“I’m not in a lather,” I say.

  “Lather,” Nolan coughs under his breath.

  TJ lifts a doubtful brow my way. “Bellamy is kind of all you’ve talked about when we’ve seen you lately. Maybe it’s a sign. A giant neon sign.”

  “Tell us what happens next, TJ,” Nolan says. “Write us his story, bro.”

  “Should I get out my pen?” TJ asks him.

  “I bet your pen is ready for action.”

  TJ pumps a fist. “Yes! You walked right into that . . . pen is,” he says, drawing out the two words, like we couldn’t figure it out. “Drinks are on you next time, Nolan. Personally, I would have phrased it . . . my pen. As in, my pen is mighty. My pen is heavy. My pen is sturdy.”

  “Dammit,” Nolan grumbles. “How do you trick me into a dick word every time?”

  “I’m smart like that,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “And a champion at the Don’t Say Penis, Cock, or Dick Unless You Mean It game.”

  “You do have an excellent detector for the use of pen is,” I say drily.

  TJ doffs an imaginary hat. “But to return to Nolan’s request, here’s what I’d write . . . Our hero, Easton Ford, heads into Piece of Cake this afternoon to meet the woman he can’t get out of his head. He’s still pissed she tore him to pieces on her show, but he respects her, and he wants to sleep with her. He also kind of has a big thing for her that he’s struggling to admit,” TJ says, and whoa.

  Wait.

  “Who said I have big feelings?” I counter.

  TJ claps me on the back. “Like I said, you haven’t been this caught up in ages.”

  Fine. Bellamy does occupy a lot of my thoughts. She intrigues the hell out of me. I salivate like Pavlov’s dog at the sight of her letters. I see another side of her when she writes to me, and I like that Bellamy.

  But what about the fact that we don’t want the same things?

  “You have big, fat feelings, E,” TJ says, then claps Nolan’s shoulder. “Just like this guy does for Emerson.”

  Nolan sputters. “What?”

  “You do, man,” TJ says decisively. “And for you, I’d write a story about a man and a woman who have been friends forever. They work on a food show together and have all of this unresolved sexual tension between them that one day, finally combusts.”

  “We’re not even in the same city. I’m in the process of moving back to NY and Emerson still lives in San Francisco. Plus, we’re only friends,” Nolan insists. He points to me, diverting the convo. “Finish the scene for E. What happens next to our guy?”

  TJ just shrugs. “Some scenes you just have to write out to know how to resolve them.”

  And I suppose that’s true. Because as we run, I try to picture walking into the bakery and seeing Bellamy, and I have no idea what to expect.

  25

  Cake, Olive Branches, and Confessions

  Before I leave my brownstone office for Piece of Cake, I check my email. A message from my social media manager tells me we’ve had some mentions.

  That can’t be good, so I hop over to Twitter. The Carpe Diem feed is stuffed with replies that make my day go pear-shaped.

  -What a bunch of elitist garbage.

  * * *

  -Who cares what rich fucks do?

  * * *

  -Not like I was ever gonna buy a fancy watch, or a ridic perfume, since, ya know, I was never gonna score an invite to one of their parties.

  * * *

  Groaning, I drag a hand down my face. Sure, the parties come with a fee, but I’m not asking for country club dues. The price is reasonable.

  But I know better than to defend myself online. Everyone knows you can’t argue with Twitter.

  Twitter always has the last word.

  Trouble is, I’ve built a solid, trustworthy business that I manage personally. My reputation matters, and a couple of errant comments can snowball.

  Worse, they can worry business partners.

  Like Victoire.

  Because Ms. Damon emails, wanting to chat. Dreaded words.

  From my office, I call her right away. “Hello, hello, Angeline. What can I do for you?”

  “Easton, level with me. Should I be worried that these kinds of negative comments are going to be an ongoing issue?”

  Well, I’m worried, but I don’t let on. “I don’t think it will, Ms. Damon. I take the brand and the business quite seriously. There will always be some who don’t like what I do, but our reputation is solid and strong.”

  “Then let’s focus on some press that shows the power of the personal touch,” she says. “I’ll put you in touch with my PR team.”

  “That would be great, and I’ll come up with something too. This is my issue to solve, and I plan to do just that.”

  “Glad to hear.”

  We say goodbye, and I exhale sharply.

  I’ve got to fix this.

  Some romances need a little extra effort to save, just like this deal with Victoire. How to do that, though, is the question.

  As I leave and walk to the cake shop to meet Bellamy, an idea starts to form.

  It’s only the start of an idea and still leaves me feeling unsettled. If I don’t tamp my emotions before I get to the shop, I’ll come off irritable and frosty. I don’t want to head in guns blazing when I plan to ask Bellamy for something.

  When I see her inside, seated at a table, it’s like she’s radiating sunshine and sparkling rainbows.

  What the hell? Is she happy about the Twitter reaction?

  I can’t get a read on her, and that’s before she stands and draws me in for a hug.

  Mmm. That’s unexpected but so very nice. Her honeysuckle scent flirts with my senses, and I forget what had me so annoyed. Who the hell cares when she smells this good? One embrace and she’s disarmed me.

  She lets go. “First of all, I wanted to thank you,” she says, and there’s not a shred of ire in her demeanor.

  “For what?” We sit, and I try to focus on business and cleaning up the toxic social media spill.

  “You know . . . what you said the other day after we were in the studio?” she prompts.

  “I said a lot of things on the phone that night.” I’m still unclear where we’re going.

  “What you noticed.” She scans the shop and lowers her voice. “About David.”

  His name seems difficult for her to say, and my Spidey senses tingle. “I remember.”

  She fiddles with a pen on the table, picking it up then setting it down. “I met with Bryn yesterday. She does some consulting for The Dating Pool. And, to make a long story short, I wasn’t the only woman there who was experiencing those . . . issues with him.”

  Oh, hell. I sit up straighter, tension whipping through me, but hope too. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “When I spoke to Bryn about what had happened, she said another woman had complained earlier this week too. Well, Bryn took matters into her own hands.” Her eyes are shining, but her voice is strong. “And . . . he resigned this morning.”

  She lets out the biggest sigh in Manhattan, her face the picture of relief. “This is such a weight off me. And I don’t think I would have said anything if you hadn’t noticed his behavior.”

  Suddenly, my concerns are nothing but smoke in the air, and all I care about is what this woman has done.

  She’s brave, and I’m damn proud of her.

  “That takes serious guts, Bellamy. And I don’t deserve any thanks. This is all you.” I hold up a hand to high five. She smacks my palm. “Congratulations. That is awesome.”

  Her smile is wider than the avenue. “Thank you. But you should accept some credit because I’d been denying what was happening. I told myself it was just part of being a woman in the workforce. I was in denial, then you said something. And I realized it was not normal and I shouldn’t have to feel this way. Now I don’t have to work with that asshole.”

  I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if I wanted to. “Good for you. You are seriously a rock star.” This is a good day, no matter what happens with Victoire. “We should celebrate with cake. It’s on me.”

  “We should.”

  I ask her favorite, and she chooses a chocolate buttercream cake with chocolate frosting. “Decadent,” I observe.

  “And we deserve it,” she adds. “But the slices are huge. Want to share?”

  “As long as you don’t encroach on my half.”

  “I’ll make no promises.”

  “I suppose I’ll take my chances.”

  I order a slice and we devour the chocolate fiesta, matching each other bite for bite. With one forkful left, I take no prisoners. “I’m afraid I have no choice here, Bellamy,” I say, scooping the last bite onto the fork and into my mouth, then going full Giada De Laurentiis as I roll my eyes in pleasure.

  “Was it good?” Bellamy asks when I’m done.

  “So satisfying.”

  Her eyes tour my face. “I’ll say.” Then she sets down her fork on the empty plate—not a crumb is in sight. “But that’s not all I wanted to tell you.”

  I keep my hurt out of my voice; it’s not as difficult as it would have been an hour ago. “Hit me. Apparently, I’m your favorite punching bag, but I can handle it.”

  She smiles. “Your grandmother helped me too. She told me something at her house about speaking up and speaking your mind. I don’t know if you heard that?”

  I nod. “I did.”

  “That stuck with me. And that’s why I wanted to apologize to you.”

  My head spins all the way around and back. “For what?”

  She gives me an apologetic smile. “Look, David pushed me to be hard on you, but I’m still responsible for what I say on my show.”

  “He pushed you because of his inappropriate feelings for you?”

  “After you left last week—”

  “When he kept inviting you to have dinner late in his office?”

  She winces. “Yes, and I said no. I told him I had to see my aunt. But not her cat.”

  I don’t laugh. She doesn’t either. “I’m glad you didn’t have to have dinner with him,” I say, solemnly.

  “Me too. Anyway, after you left, he said . . .” She drops to a masculine tone. “You need to come down really hard on that cocky bastard.”

  Ouch. Also, fuck that guy.

  “When I showed him my script later, he added some of the harsher details,” Bellamy continues, “about the money and your parties being elitist. He said I had to do it that way or management would pull my show for being too soft,” she says, drawing air quotes. “I was scared and frustrated. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know how much power he had as my producer. So, I did it his way, but it bothered me so much after.”

  I blow out a long breath, indignant for her and what she’s endured. “That guy is a total fuckwad. I can’t believe he was messing with your podcast. You built that show. You made it successful. The Dating Pool is lucky to have you. You know that, right?”

  “I do now. That’s what Bryn said too. She wants me to go back to doing some of the things my audience really loved—special editions before a live audience in a theater.”

  “Like a talk show?”

  “Yes, exactly. Where audience members can ask questions and I have free rein to answer. We’re going to set up a show in a couple of weeks. I haven’t done one like that in months, so it’ll be fun. She said when The Dating Pool licensed my show earlier this year, they’d wanted me to have carte blanche to speak my mind. But I felt stuck the last few months as David tried to influence it. I’m only sorry you were caught in the quicksand.”

  “Pfft. Don’t apologize. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” This has reminded me there are more important things at stake than my ego and my squeaky-clean online rep. Things like respect—the respect all women deserve at work.

  “Thanks for understanding. I’ve felt a little like a tea kettle about to boil over,” she admits with a sigh that feels months in the making.

  Things suddenly add up. “That’s why you said you needed it the other night? At the piano?”

  A sheepish shrug is my answer. “Yes. God, yes. Angry sex unlocked me more.”

  I smile smugly. “So . . . you don’t think my parties suck?”

  She laughs then shakes her head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cowboy. I don’t agree with your approach at all.”

  “C’mon. You truly believe you can meet the love of your life digitally?” I challenge.

  “I do. Because we live both IRL and digitally. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle. I want love. Great, fantastic, riotous love.” From anyone else, that would sound pie-in-the-sky. But she’s got a laser focus in her eyes, an intensity etched in her wicked lips that says she’s all business.

  “The tell-the-world-on-a-billboard-in-Times-Square kind of love,” I say, quoting her episode about Carpe Diem.

  “Yes. That kind. I want that. And to get it, you have to put yourself out there, over and over. Love has the power to change your life. It isn’t supposed to come easily. I don’t want it to pass me by, so why would I limit myself to a party? Or a bar? To a single-chance encounter? No one wants a million frogs, but if you only kiss the frogs at the jazz club, you might miss the prince that was next door at the sports lounge.”

  “You’re a real Carrie Bradshaw,” I say, but I’m smiling. Damn, this woman knows what she wants. I might not want that kind of love, but I admire the hell out of her fire.

  “And you’re a real capitalist cowboy,” she tosses back, and she’s smiling too.

  “Unapologetically.”

  “And yes, I meant everything I told you in the warehouse, when it was just you and me,” she continues. “I meant most of what I said on my podcast too. I’m only apologizing for the harsher things.”

  “So, we’re still on opposite sides,” I say with a laugh.

  “Seems we are,” she says, also laughing.

  Opposite sides, but perhaps with a new truce.

  In that truce, I see the opportunity to bring up my new idea.

  She speaks at the same time, and we say the same thing: “I’d like a second chance.”

  26

  Most Worthy Adversaries

  I came prepared to convince Bellamy to give Carpe Diem another shot.

  Turns out, I also want this chance for me.

  I didn’t expect to like Bellamy this much. But I do, and I also admire the hell out of her—her mind, her attitude, her approach.

  “I’m not asking you for another podcast report,” I say, explaining my idea. “I don’t want a redo. I want to prove something to you. I don’t want you to just cover my parties. I want you to see that they really can work.”

  She leans in, her elbows on the table, her gaze intense. “But I do want to talk about them on my show. Don’t you see? I can talk freely about them now.”

  “About how elitist they are?” I goad her.

  “Well, they are. But we’ve already dealt with that. What I want is to tell the listeners who are curious about them what they really entail.”

  Color me intrigued. “Go on.”

  “But I also want to be fair. So, I should come to your parties.”

  I point at her, accusing. “If memory serves, you slipped in right under my nose, and I couldn’t stop you.”

  “You didn’t want to stop me, Easton.”

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” I tease.

  “Do you really think I’m the enemy?” she asks, no snark, no cat-and-mouse game.

  That’s a good question. We ripped up the enemies’ playbook at some point. Do we have a new one, though? I might like her a lot, but there’s still an underlying tension between us that isn’t going away. She believes online dating can help to find the one prince among a million frogs. I want people to avoid as many frogs as possible.

  “We are what we’ve always been at the core,” I tell her. “We’re on opposite sides of the story. Lawyers in a courtroom, both making our case.”

  “Opponents. Competitors. But not Darth and Luke, or Lex and Superman,” she adds.

  “Some might even call us most worthy adversaries.”

  She laughs lightly, and it’s so good to hear her laugh today, knowing she fought a gutsy battle this week. “So, let’s be that now. Let’s be opponents, and we’ll fight fairly.”

  I park my chin in my hand like I’m waiting ever so patiently for her. “Why does it sound like you have a proposal for me?”

  “Because I do,” she says with a grin.

  I wiggle my fingers. “Tell me more.”

  “If memory serves, this whole thing between us started with a bet. Your friends bet you couldn’t get me to kiss you.”

  “I have a vague recollection of that.”

  “So, how about another bet? Between you and me this time.”

  Oh, I like this. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll try things your way. You try it mine,” she says.

  I lift one brow. “Go on.”

  “I test out your parties. Give them a shot, talk about that on my show.”

  Wait.

  “You want to come to my parties as a guest?”

  “If you’ll have me.”

  The innuendo, so help me God. “You know I love having you, sweetheart,” I say in a low voice.

  She dips her face, licking the corner of her lips. “I know you do, Easton.”

  I have no choice. I can’t just sit on that. “And you love when I have you.”

  With a tilt of her head, she simply shrugs. “Do I?”

  I scoot my chair closer to the table, leaning into her. “You do—so fucking much that I bet you were hot and wet and bothered when you went home the other night.”

  She pouts in an over-the-top way. “You think I went home to rub a couple out because I wasn’t satisfied? Oh, Easton, I’m sorry you don’t know how to tell when a woman comes. It was that thing at the end when I shouted to the heavens and shuddered. Remember?”