Prologue
Everybody wants to come again, but not everyone can.
So, if I invite you to a life-changing night, you better save that date. An invitation from me offers a woman something hard to get and hard to pass up—charm, class, and a relentless focus on her heart’s desire that drives her to RSVP: Accepts with pleasure.
So much fucking pleasure. I’m a purveyor of it—the goddamn mayor of good times, the lord of lust, the emperor of ecstasy. A coveted summons to one of my underground events means an end to swiping, ghosting, and fishing.
Like a modern-day Gatsby, I woo the most fascinating, clever, and sexy women to my soirees—women willing to pay a pretty penny for the chance to meet the man of their dreams.
These secret parties aren’t for me. Please. Love isn’t in my cards.
I’m not even dealing myself in. I’m quite content to be the leading matchmaker in a brand-new age of romance in New York City.
At least, I was happy enough till she walked in on the celebration and table-flipped all my perfect plans.
And she didn’t even RSVP.
1
The Boys, the Bet, and the Babe
I’m not a party boy, but I love a good party.
I’m more of a connoisseur of human complexity, and bars are like a three-course meal for romance, dating, and mating.
Most of all, they are arenas for the game.
The costumed scene at The Lucky Spot tonight is a perfect example, and from my seat at the bar, I make mental notes for my own fêtes and scope out potential guests.
“Admit it. You wish you owned Manhattan’s most successful bar.”
I turn to my cousin, meeting his gaze across the counter as he pours a patron a beer. “Yes, Spencer, I dream of being you,” I deadpan, then return to studying the sea of people. This is just one of the watering holes Spencer owns in Manhattan. It’s Get Lucky for a Cause night, a modern masquerade for charity.
“Understandable.” Behind the bar, Spencer holds up a bottle of Patrón in one hand and a Macallan in the other, offering each to me in turn.
“Is that a trick question?” I shoot him a searing stare and nod to the scotch.
“Yes, Easton. That was a test to make sure the pod people hadn’t taken you over, given your costume,” he says, pouring the shot. “Who the hell are you tonight?”
I smooth a hand down my swank tux jacket, lifting the glass that’s part of the costume, just like the slicked-back hair and the grin required to pull this off. “This shouldn’t be too hard to guess.”
Spencer shrugs, the lemons attached to his T-shirt rising with his shoulders. “You got me.”
“And what, exactly, are you?” I counter, scanning his simple yellow eye mask and his citrus-covered shirt.
Spencer drags a finger across the words emblazoned under the lemons. When life gives you . . . “I’m wordplay, Easton.”
Behind me, someone clears their throat. “Weird. I would have bet a grand you were irony,” Nolan says, sliding up to join us, wearing Clark Kent glasses and a white button-down undone to show the Superman logo on the T-shirt under it. My bespectacled buddy eyes me up and down in my duds—tuxedo, vest, white handkerchief in the breast pocket, bow tie and a black mask. “Are you a bandit?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe take in the whole costume before guessing, Nolan. And I’m wearing a mask because I know how to read an invitation,” I say drily. “Glasses only work as a disguise for Clark Kent.”
“Yes, and yours screams Zorro. Which is super helpful for an ugly mofo like yourself.” He flashes his trademark I’m-so-cute-and-charming grin. “Masquerade parties were made for dudes like you.”
Spencer sets two shot glasses on the bar. “Now, don’t be so harsh, Nolan. Not everyone can make the list of Most Eligible YouTube Food Show Stars.”
I get in on the ribbing too. “Such a coveted honor. With that kind of specificity, it’s a wonder you aren’t wearing a mask to remain incognito twenty-four seven.”
“I didn’t see you on a list for Secret Matchmakers, Easton,” he says.
Tsking, I shake my head. “I don’t need to be on a list; I’m the one who makes the list—the guest list filled with everyone who’s anyone.”
“Excuses, excuses.” Nolan weighs scales with his hands. “As for my mask, it was either wear one or, you know, be able to see.”
I call bullshit. “Or you just want the ladies to see your pretty-boy face.”
Nolan props his chin in his hands. “When you have an asset this valuable, you use it fully.” He shifts his focus to me. “But seriously, who are you, E? A gangster?”
Do I really need to spell it out? “Just keep on guessing. A hundred bucks goes to the first to figure it out.”
Spencer chuckles as he grabs the tequila bottle, his wedding band glinting under the light. “I’m voting for Bugsy Malone.”
I crack a sliver of a grin. “You’re getting warmer time-period wise.” Spencer pours a tequila for Nolan, and I return to my mission.
Observation.
A sexy pop mix of Leon Bridges and Sam Smith seeps through the joint and I eat up the view, starting with my favorite dish.
Lots of women.
Curves and breasts, red lips and high cheekbones.
Angels and cowgirls, Black Widows and Wonder Women—even two sexy zombies with gnawed off faces and short skirts. I never thought the undead could be hot but that pair of busty identical twins make eaten alive look good.
But there’s more here than simply a good number of the fairer sex.
There’s . . . the possibility of flirtation.
A pair of Pokémon-costumed men face off in a fierce game of Ping-Pong against a couple of Harajuku girls. A plague doctor plays blackjack with a cowboy quite cozily. In the back room, a merman and a mermaid take each other on in pool.
All around me is proof that people would rather gather in the real world than on their phones.
I’m just so goddamn right. I sweep my arm toward the sea of libidinous humanity. “Could it be any more obvious that this generation is sick of dating apps?”
Nolan lifts his tequila with a dismissive wave. “I never needed one of those.”
“Because your ego wouldn’t fit on one,” Spencer puts in.
“Or maybe I need space to exercise my natural charm,” Nolan says.
“Or perhaps,” I say, resting my elbows on the bar behind me as I survey the scene, “it’s that people are aching to meet in person.”
Eye contact matters. Chemistry is a thing. Hell, this milieu is a whole Venus flytrap, and it’s why my business is booming.
This city is my oyster, full of pearls. And sometimes those pearls need a little help getting together.
Inspired by the atmosphere and all the ideas I can crib from here for my next big soiree, including the music, I grab my phone from the inside jacket pocket. I dictate a voice note, tucking away the details for future me.
“Consider a library and billiards. Perhaps a theme around old school,” I say into the device.
Nolan barks a laugh, dropping a hand onto my shoulder. “Dude. Did you seriously just dictate a work note on a Saturday night? At Spencer’s masquerade event? For charity?”