* * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  No. I was able to figure that out loud and clear. Perhaps next time there’s a costume contest we’ll have to go as great archenemies throughout history.

  * * *

  My vote is for Batman and the Joker.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  If you’d said Darth and Luke, or Harry and Voldemort, I’d have walked away.

  * * *

  Your archenemy, evidently,

  Bellamy

  Dear Archenemy,

  * * *

  As if I’d be that black and white.

  * * *

  Your favorite enemy ever,

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  There’s nothing black and white about you. You’re many shades of gray. And speaking of shades of gray, I call dibs on the Joker.

  * * *

  Yours in that’s no joke,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Amazing that the thought of you in a Joker costume still gets me hot. And that’s a better adjective for you than warm. On that note, I’ll see you in two days.

  * * *

  Yours,

  Batman

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Was that your attempt to get the last word?

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Yes.

  * * *

  Easton

  15

  Sex-Positive Grandma

  I’ll meet Bellamy this afternoon, and I’m not marking time till four and a half hours from now, though I am definitely looking forward to seeing the chocolate lover.

  But first, family.

  I meet Spencer on Central Park West outside a new gym that Coco’s been attending. We wait by the open doors for her to finish.

  “Do you think she goes there to meet dudes?” Spencer asks, peering through the window at the over-fifty-five crowd working out in the morning. The fitness center caters to seniors, and when the place opened, Coco took to it like a bear to blackberries.

  “This is Coco we’re talking about. She goes to the gym to look good for the dudes she might meet,” I say as our grandmother strides out, fit and trim in yoga pants and a matching zip-up jacket. Today’s eyeglass style? Cheetah print.

  “You’re both wrong,” she says. “I go to Zumba because cardio keeps my brain sharp. And the brain is the most important sex organ.” She shakes her head in mock disgust. “I swear I taught you two better.”

  I shrug at Spencer. “We’ll never learn.”

  “Thanks, Coco, for always horrifying us with sex talk,” my cousin says.

  She pats his cheek. “I believe you meant to say thank you, Coco, for giving us a sex-positive role model.”

  “Yes, that,” I say.

  She hooks one elbow with him and one with me as we walk. “A planning breakfast for my birthday. Who’d have thought it?”

  “Um, you. You demanded it,” he points out.

  “Because birthdays are fun to plan. And with the big five-o coming up,” she says, deadpan, “I’m dying to know what you two have planned for me.”

  As we walk along the park, Spencer pitches her an idea I already nixed. “We were thinking maybe we could send you on a cruise,” Spencer offers.

  “A cruise?” she asks, as if he’s speaking backward.

  “Yes, that thing where boats go around the water?” he supplies.

  She bops him on the head. “Darling, sometimes I think you forget who you’re talking to.” She tosses a look my way. “Please tell me this wasn’t your idea, Easton.”

  “I told you she wouldn’t go for a cruise,” I chide Spencer.

  “Cruises are for people who are willing to gamble on being stuck with other people. I am not one of those people who relishes being stuck,” she says, explaining her reluctance to Spencer.

  “I told you so,” I add.

  Spencer holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. How about a spa weekend?”

  She sighs dramatically. “I have a driver, a wealth advisor, and my own brownstone. I’m not an exhausted, overworked, working mother of three young kids who needs to get away from it all. Next,” she says.

  “I told him that was a bad idea too,” I say, in a stage whisper.

  When we reach her favorite breakfast café, her eyes light up. “I have a brilliant idea. How about you two send me to Vegas for the weekend? I can take advantage of all the perks the city has to offer.”

  I gird myself as we go inside and discuss perks.

  It’s truly never a dull moment with Coco.

  Plus, when we’re done, a full hour has flown by—which brings me sixty minutes closer to the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head.

  16

  Monk Vows

  Three and a half hours later, I take my monk vows as I head to the Village and turn onto the block of The Dating Pool.

  I will not think of sex.

  Well, at least not until after the interview.

  I will not. I will not. I will not.

  I repeat that adage as I bound up the steps in The Dating Pool’s building.

  I’m a civilized man. I’m more than capable of contemplating many of life’s other great topics for a full hour—is there an afterlife, is revenge truly sweet, and, well, women.

  And that lasted less than one minute.

  Okay, maybe I’m not that civilized.

  But I need to be.

  So, when Bellamy opens the door to her podcast studio, I’ve got two things to say to my brain.

  Dirty goals, stand down.

  Business goals, you’re up.

  And that means it’s time to get to know her a little better. It’s always good to understand who you’re dealing with.

  Even when the brunette flashes her trademark smile my way—a smile that I swear holds a touch of naughty—I force my mind to stick to business, peering around the space. “So, this is where you work that Most Devoted Guide to Romance magic?”

  “Abracadabra.” With a wave of an imaginary magic wand, she gestures to the mics and the mixer, then pats a chair.

  I sink down in a comfortable blue one in front of a sea of gadgets and gizmos that don’t make me think of sex. That’s progress. Gold star for me. “Question for you before we start,” I say.

  “So that’s how we’re doing this?” She takes a seat, crosses her legs. “You’re asking the questions?”

  “Seems I am. You good with that?”

  “Fire away,” she says.

  I point to the studio setup. “Was this the end game for you?”

  “The podcast?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t dream of being a podcaster as a little girl, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “What did you dream of?” I ask, more interested in the woman herself than the podcaster.

  “Ponies.”

  The image of a young Bellamy brushing a horse is impossibly endearing. “You’re one of those girls who was into horses,” I say, a little wonder in my tone, since I didn’t quite expect that from her.

  She raises her right hand in an oath. “Guilty as charged. I grew up in Colorado. My mom taught riding lessons. We were horse people, and I was obsessed with my Appaloosa.”

  “I need to know his name or her name, and I need to know now,” I say. The name of someone’s pet always tells you something about the person.

  She laughs, then answers, “Mrs. Whatsit.”

  “Fan of A Wrinkle in Time?”

  “My favorite story growing up.”

  “It’s a great tale of self-discovery, and Mrs. Whatsit is a terrific guide for Meg.”

  “I’m impressed you placed the name,” she says, flashing a different smile of pure delight.

  I give an easy shrug. “I’ve read a few books.”

  “I’ve noticed. And you know them well.” She draws a deep breath, seems to gird herself to say something hard. “Mrs. Whatsit helped me a lot through my grief.”

  I blink. Wasn’t expecting that sort of patent honesty. “The book or the horse?” I ask, easing into the topic.

  “Both.”

  “What happened?”

  “My mom died when I was thirteen. It was . . . devastating.” Her voice is strong, but it’s as if she’s had to practice hard to tell this story without breaking. “Made me even closer to the horses. Maybe that’s a weird thing to say. But she was close to them, and spending time riding made me feel connected to her after she was gone.”

  The tale makes me want to comfort her, reach for her hand, maybe. But I don’t; she doesn’t seem the kind of woman to need a hug or a squeeze. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m glad you found a way through, though,” I say, relying on words rather than touch. That feels more appropriate for Bellamy and me.

  “Thank you. I’m glad I found a way too. For a while, I didn’t think I would.” She brushes a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “I don’t normally offer that up . . . but you asked, and you seemed to want to know, so I tried to be direct and honest.”

  “I did ask. And I’m glad I now know,” I tell her. Since she was so forthright, I’m compelled to share too. This is the first time she’s truly let down her guard with me, and it feels wrong to simply move on. “I haven’t lost a family member, but I understand what it’s like to lose someone you love. It’s not easy, and you have to find what helps you navigate a new world.”

  “So true. And I’m sorry for what you’ve been through too,” she says with sympathy, and a heaviness as well.

  We hold each other’s gazes for a weighty beat—a sort of truce. We’ve each admitted something harder to say than I want you. Hell, attraction is easy to confess. Hurt is not.

  “And then I wanted to be a musician,” she says, fiddling with her mic stand, adjusting it just so. “But I didn’t have enough talent for the cello to go beyond college orchestra . . . Though, I do have a talent for talking about love, so maybe I was always meant for this job. I love love. I believe my mom passed that on to me. My dad too. And that is why I started my podcast. I feel very lucky that it was a success. When The Dating Pool bought into it, I lost some of the freedom, but I still get to share love. And love is a fantastic thing.” She takes a steadying breath, smiles again. “So that’s a good lead-in for this interview. Ready?”

  Good to know Bellamy believes fervently in love—that’s another sign this interview could boost my business. “As ready as ever,” I say, giving myself another pat on the back for having a clear mind.

  I’ve so got this.

  17

  Oops, I Did It Again

  She hands me earphones and then dives in. “You run grand and exclusive underground parties for romance. Why are those better than what singles have been doing for the last decade? Meeting through apps.”

  Ah, that’s easy enough to answer. “In my opinion, people were never supposed to meet online. When you meet someone via an app, you lose the most basic ingredient that you need for romantic success.”

  “And what’s that?”

  I suspect she knows my answer. The one I’ve been giving since I started Carpe Diem. “Chemistry. It matters, don’t you think?”

  My gaze locks with hers, and she’s quiet for a beat that’ll be edited out of her show, I bet. But in the silence, a charge flickers between us.

  Chemistry indeed.

  “Yes, it does. But that’s my question for you. Why does chemistry only come in person? Can’t it come online?”

  “You have to swipe on a lot of frogs, Bellamy.”

  She smiles in acknowledgement. “True, but is that so bad?”

  “Yes, it can be. I’ve made no secret about why I moved out of the online dating business.”

  “To build a better mousetrap, I believe you’ve said.”

  “Yes. I heard from single women, some men as well, who’d grown not only frustrated but exhausted with online dating. Defeated, even. And I thought there had to be a better way.”

  “And in person is just that?”

  “Yes, it’s better to meet in person. To meet people with similar interests. Similar goals. At my parties, you can meet people you can trust too.

  “Online is the Wild West. My team and I are dedicated and thorough. We research everyone, vet everyone. We make sure there are plenty of potential matches—and that all guests are truly there for the right reasons.”

  She stares sharply at me, her expression intense. “You’re a matchmaker.”

  “In a way, yes,” I answer. “But we offer many potential matches. It’s like a romance buffet at the parties. Yes, I often have matches in mind for guests, but just as often, chemistry leads the way. You walk into the party hoping to meet someone in particular, and then you spot someone across the bar. Maybe she has hauntingly gorgeous brown eyes and the most inviting lips you’ve ever seen,” I say, and Bellamy’s eyes flicker with a hint of excitement, but it passes quickly. “But how do you know if you’ll spark?” I continue. “You talk to her. You make your way through the crowd, strike up a conversation, and learn she can dress you down with one witty phrase. And soon, you discover she has a fiery personality, a quicksilver tongue, and a heart bigger than you’d thought.”

  Her lips twitch in a grin—one she reins in. “But you could find her online too. I bet that woman is on a lot of dating apps. She probably wants to make sure she isn’t going to miss her Prince Charming,” she says.

  “And that woman is likely very busy, with friends and family and a rich social life,” I say. “So why should she spend all her time on apps sifting through the chaff?”

  “Since you’ve already found the wheat for her?”

  “Yes. We have. And that’s what I provide. People have been meeting in person for millennia. I’m simply bringing back what’s always worked. Giving the old-fashioned, tried-and-true method a modern chance.” I cock my head, watching her reaction. “Have you ever met someone in person and every time you’re in the same room with him or her, you feel the heat? The wild, fevered energy?”

  “Yes, I have.” It’s a gorgeous, honest answer. But she’s not a woman who bends easily—and I don’t expect her to now. “And you’re the expert on this because of your psychology degree?”

  “My master’s degree certainly doesn’t hurt, but I also have real-world experience with apps. The good, the bad, the ugly. I know what works and doesn’t work. I’ve heard stories from users of apps, so I can offer something better in person. And let’s say you meet someone in person—that meeting will make your online exchanges better. Hell, maybe you even trade letters after you meet,” I offer, with a crooked grin.

  “An epistolary relationship. How quaint,” she says drily.

  But the flicker of heat in her eyes says there’s nothing quaint about our letters. “An epistolary affair can lead to some serious spark. Wouldn’t you say?”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips, a sure sign she’s thinking of our fiery notes. “That’s possible. Letters can be quite . . . sexy,” she says, with a flirty twirl of her hair. “But you keep talking about spark and chemistry. And I know our listeners are wondering—is spark truly everything?”

  “It’s vital. And you can’t replicate it in a lab. At the very least, it ought to be part of the foundation of any romance, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes say she’s doubtful. “I’m not denying it has some power, and that you’re gleaning how to harvest it. But only for those who’ve been selected by you and who can afford the price of admission.”

  “Most apps aren’t free either,” I counter.

  “The fee for your parties is so much higher. And sure, maybe you can offer spark. But one person is choosing the spark. You. And what if you’re wrong?”

  “But see . . . I’m not choosing the spark. I’m simply offering the opportunity for it to sizzle.”

  “So long as you’re lucky enough to score an invite,” she says. “Many of our listeners have told me how terrible it makes them feel if they don’t make your list.”

  “Understandably,” I say. “But that’s why I’m here today—the more publicity I receive, the more demand I can create for parties. And the more parties I host, the more people I can help find love.”

  We chat more, and she’s tough as nails, as I expected. That’s for the best, though. I don’t want a puff piece but I’m pretty sure I’ve impressed the doubtful.

  Soon enough, the interview winds down and she flashes me a professional smile. “Thank you so much for your time, Easton. You have a particular and specific approach when it comes to romance. I appreciate you sharing it. I learned so much about Carpe Diem.”

  The consummate pro at the mic, Bellamy comes across as edgy but fair—which makes it nearly impossible to get a read on whether she thinks my livelihood is utter garbage or if I’ve changed her mind.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” I say, and I hope the result will be pleasurable too, when she airs the piece.

  She takes off her headphones and turns off her mic. I do the same.