“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.

  I exaggerate a sigh. “That’s what I get for letting you pick the ringtone.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to hear it. But when you do, we’ll pretend Priscilla has a broken nail.”

  “Cat emergency. Got it,” I say.

  “And now, onto other matters.” She points to the door. “May the great season of romance in Manhattan begin, Mister Modern-day Gatsby.”

  It’s no accident I wore the literary-inspired costume to Spencer’s party the other week. That’s how I like to think of myself.

  Whether or not he’s a likable character, I simply do not care. I only need to be likable enough to woo Manhattan’s singles, the ones hungry and willing to pay a hefty entry fee to attend my exclusive events. This city ought to throw me a party as the most successful matchmaker in all of Manhattan.

  The how we met stories that feature my parties will soon outnumber all the “let me tell you about everything that went wrong on my last dates” tales that women share.

  I want better for female-kind.

  Whether Gatsby or I are likable hardly matters. I’m not on the market. But so many people are, and I can give them a chance at true happiness.

  So why the fuck wouldn’t I?

  As the clocks strikes eight, I nod to Coco, who hangs back by the piano.

  She smiles, mouthing off you go.

  The music swells with a little “Gershwin meets rap” mix befitting the mood. Channeling my inner Clooney in my tailored charcoal suit and crisp black shirt, I stride to the double doors. Swinging them open, I let in the first stream of intelligent people, outgoing people, nervous people, and, most of all, amorous people.

  Fine, many are beautiful too.

  A pack of women in short, slinky dresses enters, and I greet them all by name.

  “Hello, Allison.”

  “Good to see you, Lena.”

  “Lovely dress, Priya.”

  The men come next.

  “How’s it going, Mateo?”

  “You still owe me a hundred bucks from the hockey game, Sam.”

  “Is that truly you in the flesh, Pieter?”

  Soon, the plush living room teems with a sea of gorgeous humanity, and my hosts and hostesses start their jobs. I look around at the crowd, satisfied with the mingling, then I open the door again, greeted by two beautiful women. One redhead, one brunette. The auburn-haired beauty is Hazel Valentine.

  Next to her is a woman who makes me do a double take. Chestnut hair falls in silky waves, curling over her shoulders. Skinny jeans hug her toned legs, burgundy heels make her taller, and a black top slopes off one creamy shoulder, inviting a kiss.

  I can’t quite place her. But as my gaze zooms in on her mouth—red, lush, shiny—I wonder if Hazel’s plus one is someone I already know.

  Perhaps someone I met a few weeks ago. Someone who slipped away.

  Tonight, I vow to find out.

  * * *

  Easton and Bellamy’s romance continues in the full-length novel COME AGAIN. Turn the page . . .

  Part I

  Come Again

  8

  Maybe I Like Playing with My Food Too

  But I have to set aside the quest for the identity of the party crasher. I’ve got an event to host and guests to mingle with.

  I have introductions to lubricate.

  That’s what I do for the next hour, though I don’t let my gaze stray long from the woman in black.

  Not as I talk to Priya and Sam, or Pieter and Lena, and now Mateo and Allison. Not as I lean against a mantel and share a self-deprecating tale with them in the corner of the living room.

  “And that’s why it’s always a good idea to carry a Leatherman. You never know when you might need to MacGyver your way out of a situation,” I say, clapping Mateo on the shoulder, his cue that it’s time for him to take over the conversation.

  “Yes, never leave home without it,” he says to the lovely Allison, who laughs and lifts her champagne glass.

  “Words to live by,” she declares, and I slip away from the pair now that I’ve greased the wheel.

  As I weave through the crowd, my eyes hunt once again, quickly acquiring the target. She’s at the bar, almost like she’s waiting for me.

  How about that?

  I thread a path through the room, headed for where the party crasher perches on a bar stool, tall and elegant. She’s mouthing something as she taps her foot on the floor—maybe she’s rehearsing what to say.

  “You’re Hazel’s friend, aren’t you? If you’re practicing meeting someone, I can make it easier for you,” I offer in my warmest host voice.

  She turns to me, and I’m almost certain she’s my Daisy.

  But why would my Daisy show up at my party? Does she regret walking out the door at Spencer’s bar? Is she here for me? Or is she looking to meet some other man? Better not be the latter. Not if she’s who I think she is. I need to know for sure.

  “Yes,” she says. “There’s someone in particular I was hoping to speak to.” Her voice is slightly different. Less purr . . . more personable.

  “I know everyone here,” I say, studying the cut of her jaw, the angles of her face. Do they line up with the image in my memory?

  I’m almost positive that they do.

  She lifts her chin, her eyes full of challenge. “Do you, now?”

  “Yes. Except for a certain party crasher.” I motion to the bartender, raising two fingers.

  The mustached man who holds the keys to the liquor slides over. “What can I get for you, Mister Ford?”

  I meet the woman’s gaze. Those brown eyes take me back to two weeks ago. They were all I had to go on that night.

  Her eyes and her lips.

  I gaze up, down, up, down, returning again and again to those lips.

  Pretty sure I’d recognize them anywhere.

  Yeah, she’s my Daisy. Now, why’s she here?

  Since she busted me with my favorite drink before, I turn to Cal and change it up. “A martini please, Cal. Dry.” Then I gesture to the beauty. “And for you?”

  She swallows instead of answering right away, and I can’t resist. “Perhaps a Macallan?” I suggest.

  Her face is stony; she doesn’t break. “Prosecco would be great,” she says.

  So that’s how we’re doing it. Fine by me. “And is that your favorite drink?” I ask.

  “I don’t have favorites.”

  “Surely, you must. A woman who has strong opinions must have favorites.”

  “Not when it comes to drinks, at least.” She tucks a strand of that wavy hair behind one ear. She hardly wears any jewelry. No earrings either. There’s a simplicity to her style that’s intriguing but also hard to read. “I like to keep an open mind,” she adds.

  Humming, I drum my fingers on the bar. “As I like to say, an open mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

  “And so are opportunities.” She lifts a brow like she’s waiting for me to bat next.

  I will, honey. I absolutely will. “Speaking of . . . opportunities. You really must have fantastic night vision,” I say, my way of reminding her that she watched my bet with the guys go down the night I met her. “Perhaps next time you’ll have to consider a different costume. Maybe, a cat?”

  She taps her temple. “Your suggestion has been noted.”

  I study her, stretching out the wait for my reply. “I could see you in a leather number. Something slinky.”

  “With a tail?”

  “A tail always completes the look,” I say as the bartender brings over my martini and her Prosecco.

  “Here you go, Mister Ford and . . .”

  “Bellamy,” she supplies. “Bellamy Hart.”

  I lift my glass. She does the same. We’re both waiting for a toast. I take the reins, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “To . . . chance encounters, Bellamy.”

  With the glass midair, she seems to consider that, then simply nods. “Serendipity, some might call it,” she says, then drinks.

  And those lips on that glass.

  This woman.

  For the second time in as many encounters, she’s surprised me. I didn’t expect her to walk away the other night. And I definitely didn’t expect her to walk back into my life this evening.

  What is her deal? And how long will it be until she breaks and admits she’s hot for me?

  No idea.

  But I was wrong about her the last time we met.

  I kind of can’t wait to find out how I’m going to be wrong about Bellamy tonight.

  9

  The Long Con

  This must be what it feels like to be a detective. You have an inkling of what you want the perp to admit, so you push and prod until they fess up.

  Trouble is, I can’t decide what I want Bellamy to fess up to.

  How hot and bothered it made her when we kissed on stage?

  How torn she was over giving me her name when that night ended?

  Or why the fuck she’s here tonight?

  Perhaps all three. I’ll just tackle them one by one.

  With my elbow against the bar, I knock back more of the martini, then tip my forehead to the glittery crowd spilling out across the massive living room. Beauties and smarty-pants alike are draped on leather couches, hanging out by mantels, clinking glasses. Getting to know each other. This party is A-plus. Everywhere, there is mingling. So much of it I could bottle it and sell this stuff.

  Oh, wait. I do.

  “By the way, Bellamy, I wanted to commend you on your strategy,” I say, as I set down the martini glass.

  “Which one?” she asks.

  “Excellent question. There really are so many strategies that deserve high praise. But in this case, let’s start at the beginning.”

  From her perch on the bar stool, she crosses her ankles, snagging my gaze as she goes. Damn, those sexy, svelte legs will look fantastic wrapped around my waist.

  “Let’s go back in time. Shall we?”

  She licks her lips, lifts her chin. “Let’s do it . . . Easton.”

  My name on her lips sounds fantastic.

  But it’d sound better in the dark. Maybe in, say, two hours when I get her naked and under me. Naked and over me. Naked in every position possible.

  “I suppose we really have to trace it back to the way you played the long con,” I say.

  Straightening her shoulders, she shoots me a questioning stare. “Are you calling me a con woman?”

  “Ah, but if you’re a con woman, that would make me a mark.”

  Her eyes glint with mischief. “And that would be unconscionable, I presume?”

  “It would indeed. But since we had so much fun, from the flirting to the contest to the kissing, I suppose I can’t truly feel like I was tricked.” I gesture to the party. “Especially since you’re here.”

  For me.

  She draws a sharp breath but nods, perhaps in admission.

  “So, now it seems you need me. Or want me,” I posit.

  An irritated huff falls from her lips, but she remains quiet.

  “Both are fine,” I whisper, a little taunting.

  She runs a finger along the edge of her glass. “If it was a con, I think you liked it.”

  “I don’t think that’s in question. But I wouldn’t call you a con woman.”

  Lifting her glass, she sips her drink then sets it down. “Fine. What would you call me, then?”

  A question I’ve longed to answer in person. My eyes hold hers as I savor the view—strong cheekbones, a straight nose, bow-shaped lips. And a tiny scar on her chin, like she fell off a bike when she was younger. Bet it toughened her up.

  “I’d call you a very worthy adversary. You set your sights on a target that night, and you didn’t relent until you’d accomplished your goal,” I say.

  “I have lots of goals, Easton.” Her cool voice borders on badass. She has so many layers and I’d like to peel away all of them and see what’s underneath.

  Ideally, I’d peel off her black lace lingerie too.

  Just a hunch, but I’d bet a grand she wears black lace against her creamy pale skin. Lace I want to rip off with my teeth.

  Tonight.

  “I bet you do have goals. Your focus is razor sharp. Your commitment to the end game is nothing less than masterful.” Enjoying the turned tables, I lean closer, run my fingers along the curls of her chestnut hair. Her breath catches. Yessss. “So much was hidden under the costume,” I muse.

  She presses her lips together, like she’s swallowing that hitch, then she answers, “Isn’t that the point of a costume? To play?”

  “Oh, you played formidably,” I say.

  With a proud smile, she squares her shoulders, a move that accentuates her tits. I don’t even pretend to look away. Fuck gentlemanliness. Her breasts command the audience of my eyes.

  “I appreciate the compliment,” she says. “Especially since it was a bit of a risk, playing you like a cello.”

  I laugh, tossing my head back. “I don’t believe I’ve been compared to a musical instrument before. Are you a master cellist?”

  “No. I was only good enough to play in college orchestra.” She sighs wistfully. “Alas, I set the big boy aside and found new dreams.”

  Something I know all too well. “So, I was your cello, and you plucked my strings that night,” I say. “And are you glad you did?” I lower my voice to a bedroom whisper. “You’re here, after all.”

  And I bet she came for me.

  She swallows roughly, her eyes flickering with heat for a few seconds. “I’m here because there are things I want from you.”

  Oh, yes. She wants to finish what I started. She regrets walking away. I won’t even tease her about that.

  Except with my tongue.

  Now we’re getting somewhere. But I don’t want to be there just yet. The chase is half the fun. So, I retrace my steps to the night we met. “Before we talk about wants, allow me to say how utterly impressed I was that you played me with the flirting, and the kiss, and the pool just to say don’t fuck with me. That was gold-medal worthy.”

  She ducks her head, perhaps hiding a small smile. “It wasn’t entirely a hardship,” she says, then sets down the empty glass. “But now I’d like to cut through the bullshit. We can play this game all night. As fun as it may be, there’s something in particular I want. I host the podcast A Million Frogs.”

  Oh. Okay. We’re done flirting.

  But didn’t she mention that phrase the other night? “A Million Frogs. Were you dropping a clue the night we met? Were you hoping I’d pick it up and figure out who you are?”

  “Did you pick it up?”

  “No, I didn’t. Shame, that.”