Not-Daisy stops abruptly as if she heard him. Maybe that’s my cue.

  I catch up to her and lay a hand on her shoulder.

  “Let me take you home. Apologize properly for the bet,” I say. With my tongue. All over your body.

  She meets my gaze, mask through mask. “You’re so determined. Why?”

  Her question could have so many answers, from the complicated—this is my life now—to the simple—I want what I want. But the truth is even easier. “We have chemistry.”

  Sometimes chemistry is the only reason you need, and I haven’t felt it this intensely in a long while.

  We complicate affairs of the heart when they’re often simply affairs of the nervous system.

  Dopamine rules.

  She tilts her head, wetting her lips as she watches me. But then she shakes off her thoughts and my hand from her shoulder. “It would be . . . too complicated,” she says, then turns away, sailing off into the New York night.

  This time, I don’t chase her.

  I don’t know what’s so complicated, but the last thing I need in my life right now is a problem.

  So, goodbye, Daisy.

  I head back to the festivities, stopping to refuel at the bar. “Just a club soda this time,” I tell Spencer.

  My cousin fills a glass. “By the way, I knew you were Gatsby.”

  “You’re like his identical twin,” Nolan adds. “But it’s fun to wind you up.”

  “Appreciate the sentiment,” I say, but it’s hardly a consolation that my costume is good when the woman I want has disappeared into the New York night.

  Spencer sets down the glass. “Better luck next time.”

  “Indeed.”

  I take a drink then do my best to shake off the encounter, focusing instead on why I’m here—meeting people to invite to my next party.

  Finding people to bring together matters most to me, for so many reasons.

  Most of all, to balance the cosmic scales of the past.

  4

  Bellamy Hart’s Planning Notes for A Million Frogs . . .

  Thanks, Fate.

  I finally score an invitation to a Carpe Diem gala, and it turns out Mister Sex in a Suit is none other than Easton Ford, host of the most coveted parties in New York.

  That damn mask.

  I better not have screwed my chances before I can scope out the man properly and make my request of him professionally. If I’m lucky, he won’t recognize me at his fête.

  A man like him meets a million women. All he has to go on are the glass slippers of my lips, and there’s so much more to me.

  I’ll have to convince him of that when we meet again in a few weeks’ time.

  5

  The Keeper of My Secrets

  New York City is not for the fainthearted.

  Good thing mine is made of iron, forged in a blacksmith shop, and ready to do battle with anyone, including my own sister.

  I’m determined to win her over. She’s the best, and I want the best for my parties.

  A week after the masquerade at The Lucky Spot, I catch the tail end of my sister’s set at Stella’s Comedy Attic in Chelsea. Rory owns the stage, spotlight on her freckled, innocent-only-on-the-outside face.

  “And then this guy said to my friend, Are you Ariel? Because we were . . . mermaid for each other.”

  The audience groans.

  She groans too.

  “Right? I had to pull the emergency pretend-to-almost-gag-all-over-him card.” She points her thumb at her sternum. “I don’t let my friends go home with guys who use bad puns. Standards and all.”

  I chuckle as Rory finishes her set, thanks the audience, and weaves through the crowd to join me at the bar.

  She bumps my shoulder with hers and teases, “If it isn’t the old school matchmaker of Manhattan.”

  “We all have our callings,” I say. “Apparently, yours is to keep your friends from dating twits with low standards in humor.”

  She flicks her blonde hair off her shoulder with a certain flair. “It’s a very important job, thank you very much.”

  “And somebody has to do it.”

  She’s done for the night, so we leave the club, walking along the tree-lined block in Chelsea on a late-summer night. Time to try again with my little sis. If she’ll perform at next month’s party in the Village, I can lure just the right guests. Hell, she might put me one step closer to hitting my gamechanger goal—enough matches to put the sting of the Coupled business behind me.

  When the app I’d started turned into a huge hit, I was the king of online dating. For a while there, money and ad dollars flowed into my company’s coffers and then some. I went on the speaker circuit, talking at conferences—that’s how I heard firsthand that online dating isn’t a golden age of romance after all. Women came up to me at events and told me stories of terrible matches, dick pics, and men who scorned them for not looking like their profile pics—no matter that the guys were a ways from the college life photos they posted.

  These ladies felt like trading cards, and they were tired of the online dating merry-go-round with its risks and mismatches.

  There had to be a better way.

  I sold Coupled to a tech giant that repurposed its platform for online commerce, and with the proceeds, I started Carpe Diem, combining an elite list of single people in a high-end setting. Everything from the drinks to the food is highly curated by me—including the entertainment. “So, what do I have to do to convince my own sister to do a set at one of my parties?”

  She barks out a laugh. “Can you even imagine what people would say if I did?”

  “That you have the best taste in New York venues?” I suggest. “And that I attract the top talent, from singers to comedians.”

  She grabs my arm. “Dude, you are so wrong. You have this overinflated idea that every decision you make is dipped in gold, tossed in platinum, then sprinkled with diamonds.”

  Huh. Sisters. They really do exist for a purpose—to put you in your place. “Well, aren’t they?”

  She stares at me, dead serious, when we reach the crosswalk, and says, “Everyone would say I was there because I’m your sister.”

  Straight up with no sarcasm chaser.

  “I disagree,” I insist. “They’d say you were there because you’re the most talented comic in all of New York City. They’d be enthralled because you’re funny, and truly, laughter is a great way to open the doors to the heart.”

  “You’re cute if you think that will work on me,” she says. “I’m immune to flattery, and I’m definitely not impressed. I remember when you were in tenth grade and stole my cucumber lime body wash before your first date with Jenna Salisbury. Used the whole bottle too.”

  Sisters are the devil.

  Rory taps her temple. “I’m the keeper of your other secrets too. Like the time you said you were watching a science show on PBS, but you had the kiss scene from Wild Things on repeat.”

  Damn. Her memory is steel. “Point one. Denise Richards and Neve Campbell—I have no regrets. Point two. I also know things. I know you didn’t watch High School Musical for the songs like you told Mom and Dad.”

  She tosses her head back as she laughs. “No one watched High School Musical for the songs, Easton. But there’s no love lost between Zac Efron and me. I’m more of a Thor gal. Or Captain America. Also, Iron Man. I just dig a salty sense of humor.”

  “That’s why you should perform at my party,” I cajole. “You could meet a nice, tall, smart man for your project.” I know what my sister wants most in life.

  But she shakes her head. “And that’d be a no. Let’s move on to other topics. Tell me the theme of the party this weekend.” She softens her voice for a moment. “In case you need a last-minute womanly touch.”

  I do need that, but I learned a lot from working with Anna on these parties years ago. I didn’t always host my parties stag.

  “I have a womanly touch,” I say. “Grandma is a great business partner. She is incredibly hip.”

  “And horny.”

  “Tra la a la,” I say, covering my ears.

  “Do not disparage the sex drives of women over seventy-five,” Rory says. “Sex is alive and well in septuagenarians. Didn’t you see the recent Dating Pool article—”

  “Anyway,” I interrupt, “the theme is ‘Old School.’ And I’ll take images from this weekend’s event to Victoire when I meet the CEO on Monday.”

  “Ooh, the fancy watchmakers? They would be a great corporate partner for your romance mixers. And didn’t you just snag a fancy perfume maker?”

  “That’s parfumier to you, missy. And thanks, I think so too.”

  As we walk, I outline the theme of the party this weekend, and when I’ve given the rundown, Rory nods.

  “I like it,” she says. “And see? All of that will help you get the media coverage you want.”

  “That’s the goal. More coverage by the pubs that reach my target market and the right kind of buzz that brings in new guests. Guests who realize this is a better way to meet.”

  Rory stops and reaches for my arm, halting me too. “You know, just because you had skin in the game once with your app doesn’t mean you’re responsible for the horrible experiences people have with online dating,” she says gently.

  “Doesn’t it, though?” I ask, resignation in my tone. It’s a battlefield out there. “Women deserve better than the guys out there. Guys like your ex.”

  She shudders. “Yes, refusing to move out of my apartment and stealing twenty-thousand dollars from me qualifies as bad. But,” she says, holding up a finger, “it could have been worse.”

  “How?”

  “At least I got the apartment. It’s rent-controlled.”

  I roll my eyes. “But that’s my point. Romance should be about more than who gets a better deal on rent.”

  She shrugs. “Not sure I agree. I’d do just about anything for a deal on rent, and so will most New Yorkers.”

  “Which is even more reason to make my parties more popular and successful than apps will ever be.” That means finagling the right media coverage and growing the business. If I play my cards right, I can expand beyond New York. Take this concept to cities all over the United States. Bring real-world romance to the masses. “I’m committed to making Carpe Diem better.”

  “Admit it—you want to take over the world,” she says as we reach Seventh Avenue. “You are so Jay Gatsby, just like Page Six said.”

  My mind trips back to last week. To the one who got away.

  “Earth to Easton.” Rory snaps her fingers. “Where did you just drift off to?”

  I shake my head, but I can’t shake off that night at The Lucky Spot. “At Spencer’s masquerade I met this woman . . .”

  I tell my sister about my stranger. We’ve always talked about our love lives.

  Rory cracks up as we near the subway entrance. “I want to meet this rare bird. Is she the first person ever in your life to turn you down?”

  I shoot her a searing stare. “She’s not the first.”

  But close.

  My sister taps her chin. “You’re right. There was Jenna in tenth grade on account of the cucumber lime. And wasn’t there Martina when you were twenty-four? The one who said you were too pretty to be trusted?”

  I nod grudgingly. “Yes, that’s what she said.”

  Rory counts off on her fingers. “So that’s Jenna, Martina, and the lady in the flapper dress. My three heroes.”

  I growl. “Did I say I wanted you to do a set at one of my parties and pay you in five figures? I think I was wrong.”

  “Ah! He admits he is wrong. Amazing,” Rory teases, but when she pauses to say goodbye, a certain gravitas settles over her gaze. “If there’s a goddess in this universe, you’ll run into your mystery woman again.”

  We say goodnight, then Rory turns at the downtown station. I head uptown, wishing there were a goddess but knowing that that’s not how the world works.

  6

  Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs Podcast . . .

  Episode Draft: The Cost of An Invitation

  * * *

  Supposedly, you’ll hear the whoosh of the invitation as it slides under your door, as if the paper stock has wings. Then, the invited will gasp, grab the card, and carefully slide open the flap with trembling, eager fingers.

  What will it say underneath? How will the avant-garde host invite you—lucky one—to one of his notorious underground fêtes?

  With a simple courier font, of course. If you’re receiving one of these coveted invitations, you don’t need it to be penned in gold or silver.

  Just a basic typewriter script will be enough.

  And it will say you’ve been invited, and now it is time to carpe diem.

  But at what cost? Let’s find out, dear listener.

  7

  The Party Crasher

  In the corner of the mansion’s majestic living room, a piano player caresses love songs on a baby grand. Billiard tables invite guests to engage in a round, and the library down the hall offers an escape. After all, libraries are ideally designed for two of life’s greatest pleasures—reading and sex.

  In one hour, the doors will open at this elegant brownstone, rented for the night. Tablet in hand, my trusty second-in-command reviews the final details. AKA, my grandmother, Coco.

  “Don’t forget, you want Mateo Reyes to meet Allison Stein,” she says, peering at the guest list.

  “I’ll make it happen. And Sam, I have in mind for Priya. But she’s selective, and wants to meet a handful of men, so let’s make sure the team is aware, Coco,” I say.

  With a nod, she taps the screen. “I’ll make sure your fellow hosts and hostesses know what Priya’s goals are,” she says. At every exclusive romance party I throw, my grandmother debriefs my associates so they can facilitate the intros I want to make happen.

  “Who else do you want to review?” I ask.

  “What about Hazel Valentine? She’s coming tonight. I do love her books.” Coco peers at the tablet through leopard print glasses. Every pair of eyeglasses she owns evoke a jungle animal.

  “Excellent. My friend TJ knows her and has been trying to get her to attend. I can never convince him to come to these parties, though.”

  Grandma snorts. “Perhaps you don’t have enough of his type here.”

  I give her a classic I know look. “Yes, I’m aware that my parties don’t entirely cater to his tastes. That’s something to consider for the future.”

  “That market will be a tough nut for you to crack, dear.” She flashes me a cherubic smile. “Pun intended.”

  “You can’t ever resist the low-hanging fruit.”

  “I cannot,” she says with a snicker.

  “One more thing. TJ did tell me that Hazel won’t want any intros. She prefers to check the crowd out on her own.”

  Coco taps the screen, making a note. “As a lady often wants to do.”

  “And I’m all about ladies’ choice,” I say. That’s the point of these parties.

  “Hazel’s preferences have already been noted,” she assures me. “Also, she’s bringing a friend. Her invitation came with a plus one of her own choosing.”

  I lift a brow. “Of the female variety?”

  “But of course.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  We finish our review, and when my grandmother shuts her tablet, she swings her gaze to the doors. “And in forty-five minutes, a fresh batch of the young and beautiful in Manhattan will filter into the hottest underground party in the city.”

  “They aren’t all young. Or pretty,” I say, since I don’t curate based on looks or age. I hand-select a wide range of guests ready for love. “Though, my parties do attract the beautiful and youthful. So sue me.”

  Decked out in crisp slacks, and a sapphire designer blouse, my always stylish grandmother drops her voice to a whisper. “But does that mean I have to leave? You wouldn’t want anyone to know, gasp, someone from my generation is here?”

  “Please. They’ll all think you’re my sister.”

  She tuts. “You’re a terrible liar, Easton. You always have been. I never believed that your sister was the one who gave my precious Siamese cat a mohawk.”

  “That was Rory in her hairdresser phase. Not me.” I will deny that until my dying day.

  “A grandmother knows.” She points to my mouth. “Your lips twitch right there at the corner when you fib.”

  “Not true,” I say, fighting like hell against the twitch.

  “But truly, no one will notice me,” she says, with a light shrug. “Once a woman is over forty, she becomes invisible, and I’m a few days over that number.”

  “You couldn’t be invisible to a soul,” I tell her. “And maybe we’ll find your Mister Right tonight.”

  She waggles her phone. “Mister Right will be on Tinder if he even exists.”

  Did she just utter the name of my enemy? “Tinder? That’s sacrilege.”

  “Time is ticking for dames like me. Plus, my standards for Mister Right are . . . hmmm . . . a Viagra prescription and . . .” Her gaze drifts to the scalloped ceiling. “Actually, that’s about it. Just the little blue pill, and I’m good to go.”

  “You don’t even want someone who can drive at night?”

  “Silly boy. I have my own driver.”

  “And he’s your getaway driver too if you don’t feel comfortable when you’re out on a date, right?” Maybe I’m being a tad big brother with my grandmother, but I’m okay with that.

  “Of course. And if he isn’t around, I’ll use that app you installed last week.”

  “The one that pages me so I can call you with a fake emergency.” Coco hits one button and boom—I get an alert. Now, that is a handy app.

  “Right. As soon as you hear ‘Like a Virgin,’ you give me a ring,” she says with a cheeky grin.