She swallows, picks up her tablet, then reads my profile. “I will keep you on your toes. I’m fast with my tongue, quick with a comeback, and always ready for a good debate. And it goes both ways—feel free to dress me down, dish it out, and give as good as you get. I am here for all of it. As long as we keep things simple. Life is complicated enough. Dating doesn’t have to be complicated by four-letter words like love.”

  There’s nothing untrue in her profile, but I feel like I’ve been knocked in the teeth. “Ouch.”

  “I can change it,” she offers, her voice stretched thin, her eyes rimmed with sadness.

  My chest squeezes again, but a voice grows louder in my head.

  It says window curtain lights.

  I’ve got to stay strong. I draw a deep breath, fighting like hell to stave off the turmoil roiling inside me, the whiplash of the past in my present. “Nah. It’s all good.”

  She hits post. “And now you’re available for swiping,” she says, then grabs her purse, and hooks her thumb toward the door. She looks oddly bereft as she says, “I should go.”

  “You have to leave?”

  “I have to do a podcast before the party.” She gulps, pushes strands of hair off her neck. She’s fidgety and that’s not like her. “But maybe we can talk after the event?”

  “Sure,” I say, but my nerves tighten. Talk sounds bad. Like a talk could end our understanding. “About what?”

  A faint smile flickers on her face, but then vanishes. “Just stuff. The bet. What it means. Us.”

  “Right. Sure,” I say, and the tension between us is thick, like humid summer air. The kind that makes you want to go inside and escape from it.

  “Would that work for you?”

  “Yeah,” I say, since what other answer is there? Hey, Bellamy, I’m feeling out of sorts, and I have no idea why, but let’s roll up our sleeves and talk about what the hell is brewing between us and how awful and great it feels at the same time.

  “Cool,” she says, then points to the door again. “I should go.” She laughs at herself. “And I already said that.”

  She stands, but I don’t move. Do I kiss her? Hug her? Wave goodbye?

  In the few seconds it takes me to run through those options, she’s already stepped away.

  “Okay,” I say, and I let her go.

  She heads to the door, her chestnut hair whooshing in the afternoon breeze as she walks away.

  I should have kissed her goodbye.

  My phone buzzes, and hope rushes through me that it’s her with a sassy note, a fiery barb.

  Or, better yet, a letter.

  God, I live for her letters.

  Nothing has made me happier than those.

  I slide the screen open. But it’s only a notification from the dating app she put me on.

  I hit ignore.

  Soft lights shimmer around the bathroom mirror as I shave. My eyes keep darting to them.

  They’re just bathroom lights. That’s all. But I can’t shake the feeling that they’re flickering when they are fucking not.

  I finish shaving, set down the razor, then splash water on my face.

  Shake it off.

  I need to get away from these lights. In the bedroom, I grab a shirt and button it up.

  This weirdness in my chest? That’s just party nerves, right? That’s all it could possibly be.

  The antsy, caffeinated sensation rolls through me again as I tuck the shirt into my slacks.

  Regular old jitters. Nothing more.

  Except, I’ve thrown a ton of romance soirees, and I’ve never felt anything like this insistent, too-big sensation in my chest. It expands through my ribs, pushes against my skin until I feel like I don’t fit inside my body.

  With a rough swallow, I slam a hand against the wall. I take a deep breath. In, out. In, out.

  Get it together, man. Now is not the time for your first panic attack.

  I haul in a breath, let the air fill my lungs. Will away the thoughts of window curtain lights, and years gone by, and all these emotions.

  So many goddamn emotions.

  Old ones, new ones. Too many ones.

  That’s the trouble. There’s just no room in me for them. I’ve got to do my best to ignore these feelings. As I walk to the warehouse, I pounce on my sister’s text, eager for the distraction.

  Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Listen to any good podcasts lately?

  * * *

  Your favorite brother: No. Why? Should I?

  Is she talking about Bellamy’s show?

  I click over to my podcast app, but I don’t have time to wait for Rory’s reply or to check for a new episode. I’m inside the building, and it’s go time. Vendors are here, and I have a party to throw.

  Matches to make.

  A brand-new guest to introduce to the men of Manhattan.

  Except, that’s the last thing I want to do.

  Just the thought of it stirs a hornet’s nest of emotions in my chest. So clearly, the solution is to do more than ignore the fuck out of my fidgety heart. My angry heart. My warm, squishy soft one.

  My heart in all its crazy forms.

  The only answer is to take these damn feelings, stuff them in a cage, lock them up, and throw away the key.

  In the elevator mirror, I square my shoulders, run a hand through my hair, and then look straight ahead.

  I’m steel, and I’m ready for anything that could come my way.

  39

  Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs . . .

  Episode: Will you be mine?

  * * *

  Bae. Steady. Boyfriend. Main squeeze. Lover.

  Doesn’t matter what you call it, dear listener. At some point, if you’re seeing someone on the reg, chances are you’re going to level up in the what are we department.

  Yes, that can be a terrifying conversation, fraught with nerves and hand-wringing and necessitating multiple glasses of wine with your girlfriends.

  What if your hookup doesn’t want the same things you do? What if the guy or gal you’ve been dating doesn’t want to lock you up in the same way?

  And, as Kitty in Manhattan asks in our listener question of the week, how do you know when it’s time? And what do I do if he doesn’t feel the same way I do?

  Well, Kitty, this is a tricky topic. It may be one of the trickiest in modern romance. You could have amazing chemistry with this guy you’ve been seeing—the kind where you spark every damn time you see him. The kind where you’ve met your match. But what if he doesn’t want the same things?

  Deep breath.

  Like I wrote in my planning notes—one, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. You deserve love. And two, don’t be afraid to walk away if you’re not getting what you want.

  And what if he does want the same things? What if he’s changed? What if he’s open to all the possibilities?

  You won’t know unless you ask the question.

  Chin up; lipstick on. Sometimes you have to talk to the frog no matter how much it scares you.

  No matter how hard it feels.

  Take heart, Kitty. You’re not alone, dear listener.

  I’ll be right there with you, asking the question too.

  I’d rather kiss this one frog than any others, but first, I have to use my mouth to tell him how I feel.

  Wish me luck, just as I’ll be wishing you luck.

  * * *

  Your Most Devoted Guide to Romance

  40

  Trash or Treasure

  Angeline steals me away as soon as she arrives at the fête. “Now, listen. I have my sights set on Max Walker.”

  I’m aware she’s sweet on the art collector. She already told Coco, and me, and the rest of the team. “He assures me he’ll be here.”

  She laughs, tugging on her rose-gold necklace. “I said that already, didn’t I?”

  “You might have mentioned it,” I say with a smile, fighting to keep my focus on her.

  But it’s hard with the piano mere feet away. Harder, too, with those fucking lights on the windows—those damn flickering lights.

  The hardest part, though, is when I spot a blonde hostess introducing Bellamy to Kendrick Lawton. He runs a charity to promote literacy and has struggled to find a companion online. That’s why he turned to Carpe Diem. He’s old school, kind, smart, and completely open to love.

  He’ll be perfect for Bellamy.

  So damn perfect, she’ll fall in love tonight.

  That can’t happen.

  I drag my attention back to my corporate partner, but I’m only half present. I’m also hunting through my mental file on Kendrick. “It’s going to be great,” I say. “Max will be here soon. And we’ll make sure you talk to him. I know it’ll go well.” I’ve said similar words to many clients, many times, on many nights. But this time, they feel off.

  Everything feels a little off tonight.

  Angeline’s hand flutters around her necklace, tugging it again. “I’ll stay right here, by these pretty paintings and the champagne bar. It’s been a while since I even had a date. But here I am, because romance is my Achilles’ heel. I can’t resist trying again.”

  That’s it! I need to find Kendrick’s Achilles’ heel, and I think I’ve got it. I know from my database that the dapper man loves Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  “Excuse me for just a moment,” I tell Angeline, then I leave her and head toward Bellamy at the bar. The brunette is chatting with the bespectacled guy and . . . no.

  Just no.

  If I’m not responding to app messages, she doesn’t get to talk to dudes.

  Plastering on a smile, I stride right over to them. “Hello, Bellamy. Hello, Kendrick. How is everything tonight?”

  The man flashes me a grin. “Fantastic, now that I’ve met Bellamy.”

  “Bellamy makes everything better,” I agree pleasantly, but I’m a cat playing with a mouse.

  “Thanks, Easton,” she says, then laughs. She sounds a touch nervous. Maybe about me coming over. But the three-second lull in the conversation that comes next is my opening, and I take it.

  “I heard your podcast. So amazing how many times you’ve tried online dating,” I say, taking my time with the mouse.

  “You heard my podcast today?” There’s a note of hope in her voice.

  I didn’t have a chance to hear today’s podcast. But I know her schtick, and I nod. “How you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs.”

  “Okay,” she says tentatively, glancing at Kendrick and back at me. “And you want to talk about it now?”

  I shrug, fueled by bravado and jealousy and other strange feelings brewing inside me. “Sure. Why not? We could talk about all the things you’re looking for in romance, like we discussed the other week. This’ll be fun.” I rub my palms together, getting ready to go for the kill.

  “I’m not sure now is the moment,” Bellamy says, her eyes asking what the hell I’m doing.

  I don’t know either but something has a hold of me as I turn to the man who thinks he can win her. “Kendrick, did you know Bellamy thinks Daisy Buchanan is a selfish twat?”

  Kendrick jerks his gaze back to me, blinking in confusion. “Oh. Is that so?” He sounds flummoxed, and that’s excellent.

  “Easton—” she cuts in.

  “But she is,” I say. “Daisy’s such a selfish creature. Don’t you agree?” I ask Kendrick. “My bad. I forgot you love The Great Gatsby, and probably its main characters too.”

  “I do. I think Daisy is terribly misunderstood,” Kendrick says.

  I pretend to be appalled at my faux pas. “Oopsy Daisy, as they say. But hey, at least there’s Hemingway, right? You two can bond over him.”

  I’d bet my sanity Bellamy despises Hemingway. “You said he was trash when we were having dinner, didn’t you, Bellamy? When we debated if he’s trash or treasure?”

  She curls her lip, shooting me death rays with her stare. “No. I never said that.”

  “But you think it, right?” There’s no way she likes Hemingway.

  An annoyed sound—is that a growl?—falls from her lips. “I don’t want to talk about Hemingway.”

  Kendrick clears his throat, edging away from the bar. “Excuse me for just a second.”

  Then he’s gone.

  Yes! Victory is mine! I have vanquished the enemy.

  Bellamy parks her hands on her hips. “What the hell was that all about?”

  Protecting my turf, that’s what. “Listen, he was all wrong for you. I have someone else in mind.”

  “So, let me get this right. Kendrick is wrong for me, so you decided to stir shit up about Daisy Buchanan and Ernest Hemingway? Things we discussed when it was just you and me?”

  “Well, since you told me your feelings about Daisy when we first met, I presumed it was something you wanted all new dates to know.”

  “I didn’t. And I never even told you what I think of Hemingway,” she snarls.

  “I guessed right, though, didn’t I?” I’m feeling pretty good about how well I know her.

  “Easton . . . can we just—”

  But I catch sight of Max as he sweeps into the warehouse, and I’ll have to tend to Angeline. I hold up a wait-a-moment finger. “Give me one second. I’ve got someone else for you.”

  “I don’t want—”

  Walking away from her, I find Gretchen, my lead hostess, and pull her aside. “Favor. Don’t introduce anyone to Bellamy Hart.”

  “You had a few men for her to meet, though,” she says.

  “Change of plans. Spread the word. Especially not Payton Ellis,” I add. I want to keep all the men away from her, and that guy is tailor-made for Bellamy.

  But I’ve got to keep my promise to Angeline too, and Max Walker is headed for the craft cocktail bar. I need to usher him to Angeline by the champagne bar.

  Except . . .

  Fuck me hard with a rusty chainsaw.

  As the torch singer melts into a sultry Ella Fitzgerald tune, Payton Ellis is sailing over to Bellamy on his own.

  No. Way.

  The man is an app designer with an English degree. He wants a woman who’s smart, independent, beautiful, and loves the theater.

  Max can wait.

  I double back to Bellamy and my new nemesis. Must. Destroy. Him.

  “Hello, there,” I say brightly. “How are you doing, Payton?”

  The dark-haired man gives an amiable smile. Bellamy gives a fake one.

  “Great. Just great. I was telling Bellamy about a play I saw last weekend.”

  “And I love theater,” she offers pointedly. “A lot.”

  I adopt a dubious look, tilting my head. “That’s not what you said to me. You said you didn’t like plays.”

  Payton furrows his brow, then turns to Bellamy. “Oh, I thought you liked Albee.”

  “Edward Albee is great. I never said I don’t like plays, Easton.” Her tone is ice.

  I keep mine friendly. “I recall you saying late the other night that you preferred musicals.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” she corrects me. The tundra of her tone turns arctic.

  “I don’t think I’m mistaken. It was late. The stars shone through the windows of your place,” I say, waxing on.

  “The other night?” Payton croaks.

  “Yes, we were chatting then. Weren’t we, Bellamy?”

  Her lips are a pale, fixed line, holding in all the anger. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

  “At night?” Payton asks again, concerned.

  I laugh like I’ve got a secret. “Well, more like midnight,” I whisper.

  “Oh,” he says in a strangled voice.

  Bellamy grabs my arm and tugs me away through the crowd, toward the elevator. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Guarding my horde of gold. “My job,” I say.

  “If your job is sabotaging everything,” she seethes.

  I scoff. “Please. I’m just making sure you meet the right men. He was all wrong too.”

  She fumes so hard I swear smoke billows from her nostrils. “And no one gets to decide for themselves? Because you know best?”

  “I do,” I grit out. I know her better than anyone. And what is there to decide? How the fuck can she want to meet anyone else?

  “This is great. Just great. The right men, Easton? You’re making sure I meet . . . the right men?” She sketches quotes that seem more like ferocious claw marks.

  “Yes.” I play dumb this round. “You didn’t like them?”

  “So, this is how we’re doing it?”

  “Doing what?”

  She whips her hand from her to me and back. “This thing. You and me.”

  Annoyance sparks and grows in me. That’s the problem. There can’t be a her and me that won’t ache like flickering lights. But I can’t stand the thought of her and anyone else either.

  I search for a way out of this argument and steer back to the bet. “I thought we were supposed to help each other find love. The whole second-chance thing. Isn’t that the plan? Find love and then gloat?” I fix on a smile that I don’t fucking feel. “You’re all too happy to meet other men.”

  “Don’t,” she hisses.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t go there,” she says, her tone a blinking red warning. “I came here tonight for you. You wanted to prove your parties were the better way to meet.”

  “And I got online today,” I counter. “But I haven’t responded to a single swipe, tap, or poke, or coffee, or bagel request.”

  She flaps her hand toward the other room where the festivities continue. “You think I want these other guys? Is that why you’re acting like a total ass?”

  “Well?” I challenge. “Do you?”

  She folds her arms over her chest. “What do you think? Did you even listen to my podcast today?”

  “No. I was busy. Is that what you wanted to talk about tonight?”

  She lifts her gaze to the ceiling as if she’s struggling for what to say. When she returns it to me, her eyes are full of frustration and maybe tinged with sadness too. “You’re so clueless. I wanted to talk to you tonight. I didn’t come here to find love.”