Bellamy’s hand flies to her mouth, but it’s too late to take anything back. “Oh, shoot, Easton. I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head, still irritated. “You have more walls than an international border.”

  “That might be true,” she admits, chagrined. “I’ll help rescue Grandma from a bad date any way I can.”

  I huff. “You damn well better.”

  The Supper Lounge is a few blocks away on Sixth Avenue, so there’s time to walk and talk. But the second we step outside the warehouse, Bellamy’s phone rings. She holds up a finger to me, then answers it.

  “Hey, Bryn,” she says, sliding into a professional voice as we walk along Nineteenth Street, then she’s quiet as she listens.

  “I appreciate you calling me back, especially at night,” she says finally.

  Another pause. It lasts nearly a minute, until we’re nearing the crosswalk.

  “Definitely,” she tells the caller with a crisp nod. “I can be there Thursday afternoon.”

  Silence.

  “I appreciate you making time for me so quickly. Thank you.”

  Another pause as we reach the intersection, then Bellamy laughs. “So glad Bruce is doing well with Queen LaTofu. I had a feeling about those two. It’s nice to know they’re in kitty love.”

  My brows climb at that, and Bellamy thanks the woman and hangs up. “Cat affairs,” she explains.

  “Sounds like quite a lot of feline tomfoolery going on.”

  “It does seem that way.” She segues back to that more businesslike tone. “Bryn used to head up The Dating Pool. She works as a consultant now.”

  I don’t ask if Bellamy is setting up an interview with the woman because I don’t want to bring up the podcast after our piano encounter. I’m more interested in why Bellamy needed a hot hate fuck.

  I know why I did—the woman pissed me all the way off, and I can’t get her out of my head.

  We’re not going to become a thing. Bellamy and I are on opposite sides of the romance ring in every way, professionally and personally.

  She wants big, epic romance. I don’t.

  Case closed.

  I should say goodnight so we can go our separate ways. Let her off the hook for fetching Coco.

  And yet, I don’t want to.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet Grandma,” I say. “Mostly to hear you say, you were right, Easton. I have a reputation to uphold as a ‘cocky fucker.’ Your words.”

  “Hmm. I believe I called you cocky. Not sure I used the work fucker.”

  “Poetic license,” I say. “Though, I’d say it fully applies, now.”

  “Art imitating life, I suppose.”

  “No. The other way around.”

  “Fair point,” she says. “And since you are a cocky fucker—now officially my words—you can’t wait to say I told you so.”

  I tap my chin. “That’s not true. I can definitely wait. Because it’s going to be so very satisfying,” I say, then I lean closer, coast a finger along her cheek. “Like fucking you was.”

  She shivers, and I file that away.

  Oh, yes, I can wait for my you were right.

  We round the corner and reach The Supper Lounge. I push open the heavy doors and usher Bellamy inside, where we hunt through the crowd for my elegant grandmother.

  A swing band plays on a low stage in the corner, and the notes of a saxophone float over the tables. “Bet she’s out with some suit,” I mutter. “She can’t resist guys in suits.”

  Bellamy shoots me a flirty side-eye stare. “A sharp-dressed man is catnip,” she says, her gaze traveling along my tailored shirt.

  I tug on the collar. “Only a bit wrinkled from when this wildly sexy woman who detests me nearly tore it off.”

  “She must really hate you.”

  “It’s a deep and abiding kind of hate,” I say.

  “The type of hate that runs bone”—she licks her lips—“deep.”

  I’d give the woman a slow clap for that if she wouldn’t think I was sucking up to her. “The irresistible kind,” I say instead.

  We weave through tables, scanning for a high-fashion grandmother with gunmetal-gray hair.

  “There she is,” Bellamy declares.

  I look at her in surprise. “You recognize my grandmother?”

  “Saw her at the party.” She points, and lo and behold, there’s Coco, wedged between . . . two women?

  Huh.

  That’s not what I expected.

  “I bet her date brought his sisters along,” I grumble. “See? Online dating is crazy.”

  “Because of the possibility a date might bring his sisters? That makes no sense, Easton.”

  “No, because people surprise you in weird ways. The other week, her date brought his adult kids. I swear . . .”

  “All dating is weird,” she says. “Not just online dating.”

  We reach my grandmother, sandwiched between two harmless-looking little old ladies. When she spots me, Coco beams through her tiger-print eyeglasses. “Is the chopper ready, munchkin?”

  “Yes, Harvey said to . . . chop, chop.”

  “Ah,” she says, then explains to her companions. “Helicopter talk for time to skedaddle.”

  The curly-haired woman to her right frowns. “Are you sure you have to go? I wanted to tell you my mulch recipe. It’s fantastic for New York gardens.”

  “How wonderful,” Coco says as she slinks out of the booth.

  The redhead grabs her arm. “One more thing. Be sure to save your cardboard. For the mulch. I can bring you some of mine if you want to try it.”

  Coco taps her temple. “Email me all the details.”

  Then, skedaddle we do. A minute later, we hit the street, and my grandmother breathes a huge sigh of relief. “I thought I’d never escape.”

  I give her a look that says what gives. “I thought you were on a date gone bad.”

  She scoffs. “Dates I can handle. Boring friends from college are the worst. That was Ursula and Dolores, and they’re simply dreadful. I got snookered into meeting them when they mentioned how much fun we’d had in our sorority.” She shakes her finger. “But let that be a lesson—old memories do not forecast new ones. I was bored senseless. Mulch. I’m not sure how I survived.”

  Beside me, Bellamy chuckles under her breath.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say to clarify. “You called in a Mayday because you were bored?”

  My grandmother stares sharply at me, no joking in her blue eyes. “Isn’t that what Maydays are for, dear? I don’t have much time left on this earth. I can’t spend it being un-entertained. I wanted to talk about sex and music and cocktails. But I also didn’t want to offend them. Decorum matters.” With that, she turns to Bellamy and offers her hand. “I’m Coco Ford. I recognize you from the party.”

  “Pleasure to meet a woman of such high standards. I’m Bellamy Hart, and I love a good Moscow Mule.”

  “I’m a martini gal all the way,” Coco says as they shake hands. Then she glances from me to Bellamy. “But did I interrupt something?” Her eyes widen, and she wags a finger at me. “I did. I am a bad, bad woman.”

  Ah. I see now. Coco is a little drunk. “Time to get you home, Grandma,” I say.

  “But I’m just getting to know Bellamy. Bellamy, dear, come with us. We have so much to talk about.”

  Dear God, don’t let it be sex.

  The devil woman’s eyes light up. “Can you tell me stories about what Easton was like as a kid?”

  I smother a groan. That topic is only marginally better.

  Coco grins—wickedly, of course. “So many delicious tales. Where to start . . .”

  By the time the cab drops us off at Coco’s Upper East Side brownstone, Bellamy has heard about how, when I was twelve, I took my father’s red Triumph for a joyride and crashed it into a mailbox.

  Two states over.

  She’s learned how, on a European vacation, my family traveled from Paris to London via the train under the English Channel, and I convinced my sister that the Eiffel Tower was in England.

  Bellamy looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You were full of mischief, Easton Ford.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I say.

  “So much mischief,” Coco seconds as she leads us into her three-story brownstone. “Do you want to see pictures of him as a kid?”

  Bellamy gleefully eats this up as we cross the foyer. “Of course.”

  Grandma beckons my archenemy down the hall to her bedroom suite. I start to follow, but she stops me with a raised hand. “You go wait in the living room. We’ve got girl talk to do.”

  “Yes, munchkin,” Bellamy taunts with poorly hidden laughter. “We’re going to gab.”

  But before she turns away, she mouths, You were right.

  I laugh and mouth back, I told you so.

  And, yes, it’s very satisfying.

  In the living room, I pour myself two fingers of scotch from the decanter on the bar table, then flop onto the couch. I grab The Bonfire of the Vanities from the coffee table. As I open it, reading idly, bits and pieces of the conversation in Grandma’s room float through the spacious home.

  “Could he have been any preppier?” Bellamy asks.

  “No, dear. He could not. Not even if he’d owned the entire Izod company.”

  A few moments later . . .

  “Of course he plays blackjack.”

  “And he never loses, I swear. He’s got the Midas touch at the tables.”

  And after that . . .

  “Oh, this is a sweet shot by the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Yes, that’s him and Anna. May she rest in peace.”

  I freeze, glass midair.

  There’s a pause, then Bellamy repeats somberly, “May she rest in peace.”

  I still don’t move, imagining Bellamy’s checking out a picture of me with a woman I was in love with once upon a time.

  But they quickly move on and are talking about music—Cole Porter versus Cyndi Lauper—as I finish the drink and set it down with a yawn, turning a page in the book.

  There’s something so natural about Bellamy chatting with Coco, even after angry sex with me.

  Bellamy and I don’t see eye to eye, and while that pissed me off earlier, I’m not so annoyed now. Maybe that’s the Great Sex Effect?

  Or maybe it’s the Coco Effect. It’s endearing in ways I didn’t expect, hearing the two of them debate Ella Fitzgerald versus Pink. Funny that Bellamy likes Ella and Coco picks Pink.

  I flip another page, but the words start to blur as I sink deeper into the soft pillows of the couch.

  “I heard your podcast about Carpe Diem,” Coco says, like it’s a delicious secret. “So scathing.”

  “Was it too much?” There’s a hint of regret in Bellamy’s tone. Does she wish she hadn’t aired the piece this afternoon?

  “Darling, never apologize for speaking your mind. It’s something that women really ought to do every day. In business and in love.”

  “You know, I think you’re right,” Bellamy says, her tone confident, the voice of someone who just made a big decision.

  I’m not sure what that might be, but I doubt I’ll puzzle it out further tonight. Not with my eyes floating closed as the exhausted bliss of great sex finally catches up with me.

  When I wake up to the sun peeking through the window, Bellamy is gone.

  23

  Grandma Crush

  From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford

  * * *

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  I think I have a crush on your grandmother.

  * * *

  Bellamy, AKA The One You Can’t Stand

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  The crush appears mutual. The first thing Coco did when she woke up was order the ingredients for Moscow Mules from her favorite liquor store. I hope I didn’t spoil any surprise when the invitation for cocktails arrives.

  * * *

  Yours in I can still feel the effects of that hate sex,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Good. Because there are so many more tales I want to extract from her.

  * * *

  Yours in . . . same here,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I’m sure she has plenty more to share about the trouble I got into.

  * * *

  Easton

  The Purveyor of Enemy-Delivered Os

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Did I say they were tales about you? Please. Maybe I want to hear stories about her life.

  * * *

  Bellamy,

  Greedy Recipient of those Os

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I appreciate your commitment to knocking me down a peg or two.

  * * *

  Yours,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Try three.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Today’s debate is this—whether I still can’t stand you or I still want to bend you over the couch.

  * * *

  Yours in dilemmas,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  You know it’s both.

  * * *

  Dilemma solved,

  Bellamy

  Friday Morning…

  * * *

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  I hope you’re having a good day. Can you meet in person this afternoon? There are things I’d like to discuss.

  * * *

  My best,

  Bellamy

  24

  The Potential of Gift Bangs

  As I tug on running clothes on Friday morning, I brace myself for further fallout from Bellamy’s podcast piece. It was released three days ago now, but The Dating Pool has it featured on the homepage this morning.

  Warily, I log into the Carpe Diem database on my phone, but nobody has canceled for the next party.

  Weird.

  Tucking my phone into the pocket of my shorts, I head over to The High Line to meet TJ and Nolan. We hit the running path quickly, and I catch them up on all things Bellamy, then ask the big question. “How long will it take for the aftershocks of her report to hit my business?”

  TJ scrubs a hand over his jaw. “You’re thinking Miss Million Frogs is a poisonous one?”

  Nolan shudders. “Romance is dangerous,” he says, craning his neck to check out his spine. “Can you still see the tire tracks on my back?”

  “They’re fading, but I can definitely see the scars where you were run over,” I say.

  We are all comrades in arms, burned by love in different ways. I lost the first woman I loved. Nolan was screwed over by a woman years ago. And last year, TJ’s boyfriend dumped him publicly.

  On a TV news show.

  Talk about ouch.

  “I just can’t figure out why Bellamy wants to get together today,” I add as we run. “The piece is done. We’ve moved on. What’s the point?”

  As we pass a couple of power walkers, Nolan tells me, “Don’t look a potential gift bang in the mouth.”

  I shoot him the side-eye. “We’re meeting at Piece of Cake. Pretty sure it’s not for a slice and a screw.”

  Nolan shrugs. “Don’t bet against that shop. That bathroom has a lot of room for bend-over-the-sink banging. Emerson and I covered that place a year ago.”

  TJ nearly skids to a stop, slamming a palm against Nolan’s chest. “You screwed the co-host of your show in the cake shop? That is rich.”

  As they resume their pace and catch up with me, Nolan laughs. “No. Please. Emerson is just a friend. I was simply remarking on bathroom size for bangability.”

  “Yet, that’s not any less weird. Is bathroom bangability a talking point on your show?” I ask.

  Nolan hums thoughtfully. “No, but good point. Might need to add that to our restaurant reviews.”

  TJ turns to me, pointing a thumb at our friend. “He’s a lost cause in the civilization department.”

  “That is true,” I agree.

  “But you, E? I haven’t seen you this worked up about a woman since you met Anna,” TJ adds.

  When I met Anna at an alumni event six years ago, it was hook, line, and sinker for me. Getting over her death three years ago wasn’t easy, but I did it. Now I’m on the other side. Still, it’s odd for my friend to compare the two women—one I loved and lived with, and one I want desperately, think about constantly, and can’t figure out no matter how hard I try.

  “But they’re not the same at all,” I insist. “When I met Anna, we started dating right away. There was no . . . animosity. No issues. No rejection.”

  “Right. There was no conflict, so you fell for Anna quickly. But you’ve met other women, worked with other women, dated other women since her. And no one—not a single woman—has gotten you in a lather like this one has.”