“Better than having your teeth pulled?” she asks.

  “I can’t say. I’ve never had a cavity. But I suspect, yes.”

  She shoots me a saucy stare. “You show-off with your perfect dental health.”

  I laugh, flashing her my pearly-white grin. “It’s all part of the . . . spark.”

  Her expression softens. “You make some good points about spark.”

  I’d like to make all the points.

  And yup, there goes the brain. My thoughts are most decidedly back on sex now. But hey, the interview is over, so the sex brain is allowed to step up to the plate.

  “Some sparks are undeniable,” I say in a low voice as I push out of the chair.

  As she stands, she reaches for her bag from the floor. “Can’t disagree,” she murmurs as she slings it on her shoulder when a thunk hits my ears.

  My eyes snap to the noise. Her phone must have slipped out of the pocket and hit the floor. I bend, reaching for it at as she does. We’re both kneeling, inches from each other.

  Our eyes lock. Her gaze is stripped bare. That gamesmanship is gone from her face. “Such a shame you wouldn’t give me your number when we met,” I whisper.

  A vein in her neck pulses, and it’s so fucking sexy. “What would you have done with it?”

  “You know what I would have done, Bellamy.”

  She shakes her head. “I have no idea,” she says, a little smoky.

  “Called you that night,” I say.

  “You wouldn’t have texted me?”

  “Texting’s for men who don’t know what they want.”

  The air between us crackles and neither one of us moves. “What do you want, Easton?” Her question is full of delicious import. Full of possibilities.

  “To do something about this chemistry,” I say roughly, making my meaning clear.

  The silence expands between us as the temperature in the studio kicks up.

  With a soft shudder, she whispers a command. “Do it.”

  Enough said.

  I lean into her right as she parts her lips. In a hot second, our mouths fuse together. Her soft lips slide over mine. I kiss her a little harder, savoring all the flavors of her kiss. The hint of cinnamon in her mouth, the honeysuckle from her lotion. Most of all, the pure sex appeal of Bellamy Hart as she melts into an afternoon kiss in my arms.

  She wobbles a bit because we’re still kneeling. I drop a hand to her hip, holding her tight. “Thanks,” she whispers.

  “Anytime,” I say, then return to her lips.

  I graze my thumb along her jaw, then thread my fingers through her hair. A sexy gasp escapes her throat, and I want to linger in the decadence of this moment. The softness of her breath. The spike of my pulse. Every second of this kiss is like taking time to eat a delicious bar of chocolate, relishing every bite.

  I don’t want to miss a single thing about this kiss. I want to experience all of it, from her tongue slipping inside my mouth to her hands on my knees.

  But my favorite part comes when her palm slides up my thigh.

  Oh yes, sweetheart. Travel anywhere you want. You can visit any place on the map of me.

  Her hand roams up my leg, higher and higher, and we kiss deeper, our mouths turning urgent, frenzied. Sighs and moans sound between us. Breath rushes in and out.

  A hot spark sizzles down my spine, and my cock thumps in my jeans.

  Squeak.

  The door groans open, a heavy push across the carpet.

  We scramble apart. I jump to my feet and she does the same, both of us catching our breath. Moving away from the entry, I smooth a hand over my jeans.

  Bellamy tucks her hair behind her ears as a man in horn-rimmed glasses steps into the studio. He sweeps his gaze over her, head to toe then back again, like he’s enjoying the view.

  “Oh, hey there, Bell. So good to see you. Lucky me that you’re still here.” He sounds like he’s been waiting all day to catch a glimpse of her and doesn’t even look to see if anyone else is here.

  “I was just leaving, David,” she says, her voice strained. There’s no returned warmth in her tone. Does she sound that way because he nearly caught us? Because he’s her producer? Or for some other reason? That last possibility nags at me as he stares at her, possession in his eyes.

  She doesn’t look his way at all. She looks anyplace else.

  “No need to rush out,” he says, missing or ignoring her discomfort. “We can hang together the rest of the afternoon, go over the script and stuff in my office. Order something for dinner if we need to work late. No hurry, Bell.” The man’s tone is way too suggestive, and his stare hits ogle territory and lingers before he bothers to look at anything else in the studio. Then, his grin vanishes in the blink of an eye. “Oh.”

  His gray eyes laser in on my face like an inspection. What the hell? Is he checking to see if her whisker burn matches my stubble?

  He jerks his focus back to Bellamy. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

  “I’m . . . not.” She seems uncomfortable, but she’s holding herself carefully, like she doesn’t want to rock the boat.

  “Hey, there. How are you doing?” I ask him, because one of us should be polite. Maybe that will remind him there is someone else in the room besides her.

  The guy doesn’t answer me. “Do you want Vietnamese or maybe Italian tonight? Italian is your favorite, right? You pick and we can dive into your script as long as we need.”

  She mumbles something that sounds like doesn’t matter.

  “Well, with as pretty a shirt as that, let’s not risk the red sauce,” he says, adding a wink.

  I’m certain of two things—this sleazeball thinks he can fuck her, and he makes Bellamy feel awful. When he’s around, a different side of her comes out. She mumbles and stares at her shoes, shifting away from the confident woman she is. I wish she weren’t bothered by him so much.

  But there’s a thing I know too. If I can help her, I will. “Ms. Hart, if you’d like to continue our interview, I’m happy to stay for longer.” I try to catch her eye, hoping she gets my meaning.

  I’ll be your out to escape this fucker if you need me to.

  She shakes her head. “I’m good. Thank you.”

  As much as I don’t want to, I leave. Because that’s what she wants.

  18

  Inappropriate

  As I walk away from the studio, I replay that encounter. The first time, I simmer. But the next few times, I turn angrier.

  I can’t fucking believe he’s doing that.

  You don’t compliment the clothes of a female co-worker.

  Not like that. With sex in your voice.

  You don’t give her a nickname while you invite her to a late dinner in your fucking office.

  And you don’t stare like that.

  But just because I know these rules and live by them doesn’t mean I know what to do when I see them broken in front of me. More to the point, it doesn’t mean I know what Bellamy or any other woman would want me to do.

  So later that day I call in reinforcements in the form of my sister, and my cousin Jo. They meet me at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium that afternoon. I order something gooey and sugary for my sister and something with bubbles for Jo, and when they arrive, I slide the drinks in front of them.

  Jo’s grin is as wide as the city—that’s her style. She’s an art expert, and one of the cheeriest people I know. “You remembered I like black cherry seltzer water,” she says.

  “He’s amazing, truly,” Rory deadpans then snags the sugar concoction. “And thank you for the caramel-monkey-cino for me.”

  Jo laughs, her blue eyes glittery, then she turns serious eyes to me. “What’s going on, Easton?”

  I drag a hand through my hair, still utterly fucking frustrated with that jackass. But I don’t want to reveal Bellamy’s situation to anyone, so I keep the specifics veiled. “There’s a woman I know, and today I met this guy she works with and got kind of a Harvey Weinstein vibe from him. A worrisome disregard for my friend’s personal bubble,” I say.

  Rory gags. “Ugh. Gross.”

  “That’s terrible,” Jo says, sympathy in her eyes. “What happened?”

  I give them more details, and then, because this is new to me, I just shrug and admit I’m flying blind. “Is it my place to say something?”

  “To her?” Rory asks.

  “Yes. I truly don’t know.”

  Rory and Jo look to each other, question marks in their eyes.

  Then Jo answers, “Maybe to let her know you give a shit about her.”

  That seems clear enough.

  Because . . . I do.

  That evening, I pick up the phone and call Bellamy while pacing my apartment.

  She answers on the third ring. “Did you forget to tell me how amazing you are?” she asks, sounding just like the woman I know.

  But I don’t take the bait. “Nope. Not why I’m calling.”

  “Then to what do I owe the honor of this call? Are you going to wax on more about spark? How it’s the only way? Or maybe ask me if I’ve kissed any more frogs?”

  I strip all teasing from my tone. “No. I wanted to call about earlier. Are you okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” And just like that, some of the flirting is stripped from her tone, her words all formal and precise. She’s got her guard up.

  “Because of what happened,” I say, unsure how to begin.

  “Because you left? Nah. We were all done. And you made your case for Carpe Diem.”

  I’ve run up against that wall of hers, but in this situation, I don’t let her keep me out.

  “Bellamy,” I begin, walking past the window overlooking the park. “I got the sense that David makes you uncomfortable, and with good reason. His behavior borders on harassment. I didn’t think he’d react well professionally if he caught on to the fact that I’d just been kissing you, and I didn’t want to leave you alone with him if you felt uncomfortable. That’s why I asked if you wanted me to stick around. And I’m sure you can handle yourself—you strike me as more than capable. But I just wanted to know if you’re . . . well, okay?”

  “Oh . . .” She’s quiet for a long while. “Thanks for asking. But honestly, it’s fine. Really, it’s fine.”

  There’s that tough girl facade.

  I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”

  She sighs heavily. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

  But anyone who says she’s fine three times is anything but. “Does he make you feel uncomfortable?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know women who have it a lot worse. You should hear the stories from some of my friends.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way,” I point out.

  “Not for you. But it’s a fact of life for women in the workplace. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had to deal with it at some point on some level.”

  I hate how resigned she sounds. “But none of you should have to,” I protest.

  “My show is about dating and romance,” she says with a fatalistic sigh. “That makes some people think they can say anything they want. Like talk about my clothes. Or stare. But he’s never crossed a line.”

  “Doesn’t make it right.”

  “Of course not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not an unfortunate reality.”

  I drag a hand down my face. This shit is not okay. “If this happened to my sister . . .”

  She laughs heartily. “I’m not your sister. And it’s a damn good thing, isn’t it? Given how deep your tongue was down my throat.”

  I manage a small laugh. “Yes. Obviously yes.” I can sense she’s done with this conversation, but I can’t let it go. “There are things—”

  “Thank you. Easton, truly. I appreciate you saying all this, but I don’t want to talk about him. It’s hard enough that he’s my producer, and I hate that he has any say about the show, but he’s all talk. It sucks to have to listen to him, but that’s life. He doesn’t know where I live, and I made sure he doesn’t have my direct phone number,” she says and there’s a note of utter delight in her voice. Like she’s pleased with that defiance. “The buffer around my home life is my act of resistance. So, I’d just as soon not talk about him while I’m here.”

  I stare out the window, casting about for something else, anything else. If she wants me to drop it, I ought to drop it. But I’m coming up empty.

  “Let’s talk about the fact that you didn’t research me for your party,” she says, rerouting the conversation.

  I blink. What is she talking about? “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon. You were all I do my research, but you didn’t know I’d be there,” she says, taunting me. Because that’s what we do.

  And if she needs to return to sparring, if it makes her feel safe to push me out to familiar, bantery territory, I’ll damn well respect that boundary.

  “Because I gave Hazel an open invitation,” I point out. “I said she could invite anyone she wanted. I could hardly research a plus one.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, cowboy,” she says. “But you and I know the truth.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I crashed your party,” she says, all sing-song, like she’s poking and prodding me.

  And she is.

  “Fine. You did,” I say, conceding.

  “I’ve got your number,” she teases.

  “Yes, you do. I gave it to you.”

  “And I gave you mine,” she says, pointedly.

  Ohhh, I see. She gave me her number. This thing between us—whatever it is—is a choice. A mutual one, and so the opposite of whatever uncomfortable shit she faces when she opens those double glass doors at the office.

  Work conversation is over; she’s making that clear. I ought to lean into the moment. Go with the flow. “So, question for you, Ms. Horse Lover.”

  “Hit me up.”

  “Do you still ride?”

  “I do.” A definite, dreamy smile enters her voice. “I go to a little place outside the city some weekends. My dad lives in Connecticut with his wife—my stepmom. She’s amazing, and they found a great stable.”

  I whistle low in appreciation. “I bet you look sexy on a horse.”

  She laughs. “Why, yes, I do. And you?”

  “Do I look sexy on a horse?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  I stare at the night sky, stars twinkling faintly in the distance. “I suppose that’d be for you to judge.”

  “Maybe someday I can, indeed, judge that, cowboy.”

  “Maybe,” I say, wondering where in this city I could find her. I want to picture her. “Where do you live?”

  “Chelsea. Sixteenth and Seventh. A cute studio that works for me.”

  I can picture that perfectly. I, too, like that she told me, knowing she doesn’t divulge that to just anyone. “My next party is at a warehouse on Nineteenth Street.”

  “Maybe I’ll crash it,” she teases.

  “You hate my parties.”

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  “And yet I used it.”

  “You did.” Then her tone shifts again, and she clears her throat. “And maybe I do hate them.”

  “Do you really?”

  She sighs. “A little. But c’est la vie. We like different things, and that’s just the way it goes. Batman and Joker, after all.”

  “Archenemies to the end,” I say.

  We both sit in silence for a bit, then she fills it. “Hey, I should go. I have to finish some things for work.”

  I sit up straight. “Sure. Of course. I’ll . . . see you around.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Maybe you will.”

  She doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not sure we’ll meet again either, and that bothers me. “It’s been . . . interesting.”

  “It has, cowboy.”

  She hangs up. I stare at the phone, feeling like that whole conversation took place in a foreign language.

  19

  Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs . . .

  Episode: The Human Algorithm

  * * *

  Picture this:

  You’re staring down the barrel of your next birthday. Your best friend is engaged to be married. Your other close friend is expecting her first baby. The woman down the hall at the office just found the love of her life on Tinder. Everywhere around you are people in love.

  It’s something you’ve been seeking for a long time too.

  At least, I have. And I’ve learned you have to kiss a lot of frogs as you search for your one and only. On the way there, you might want to travel down many dating paths, including a new old-fashioned thing—a Carpe Diem party.

  Lately, listeners have been asking how to score an invitation to one of these events. They’re the talk of the town. One night could supposedly change your fate, put an end to the merry-go-round of Bumble and Tinder and all the rest.

  Dear listener, I’m here as your most devoted guide to romance to let you know you’re not missing a damn thing if you don’t snag one of those invites that seem to promise the world.

  And even if you do get one, who’s to say you’ll find love at those fancy, chichi, dare I say, overhyped, parties?

  Look, I believe in the conquer-all power of love. The tell-the-world-on-a-billboard-in-Times-Square kind of love.

  And, sure, many have found that love at these parties. So, a big yay for that. But most of you won’t even have a shot, and that’s not your fault. The parties cost gobs of money to attend, plus you have to get on the host’s radar.

  These parties rely on the human algorithm. On one person hand-selecting a list of matches for you. Carpe Diem parties are elitist, over-curated affairs that cater to the city’s beautiful and intelligent—those anointed a winner by the city’s very own old-fashioned Cupid, who’s also a capitalist.

  Don’t just take it from me though. You can hear it from the man himself. I sat down with Easton Ford, and he’s happy to tell you why his parties are the best and only way to meet your future love.

  Our edited interview follows . . .