“I bet you want to know why I wasn’t early to your party.”
Damn, she’s sharp. “Yes.”
Bellamy squares her shoulders. “I wanted to blend in. To see what your parties are like. So, I didn’t show up first.”
Her tone is forthright, and I like it. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Least I can do.”
“And I also appreciate your recon skills.”
With a smile, she nods. “I like to be prepared. And clearly you do too. A quality I admire.”
I crook a grin. “Ah, I knew I could get you to like me.”
“Did I say I liked you?” she teases.
“No, but I can read it in your eyes.” I take the moment to stare into those beauties. I could get lost in her eyes.
“Hope springs eternal,” she tosses back.
“Perhaps it does.” After all, I still hope to get her naked. “So, you like to show up in advance. I get the sense you called shotgun as a kid. You raised your hand first in class. You turned in assignments a day before they were due.”
“Do I need to admit a yes to any of those or have you already made those determinations about my character?”
Laughing lightly, I shake my head. “No need to admit what we both know.”
“And I bet you were the same growing up, Mister Ford.”
She’s spot on. “We’re cut from the same cloth,” I say.
Bellamy taps her notebook. “On that note, are you ready?”
I tsk her, wagging a finger. “Bellamy, not yet. Do not deprive yourself of life’s pleasures. Don’t you want some chocolate?” I gesture to the glass cases. Decadent squares and morsels call out to me.
“Who said I deprived myself of pleasure? Maybe I already had some.”
I stand, but then dip my face, brushing my cheek to hers. “Don’t ever deny yourself pleasure,” I whisper.
Her breath catches, but she presses her lips together quickly. “I won’t.”
I file away that hitch as I head to the counter, buy a sampler plate of chocolate, and return to my most worthy adversary.
I offer her a square. It’s dark chocolate with caramel coconut cream.
She bites into it and moans around the chocolate. “So good,” she says, then picks up a pink napkin and dabs at the corner of her lips.
I’d like to lick off that chocolate.
“Here’s my pitch,” she begins, setting down the napkin. “My producer, David, and I talked about your parties. He wants a deep dive into them. They’ve become the must-have ticket in New York. What does any single gal or guy want for his or her birthday? A ticket to Carpe Diem, since they aren’t easy to come by and they aren’t available for the budget-minded.”
She’s not wrong on either count, and that’s fine by me. “The best matchmakers don’t peddle their services for dollar-store prices,” I say. I’ve got a brand to defend.
“True, true. Which is why there’s so much chatter about the chance to meet that special someone at your parties. They have a cachet, and you can hear the whispers: If I’m lucky, I’ll get an invite. If I’m even luckier, maybe I can warrant a membership for a whole year. We want to know more about the man behind the events.”
My story isn’t hard to uncover. My life, my loves, my businesses have been lived out loud. Why would she need more about the man? “What do you want to know about me?”
“I want to know the why,” she says, leaning forward in enthusiasm. “Why you’ve become this old-fashioned Cupid of New York. And why your parties are your attempt to revolutionize dating in this millennium.”
“Because chemistry matters,” I say, giving the only relevant answer.
“That’s what my producer wants me to cover, and what my listeners want to know. Easton, I reach a lot of women. Women who want love. I want to tell them what sets your parties apart from Boyfriend Material, Tinder, even your old app, Coupled.”
My eye twitches at the mention of the last one. The stories I heard come back to me. “I wanted a better alternative for romance. Women especially said online dating wore them out. That’s what they told me when I went to conferences and events.”
“Yes, but why parties?”
“They’re better,” I say, keeping it simple. “And I want to give women what they want.”
“Will you tell me that on air? I want to roll up my sleeves and share you and your vision with others.”
She’s talking my language. Offering me a chance to reach my goals sooner. But I’ve been burned by not doing my research before, so I toss out some questions. “How much time do you need?”
“About an hour in the studio for an interview, and I’d love to cover one of your parties.” Her voice pitches up with hope. Her eyes are pleas.
But I’ve got limits. I shake my head. “No press at the parties. No media. It’s not a party, then. It’s a show.”
“Fair enough,” she says.
I’m not done with the negotiation though. “I also don’t want a profile.”
Her brow knits in confusion. “I thought you were open to it? Isn’t that what you just said? My boss wants a profile on you.”
But I don’t. “My story isn’t hard to find. The world doesn’t need to hear more about me. How about we focus on romance? What people can get out of a night at Carpe Diem?”
She takes a beat, perhaps considering this step in our tango. “Fine. I’ll focus on the parties, not the Gatsby. I’ll tell David as much.”
I grin. “Yes. Good.”
She sets down her pen. “Then do you want to come by the studio later this week?”
“You don’t waste time,” I say.
“I know what I want,” she says, determined.
I’m determined too, both to seize this chance for business and to spend more time with her . . . for me.
But I’m a patient man. My dick’s agenda can wait a little longer. First, the interview. Then, I’ll devise a new plan for wooing her into my bed.
“I know what I want too, and I’m willing to wait for it. And to work for it.” I let my gaze hold hers for a few more seconds, making my meaning clear. She nibbles on the corner of those lush red lips where the chocolate was only minutes ago.
“I hope you have stores of patience,” she says.
“I absolutely do.”
“Good. So do I.”
Perhaps two can play the waiting game.
When I leave, I buy her a box of chocolate caramels. “Think of me when you eat them,” I say as I press the box into her palm. “Fondly, that is.”
“I’ll do my best, but I make no promises,” she says.
“I’d expect nothing less,” I say, then head off into the city.
14
The Last Word
From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford
* * *
Dear Easton,
* * *
Thank you again for your time today, though in my haste to enjoy the box of chocolate caramels you plied me with—so very clever, getting me intoxicated on treats—I neglected to give you the address of my studio. I’ve enclosed it at the bottom of this letter. But as I write this, it occurs to me that you probably already know where the studio is, because you’ve probably already researched me.