Her lips quirk up, and she wags a finger. “You little prankster. I thought for sure you were going to send this.”

  “Please. You know me better. I’m going to send a super-short email along the lines of Thanks, but I feel we’re not the best fit.”

  She wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead. “You had me going.”

  I blow on my fingernails. “I still got it. I learned from the best.”

  “I have taught you well, and I will now take all the credit. Also, I can’t believe you didn’t like Henry. Why not?”

  “Look, I know your friend Betty thought we’d be great together, but I just didn’t feel like he and I had anything in common. He actually liked the cheese-making class. I don’t want to make cheese. I want it served to me. Who has time to make food from scratch when it’s just as easy to order it or, gee, I dunno, buy it?”

  “Fine, so you didn’t both like making cheese. But you truly didn’t connect on anything?”

  I shake my head. “We didn’t have a chance to learn if we did. All he talked about was the cheese. And then the coffee. Nothing more interesting. Nothing like black holes or the meaning of the universe. Or perhaps why certain cult classic TV shows aren’t streaming online—like Cupid with Jeremy Piven, which is arguably the best show ever canceled before its time.”

  “And every time you mention it, I want to see it more and more. We could try to hunt down DVDs. Did you check eBay?”

  “I’ve tried. Believe you me, I have tried. It’s harder to track down than buried treasure.” I sigh. “But see, this is my point. It’s such a better conversation topic than cheese.”

  “What about Sandy’s grandson, Matthew? The one from the pickling class? He seemed like the type you could discuss anything with.”

  “The trouble with Matthew is the whole time during the pickling class he kept telling me about his job.”

  “It’s normal to discuss your career with a date. I’m sure you mention your work sometimes,” she says gently, as if she’s talking to someone who has no clue about dating, men, and human interaction.

  But I do indeed have some clue. I’ve been on enough dates and enough bad ones to know what I want and don’t want, thank you very much. I want to leave my work as an alternative fuel scientist at the lab, and call me crazy, but some professions don’t lend themselves to small talk.

  “Grams. He works at a funeral home. He told me all about embalming people . . . during a carrot pickling class.”

  She tuts. “Fine, so he needs some work on social skills. Who doesn’t?”

  “Plus, pickled carrots? Ewww. Just eww.”

  “What about Sally’s grandson Freddie? We set up you on the glassblowing date. That seemed fun.”

  I shoot her a stern look. “Glassblowing, Grams. Don’t you remember what I told you? It was like a nonstop slapstick night of inappropriate jokes, and none were even funny. I love you and all of your efforts to set me up, but here’s the thing: these in-person matches don’t work on me. I’m evidently immune to matchmaking IRL.”

  She smiles hopefully. “Maybe you just haven’t met the one yet.”

  I sketch air quotes. “There is no ‘the one.’ There are many. But the trouble is meeting men in these real-life situations has a risk-to-reward ratio that’s too high.” I count off on my fingers. “I’ve gone to singles yoga classes, and I find nothing duller than omming my way through ninety minutes of mantras. I’ve attended wine tastings, even though I believe it’s a conspiracy to convince us the beverage is amazing when, in fact, it tastes literally like dirt, and I even signed up for ballroom dancing, but I infinitely prefer fast-paced sports on wheels. And don’t even get me started on Ping-Pong lessons.”

  “Ping-Pong lessons are an excellent way to meet a soul mate. You do know I met your grandfather, may he rest in peace, at Ping-Pong lessons.”

  “That was more than fifty years ago. You were twenty-one.”

  “Ping-Pong was fun then, and it’s fun now.” She gives me a coy little smile. “After all, there’s a reason your mom was born when I was only twenty-two.”

  I blink, pause, process. “And now Ping-Pong is officially ruined forever.”

  “Your mom took Ping-Pong lessons too,” she says, practically taunting me. “She took them when she was twenty-four, and voilà, you were born nine months later.”

  I arch one brow. “I’m feeling like Ping-Pong lessons are a euphemism for something. Call me crazy.”

  “I’m just saying, it’s fun whacking a ball back and forth.”

  “And the double entendres continue. Which may explain why I don’t care for it, and I don’t want any unexpected side effects nine months after a game.”

  “Fine, fine. Shall I cast a wider net, then? Ask some of my friends at poker club? Or maybe in my water aerobics class?”

  I slice a hand through the air. “I love you, but no. Setups and other randomly selected in-person dates rely too much on luck and chance and happenstance. Think about it. What are the true mathematical chances I’ll meet a man who is at least eighty percent compatible with me—and that’s my baseline—during Ping-Pong lessons?”

  She rolls her eyes. “There’s a good chance.”

  That’s the problem. I’m at the point where I want more than a string of dates. I want the same thing everyone wants—a spark, a sizzle, and a person. A someone I like being with, sharing with, spending my days with.

  But that starts with common ground.

  And finding common ground requires a whole new strategy.

  “From here on out, it’s an algorithm and an algorithm-only world.” I raise my arms like a high priestess. “I believe in the church of Google. I pray at the altar of machines and put my trust in artificial intelligence.” I grab my tablet and click to a dating site. “That’s why I signed up for an online dating service, allowing me a wider selection of potential dates and a more systematic approach. I’ve already chatted with a few men. Let me show you Jared.” I click on the prof
ile of a software developer with gray eyes and a square jaw.

  She shudders. “Serial killer.”

  “Grams.”

  She shakes her head. “Mark my words. Those beady eyes.”

  Fine, maybe Jared and his little eyes aren’t the best place to start. Clicking around, I find a profile of Porter, who’s new to the site and looks promising. I read his note to me out loud. “Good evening, Kristen. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I was delighted by your profile and am tickled pink to know you enjoy piano, logarithmic functions, studying new sources for alternative energy, and the companionship of a good science book.”

  She stares at me like I did, in fact, steal her prized car for a late-night joy ride. “He’s clearly an ax murderer.”

  “How on earth could you say that?”

  She points at the screen. “Porter is either an ax murderer or wears ladies’ underwear.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “He is not.”

  But now the idea’s been planted in my head, and I’m not too fond of it. Neither the ax murderer nor the undies.

  “Let’s try one more.” I swipe over to Wallace. “Look, he’s perfect for me. He believes in the beauty of a well-formatted spreadsheet.” I flutter my hand against my chest as if it’s my beating heart. “Is there anything better than the behind-the-scenes functions baked into a spreadsheet?”