Before my afternoon meeting with the PR team, I swing by for lunch with Rory and Jo at a café around the block. When I find them in a booth at the back, my sister holds up her phone, her green eyes lit with victory. “Look at this! We scored front-row tickets to the Dirty Rotten Scoundrels revival.”

  Jo pumps a fist in musical fangirl solidarity then sings from the chorus of “Great Big Stuff.” Then she adds, “When Emerson flies in next month, the three of us are going to see it and fangirl over Tremaine Groff. He’s playing the lead role, and I love him. Love, love, love. We’re talking true love.” She says it so dreamily, I half believe she is. And then I wonder if Bellamy likes musicals, whether she’d go see the production if I snagged us tickets.

  I bet she does, and I bet she would.

  “You two and your love of musicals,” I say as I grab a chair.

  “Musicals are life,” Jo says solemnly.

  “How did you pull off front-row seats?”

  “I heard about the special block of tickets on Twitter this morning, and snagged the hell out of them,” Rory adds with a victory shimmy.

  Jo bats her blue eyes at me. “Speaking of, you’re all over Twitter too.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. Is there more wreckage from the podcast piece? Worry tightens my throat. “Is it more of the whole elitist thing?”

  Rory smiles, the devilish kind that only a younger sister can deliver. “No. The opposite. I thought you engineered the chatter.”

  Jo shoves her phone at me, scrolling through her Twitter feed. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen this yet. Check it out, rock star.”

  I peer at the hashtag #CarpeDiemLove. Alongside it are photos of happy couples with captions.

  -We met at a Carpe Diem party last December. This weekend, she said yes.

  * * *

  -Three years ago, I was introduced to this fantastic woman at a party. Now? She’s the love of my life and my wife.

  * * *

  -A couple months ago, I walked through the doors to a party with a tiny bit of hope. Walked out with this fantastic man, and we’re getting hitched at Christmas!

  A few more fill the feed. A closer look tells me Bellamy of A Million Frogs has retweeted them all.

  35

  Octopi Style

  From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford

  * * *

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  I hope you saw the photos and love stories on Twitter. When you told me what happened with Victoire, I wanted to do my part to fix it.

  * * *

  Yours in owning your shit,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Never has the phrase owning your shit melted my cold heart so much. Thank you. I’m truly touched. You didn’t have to do that and yet you still did.

  * * *

  With so much gratitude,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  I call bullshit on one thing you just said.

  * * *

  With an eyebrow arch,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Of course you do. Let me guess. Was it the temperature of the organ in my chest? You suspect it’s frozen, not merely cold? Would you prefer “frozen, black heart” as a description?

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  No. I don’t think your heart is cold at all. You couldn’t do what you do if it were that chilly.

  Or chilly at all.

  * * *

  It’s warmer than you think. Like, a fire just starting to crackle.

  * * *

  In any case, it was, admittedly, lovely to hear stories about the couples you brought together. What can I say? Love stories make me happy. You probably think me a sap. But I’m okay with that.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I don’t just think you’re a sap. I know you are, Carrie Bradshaw. And it’s one of the many qualities you own so fucking well.

  * * *

  That really was an incredible gesture, and the CEO of Victoire just called to say how delighted she is with the social media chatter. She’s also going to attend the next party. I’ve convinced her to search for true love there too.

  * * *

  Allow me to say this from the truest part of my cold soul—you are extraordinary.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Thank you.

  * * *

  And I’m happy the situation is resolving. Truly happy.

  * * *

  But now I’ve grown agitated because we’re getting along too well. That’s horrifying! Horrifying, I say!

  * * *

  I insist we return to our official places in the courtroom. The cross-examination and mutual distrust must resume. Stat!

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Speaking of those opposite corners, don’t think I’ve forgotten I have a bet with you to win. And I intend to emerge the victor and will enjoy hearing you extoll the promise of my parties. So, as per our deal, since you’ll be attending my next party as a guest, it’s fitting that I get to know what you’re looking for in a man.

  Besides the obvious. Brilliant, captivating, and well hung.

  * * *

  Yours in I’ve figured out that much,

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  But that’s only a small piece of me. Sure, I like a well-endowed man, but what turns me on more is a man who knows what to do with everything he has.

  Especially his mind.

  * * *

  But do you really want to reveal my bedroom tastes to others?

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Scratch that.

  * * *

  There’s no way on heaven and earth that I’d ever let another man know what you like in bed. That’s for me to do to you, and with you, and for you. Ideally, tomorrow night.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Ah, but you’re late with an RSVP. My dance card tomorrow night is packed. I’ve been enlisted to go to Stallions and Studs for a scouting trip with Coco and TJ.

  * * *

  We could meet after, maybe? I’ll be done by nine.

  Or maybe nine-ish.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Right. Sure. “Enlisted.” Why do I have a feeling that you offered? Or even insisted?

  * * *

  Yours in I bet nine-ish is more like eleven or so,

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Fine, I volunteered the fuck out of my services for recon. Can you blame me? Now I’m off to the bank to make change. Gotta have lots of dollar bills.

  * * *

  See you after the strip club. Maybe it’ll give you some ideas for how I like lap dances from brilliant, well-hung men who turn out to be complete cuddle bears in bed.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I do not cuddle.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  No. It’s more like you wrap yourself around me, octopi style.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  36

  My Happy Place

  As Nolan and I settle in for tapas at The Lucky Spot, my Saturday night text messages go something like this . . .

  * * *

  Bellamy: I’ve got my notebook, pen, and the start of a pros and cons list for each dancer.

  * * *

  Coco: The man at the door in the leather vest gave me quite a once-over. And before you even say a word, he’s closer to my age than these strippers are. He’s also quite handsome.

  * * *

  TJ: Want to lay a wager on who’ll be first to order a lap dance? Your grandma or your woman?

  * * *

  I reply to Bellamy first with, I can only imagine how scathing your pros and cons list might be, then to Coco, writing, I presume you’re beguiling to men of all ages.

  Next, I flash my screen at Nolan, since TJ sent his text to the two of us. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking for the answer?”

  “I better be,” he says. “Count of three?”

  “Three, two, one,” I say, then, in a glorious mind meld, we type out the same answer to TJ: And we’re betting on you.

  Nolan and I knock fists as Spencer brings me a seltzer water and Nolan a beer. Waggling the phone at my cousin, I show him the thread. “Our grandmother is keeping everyone busy tonight.”

  Spencer reads, then points to TJ’s recent text. “He called her your woman. And you didn’t deny it,” he says with a smirk.

  But I didn’t corroborate it, either, since it’s not truly an option. I roll my eyes. “I simply moved on to the other part of the convo.”

  “Because you didn’t want to deny it,” Nolan puts in.

  Spencer parks his elbows on the edge of the counter, and I swear the pair are caging me in. “Here’s my question. If Bellamy’s not your woman, what will you do when she comes to your party and meets Mister Right?”

  A horror-movie shudder rolls through me. The prospect of Bellamy with Mister Right is all wrong. But I can’t stop her. She wants that kind of love—the neon-billboard-in-Times-Square kind. What’s more, she deserves it. “It’ll be fine,” I say as evenly as I can.

  “Pants on fire,” Spencer says.

  I ignore him and take a drink of the bubbly water. But when I set it down, Nolan levels me with bluntness. “You’re kind of a dumbass.”

  I jerk my gaze to him. “And why is that?”

  “You won’t be fine,” he says, then lifts his beer and tips some back.

  “Is that so?”

  He shrugs like he knows so. “Yup. A grand says you’ll be crying in your cereal when you let her walk away.”

  “I’m in,” Spencer says smugly.

  I roll my eyes. “We’re not a thing. There’s no walking away. We just have a bet and an understanding.”

  “Understanding, my ass. And I will lay down this wager now,” Nolan says, stabbing the bar.

  “You’re such an ostrich,” Spencer tells me.

  I also can’t resist a bet. “You’re on. I can’t wait to say I was right.”

  Spencer cackles. “Keep waiting. Nolan and I have this one locked up.” That’s his parting shot as he heads off to tend to customers at the other end of the bar.

  I wrench control of the conversational wheel, turning it on Nolan. “What’s the latest on the moving front? You think you’ll relocate here?”

  Nolan crosses his fingers. “If I can make it work, I’d love to. It’s getting old crashing on TJ’s couch. Don’t get me wrong—the dude has great taste in furniture and he’s a sport for letting me stay with him. But I need to figure out my next steps. I’ve got to make sure I can justify moving here from San Francisco.”

  “Will you miss the fam?”

  “So much. I talk to Jason all the time, though,” he says.

  “Go Hawks.” His little brother is the quarterback for one of the NFL teams in San Francisco. “He’s having a good start to the season.”

  “He sure is. I miss going to his games. And I’d definitely miss him if I moved here for good.”

  “But I bet you’ll miss Emerson more,” I rib him, which also happens to deflect from my romantic situation.

  Wait.

  I don’t have a situation.

  I have an understanding. That’s all.

  “For the millionth time, we’re just friends,” Nolan says.

  Our phones buzz in unison. I flip mine over, and he does the same.

  * * *

  TJ: I can feel inspiration dancing all around me. My next great romance will be about a brainy podcaster who meets a stripper with a heart of gold and falls in love. It’s practically writing itself before my eyes.

  * * *

  Seething a little, I draw a deep breath and tell myself I’m not jealous, I’m not jealous, I’m not jealous at all.

  * * *

  Easton: Newsflash: If that’s supposed to rile me up, it’s not working.

  * * *

  Nolan: Newsflash: His skin turned green with envy and his top is about to blow.

  * * *

  TJ: I thought so, Nolan. And you should really see this guy dancing with your woman, Easton. He’s packing some kind of turbo rocket launcher in his yellow thong. If I were you, I’d be breaking into a sweat.

  * * *

  Easton: And yet, I’m me. So I’m not worried.

  * * *

  Nolan arches a brow high above his glasses. “Your nose grew a few inches.”

  I glare at him. “The guy is wearing yellow undies. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  My phone buzzes again.

  Bellamy: Come join me. It’d be fun to have you here.

  * * *

  That’s enough for me. I push away from the counter. “Gotta go,” I say.

  “To see your woman?” Nolan asks.

  My jaw ticks, and I want to deny it, but there’s no point. We made our bets, and now it’s time for them to play out. “I can’t wait to take your money,” I say, then I clap him on the back and head to Stallions and Studs in the Village.

  A neon horse and a cowboy hat blink on the sign hanging above the door. An older man, maybe in his seventies and sporting a leather vest, jeans, and cowboy boots, tells me the cover charge is twenty-five bucks. This is Grandma’s guy, I’m guessing.

  “It’s rowdy in there. Ladies’ night and all. But I’m Longjohn. Rod Longjohn,” he says, James Bond style. “And I hope you enjoy yourself.”

  “I will, Rod.”

  I pay the fee then head inside, adjusting to the sonic assault of Lil Wayne’s “Fireman.” Around the corner by the main stage, I find my grandmother with her iPad in hand, taking notes.

  That’s so very Coco.

  I weave through the crowds cheering on a battalion of firemen wearing nothing but turnouts as they shake their hips to the rap beat.

  I laser in on my grandmother, my friend, and . . . the woman.

  She’s not mine, no matter how high my pulse spikes when I see Bellamy. Once our gazes meet, her brown eyes sparkle.

  Her hands are in the air, and she’s bumping shoulders with TJ. She leans into Coco, points at an oiled-up, dark-skinned dancer on stage, and gives an exaggerated thumbs-up.

  Coco mouths a big Yes.

  I join the crew at their table, where Bellamy welcomes me in the best way possible. The second my ass hits the red upholstered lounge chair, she climbs on my lap, wraps her arms around me, and presses a kiss to my cheek. She smells faintly of tequila.

  “Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”

  She grinds her ass against my crotch. “A lot more now,” she purrs, but she only seems tipsy, not drunk. “I’m impressed you came down here.”

  “Why are you impressed?”

  She waves a hand to the stage. “Naked man-flesh everywhere.”