So, there you go, straight from the source. But he didn’t change this romance addict’s mind. I say this to all of you wondering if these parties are your only chance . . . They are not.

  Take heart, my friends. Keep on trucking. Keep making those online profiles. Keep swiping right or swiping left.

  Go to the pickling class. The bar. The jazz club. Join a gym. Ask out the guy who works in the coffee shop.

  You’re not missing out if you don’t warrant a Carpe Diem invite.

  The only way you’ll miss out is if you stop turning over every rock as you find the great love of your life.

  Kiss all the frogs!

  This is your most devoted guide to romance, signing off.

  20

  Ruthless

  From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford

  * * *

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Really?

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Did you think I’d be anything but honest?

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I appreciate honesty. But that was character assassination, and you know it.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  To quote you back to you . . . Really?

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  Fine. But at the very least I vehemently disagree with your assessment. And I want to talk to you and explain why.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  We’re talking now. I’m happy to listen.

  * * *

  My best,

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  I’m not going to march into your studio. I’m not going to show up at your place of work and demand to know why you wrote that. I’m simply asking if we can talk in person.

  And if the answer is no, I will be on my way and you will never hear from me again. I am always a gentleman even when I am a determined motherfucker.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Determined Motherfucker,

  * * *

  Honesty is sexy. So is gentlemanliness. I’m at the gym down the block, though. Later?

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  What do you know? I’m at the warehouse on Nineteenth Street, prepping for the next party. Stop by when you’re done attacking the StairMaster. Address below.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  How did you know I use the StairMaster?

  * * *

  Bellamy

  Dear Bellamy,

  * * *

  It’s the most attackable piece of cardio. Ergo, perfect for you.

  * * *

  Easton

  Dear Easton,

  * * *

  Touché. I’ll cut my workout short. See you in forty minutes.

  * * *

  Bellamy

  21

  A Gentlemanly Fucker

  I’m still seeing red as I press the button on the buzzer to let Bellamy into the warehouse. The groan of the industrial elevator heralds her arrival with the crank of the gears as the elevator rises.

  I head to the doors, huffing in impatience as I wait.

  When the elevator opens, I half expect to see a sweaty, disheveled Bellamy in yoga pants and a sports bra. Instead, there’s her no-nonsense doppelganger. And, fuck my life, that’s just as hot.

  She steps out in a V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers. No makeup either, except for glossy red lips, and her hair is pulled high in a ponytail. Freshly scrubbed from a post-gym shower, she’s as alluring as ever.

  I’m still pissed about the piece, except now I’m turned on too.

  I gesture her into the industrial-style loft space with a sweep of my arm. There’s barely any furniture in here—just a grand piano.

  “Come in,” I growl as I stalk away from her and over to the instrument.

  “Should I let my friends know where I am?”

  I toss her a look that says don’t joke about that. “No.”

  She raises her hands in surrender. “Fine. Bad joke.”

  “I don’t think you’d have come here if you thought there was an issue.”

  “You’re right. It’s not an issue. I’m good being here.”

  “Good. You should feel that way with me.” When I reach the piano, I spin around, folding my arms. “So, that was quite a hatchet job.”

  She lifts her chin. “I wouldn’t call it a hatchet job. It was a fair and honest assessment.”

  I arch a brow. “You call that fair? Is that really what you think of me? That I’m some sort of master puppeteer? A kind of elitist matchmaker?”

  Her look says duh. “Easton, you are those things,” she says, her assessment cool and even.

  I smile, winningly. “I’m providing incredible opportunities.”

  “And I’m assessing them on my show.”

  I stab my finger against my sternum. “It’s my job to help people meet.”

  She points at herself. “And it’s my job to analyze whether those methods work.”

  “I wouldn’t call that an analysis. It was an evisceration,” I say, taking a step closer to her. “And I seriously can’t believe you think so little of me.”

  “I seriously can’t believe that’s the worst thing that’s happened to you today.”

  “What else do you think happened to me today?”

  “Stepped in a piece of gum? Bumped into a trashcan? Dealt with assholes at work? That was just a story. It was just a report. It hardly merits this level of reaction.”

  How can she be so even-keeled? “You took my business apart on your show. My parties are not the human algorithm. And online dating is not the solution.”

  She simply shrugs, flicking an errant strand of hair off her shoulder, like this is all no big deal. “Easton, I call it like I see it. You may have had some success. And good on you. But these parties aren’t accessible to everybody. The price is high, they’re overdone, and the reality is there’s romance for everyone out there.” She gestures to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “People can meet in the strangest of ways. It’s happened to me. And the whole idea that your way is the best way is, frankly, irritating.”

  My nostrils flare, and a dragon of anger thrashes inside me. “You’ve seen it happen in your own life? Is that what you mean? Are you talking about some guy?”

  Her eyes turn wickedly curious. “Are you . . . jealous?” She sounds far too delighted for my own good.

  “Yes,” I seethe, stepping closer. “Yes, I’m fucking jealous.”

  “Why?” She steps closer too. “Because I’ve dated other men?”

  I shrug. “Evidently I am.”

  “I had a feeling.” She leans in even more and stage whispers, “So, I’m also going to tell you something really important.”

  “Yes?”

  Eyes narrowed, she gets right up in my face. “You need to get over yourself. Because the piece wasn’t about you. Past men I’ve dated aren’t about you. None of that is about you. So, let it go.”

  “I thought we had some sort of understanding,” I seethe.

  She points at my chest. “Yes, and it goes like this. I do my job, and you do your job. And while we’re at it, you’re ridiculously sexy and it drives me crazy. Your mind excites me. Your letters thrill me and that bugs the hell out of me. But I’m still going to do my job. And that’s what I did today. My job.”

  I’m positive I’ve never been this aroused.

  But, holy hell, there’s more—did she just say she’s just as turned on as I am?

  I swallow roughly. “My letters thrill you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t act so surprised.”

  My lips twitch in a grin. “So, what are we going to do about this?”

  Her hand darts up to grab the collar of my shirt and tugs me close. “What we should have done the night we met.”

  She nibbles on the corner of those lush red lips. The fact that she took a moment to put on her lipstick makes me even harder. We’re talking redwood tree levels here.

  “We need to fuck it out,” I agree.

  Her dreamy brown eyes glitter with desire. Her fist tightens around my collar. “And we need to fuck it out right now.”

  I rope an arm around her waist, splaying my hand across the small of her back to press her lithe body against me. The second she’s flush with my hard length, her eyes float closed, and a shuddery breath ghosts past her lips.

  It is on.

  Hauling her even closer, I crush her mouth with mine. I kiss her fiercely, all teeth and tongue and fire. She kisses me back the same way, like we’re passing a bottle of fiery tequila between us. Drawing her bottom lip between mine, I suck hard, eliciting a heady moan from the heart of the woman I want.

  She jerks our lips apart, pulling back enough to sear me with her eyes, then she grabs my face. “I can’t believe you’re pissed at a podcast piece,” she hisses.

  “I can’t believe you have it out for me,” I hiss right back.

  “But what I really can’t believe”—she runs her hand down the front of my shirt, yanking it from my jeans—“is that you think this is going to change the score between us.”

  I grin, but I’m still fuming. “Sweetheart, I know a good fuck isn’t going to change how you feel for me. But I don’t care.”

  Her brow arches. “How do you know it’s going to be good?”

  I let go of her, grab the hem of her shirt, then sweep it off, eating up the view. Gorgeous tits in a basic, white cotton bra. It’s such an I don’t give a shit look and it suits this woman.

  “It’s not going to be a good fuck. It’s going to be the best ever,” I tell her.

  “It better be. I cut my workout short for this,” she taunts.

  “Promise my cock is a better use of your time than a StairMaster,” I say.

  Her fingers play with the hair on my chest, then along my abs as she makes her way toward my jeans. But I don’t have the patience for foreplay. I barely have the patience to get the rest of our clothes off.

  I rip open the button on her jeans, slide my hand ruthlessly between her legs, and then let loose the most satisfied groan of my life when I discover she’s soaked.

  “Like I said—you want me,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes, half mocking and half lost in pleasure as I stroke her wetness. “Never denied it,” she murmurs.

  As I caress her sweet, hot pussy, I press my lips to her ear. “Turn around and pull your jeans down. I’m going to make you want to cut every damn workout short now.”

  Seconds later, her jeans are in disarray, one leg on, one leg off. Mine are unzipped, and she thrusts a condom at me that she grabbed from her purse.

  “You came prepared.”

  “Just shut up and cover your dick,” she says as she gets in position.

  “What the lady wants,” I say, rolling the condom down my length. Then I grab her hips and angle her ass up.

  She grabs the edge of the piano, and I rub the head of my dick against all that delicious slickness and groan in mind-bending pleasure at the contact with this woman.

  Her carnal moan echoes through the warehouse. I grip her hip, my fingers digging into her flesh. “You want it hard? You want it rough?”

  “Yes. Just stop talking and get in me,” she says, gritting out the words.

  Well, that’s clear.

  I sink inside, filling her. When I’m all the way in, I go still as lust rips through me in a pounding wave. Her tight heat grips my cock, lighting me up from head to fucking toe.

  Then, I give her what she came for.

  There is nothing slow or tender in the way we screw. We are two thoroughbreds running the Kentucky Derby, hell-bent on the finish line. It’s hard, and it’s rough, and it’s everything I need right now.

  She answers each punishing thrust with a dirty moan.

  I squeeze her ass hard as I pump.

  Her reply? A loud, guttural cry.

  I go deeper. Her head falls forward, resting on her arms. She lifts her ass, asking me to keep up the relentless pace. I read her every cue, and I ride her gorgeous body like I’ve wanted to every time I’ve seen her.

  She gives herself over to me completely in this dirty, desperate moment. Turning her head, she watches me as if enrapt.

  Her lips are parted.

  Her guard is down.

  Wild lust flashes across those irises.

  Then she whispers terribly gorgeous words. No more anger. No more hate in her voice. “Please . . . I want to come so badly.”

  “And you fucking will.” I slide my hand between her legs, rub my fingers across the delicious rise of her clit.

  She shudders, a wave that moves through her whole body as I rub.

  Her noises rise impossibly higher as we chase the edge of bliss together. She grips the side of the piano like she’s holding on for dear life, knuckles white, body tense as I stroke and I fuck and I take her to the brink.

  She cries out, a delirious burst of moans that don’t end, that keep going as she trembles and shakes and her orgasm seems to take over her world.

  My release barrels down hard and fast, blotting out everything in the city but us.

  When I come back to earth, we’re still panting and gasping, half-undressed, all spent. As I ease out of her, she turns around, her features soft, and cups my face. “I needed that. So much,” she says with a grateful sigh.

  “Tell me why,” I demand.

  She raises a finger. “Give a girl a second, you determined motherfucker.”

  I smirk. “I’ll be a gentleman, then.”

  “Good. The whole ‘gentlemanly motherfucker’ look suits you.”

  We head for the restrooms, and when I exit a minute later, I hear the trill of “Like a Virgin” from atop the piano. Heart in my throat, I dive for the phone to answer the Mayday alert.

  22

  I Told You So

  As soon as I pick up the phone, I hit the app and call my grandmother.

  She answers quickly with a cheerful, “Hello, my little munchkin.”

  Talk about a blast from the past. “You haven’t called me that since I was five. You must really be in a pickle.” I check the location on the Mayday app. Coco is only a few blocks away. “Are you at The Supper Lounge on a Tuesday night?”

  “Yes. I told you I’d be home later, munchkin. But the cat is fine, right?”

  Right. The cat claw plan. I slide into fake-emergency mode as I stuff my wallet into my jeans pocket. “Priscilla broke a nail. She’s at the ER. She needs you.”

  “No!” Coco shrieks so loud I jerk the phone away.

  Sneakers slap against the concrete floor as Bellamy comes from the bathroom, tugging her ponytail higher looking at me quizzically.

  “That sounds terrible,” Coco continues. “Well, I’m so glad the cat’s fine, but I feel awful that my aunt needs me tonight. In Boston, you say?”

  That’s not at all what I said, but I follow Grandma’s lead. “Yes. Aunt Betty Boop’s cat needs you too. That’s the one who broke his fingernail. Toenail? Paw-nail?”

  Bellamy arches a brow as she listens to me. Meanwhile, Coco is improving on the other end of the call.

  “We need to charter a helicopter tonight. Yes, pick me up so we can make it to the air pad on time,” Coco replies. “To Boston we go.”

  My grandmother and I are having parallel conversations, apparently. “I’ll tell Harvey to fire up the chopper. Also, I’m pretty sure with cats it’s just a claw or toenail. Not a paw-nail.”

  “I so hope Aunt Betty will be okay,” Coco says.

  “And Aunt Betty’s cat,” I add, but Coco has already hung up.

  Bellamy cocks her head. “Let me get this straight. Your friend, sister, or buddy”—she sketches air quotes around all three—“needs your help with her aunt and her cat?”

  “It’s my grandmother. Her cat, Priscilla, is fine, though.”

  “That’s a new excuse for dashing off after sex. Impressively creative,” Bellamy says sharply, grabbing her purse. “But fair is fair. Women learn young how to use cats or aunts to slip away from uncomfortable dates. I simply had no idea guys used the same excuses. Although adding a helicopter was hardly necessary,” she says. “I got the hint.”

  Are you kidding me? I grab her arm before she can storm away. “You think that was for my benefit? One, I don’t need a Mayday with you. Don’t want one. Two, that was my grandmother asking for help in code. And since you don’t believe me, you’re coming with me to fetch her.”