Shake it off.
I need to get away from these lights. In the bedroom, I grab a shirt and button it up.
This weirdness in my chest? That’s just party nerves, right? That’s all it could possibly be.
The antsy, caffeinated sensation rolls through me again as I tuck the shirt into my slacks.
Regular old jitters. Nothing more.
Except, I’ve thrown a ton of romance soirees, and I’ve never felt anything like this insistent, too-big sensation in my chest. It expands through my ribs, pushes against my skin until I feel like I don’t fit inside my body.
With a rough swallow, I slam a hand against the wall. I take a deep breath. In, out. In, out.
Get it together, man. Now is not the time for your first panic attack.
I haul in a breath, let the air fill my lungs. Will away the thoughts of window curtain lights, and years gone by, and all these emotions.
So many goddamn emotions.
Old ones, new ones. Too many ones.
That’s the trouble. There’s just no room in me for them. I’ve got to do my best to ignore these feelings. As I walk to the warehouse, I pounce on my sister’s text, eager for the distraction.
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Listen to any good podcasts lately?
* * *
Your favorite brother: No. Why? Should I?
Is she talking about Bellamy’s show?
I click over to my podcast app, but I don’t have time to wait for Rory’s reply or to check for a new episode. I’m inside the building, and it’s go time. Vendors are here, and I have a party to throw.
Matches to make.
A brand-new guest to introduce to the men of Manhattan.
Except, that’s the last thing I want to do.
Just the thought of it stirs a hornet’s nest of emotions in my chest. So clearly, the solution is to do more than ignore the fuck out of my fidgety heart. My angry heart. My warm, squishy soft one.
My heart in all its crazy forms.
The only answer is to take these damn feelings, stuff them in a cage, lock them up, and throw away the key.
In the elevator mirror, I square my shoulders, run a hand through my hair, and then look straight ahead.
I’m steel, and I’m ready for anything that could come my way.
39
Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs . . .
Episode: Will you be mine?
* * *
Bae. Steady. Boyfriend. Main squeeze. Lover.
Doesn’t matter what you call it, dear listener. At some point, if you’re seeing someone on the reg, chances are you’re going to level up in the what are we department.
Yes, that can be a terrifying conversation, fraught with nerves and hand-wringing and necessitating multiple glasses of wine with your girlfriends.
What if your hookup doesn’t want the same things you do? What if the guy or gal you’ve been dating doesn’t want to lock you up in the same way?
And, as Kitty in Manhattan asks in our listener question of the week, how do you know when it’s time? And what do I do if he doesn’t feel the same way I do?
Well, Kitty, this is a tricky topic. It may be one of the trickiest in modern romance. You could have amazing chemistry with this guy you’ve been seeing—the kind where you spark every damn time you see him. The kind where you’ve met your match. But what if he doesn’t want the same things?
Deep breath.
Like I wrote in my planning notes—one, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. You deserve love. And two, don’t be afraid to walk away if you’re not getting what you want.
And what if he does want the same things? What if he’s changed? What if he’s open to all the possibilities?
You won’t know unless you ask the question.
Chin up; lipstick on. Sometimes you have to talk to the frog no matter how much it scares you.
No matter how hard it feels.
Take heart, Kitty. You’re not alone, dear listener.
I’ll be right there with you, asking the question too.
I’d rather kiss this one frog than any others, but first, I have to use my mouth to tell him how I feel.
Wish me luck, just as I’ll be wishing you luck.
* * *
Your Most Devoted Guide to Romance
40
Trash or Treasure
Angeline steals me away as soon as she arrives at the fête. “Now, listen. I have my sights set on Max Walker.”
I’m aware she’s sweet on the art collector. She already told Coco, and me, and the rest of the team. “He assures me he’ll be here.”
She laughs, tugging on her rose-gold necklace. “I said that already, didn’t I?”
“You might have mentioned it,” I say with a smile, fighting to keep my focus on her.
But it’s hard with the piano mere feet away. Harder, too, with those fucking lights on the windows—those damn flickering lights.
The hardest part, though, is when I spot a blonde hostess introducing Bellamy to Kendrick Lawton. He runs a charity to promote literacy and has struggled to find a companion online. That’s why he turned to Carpe Diem. He’s old school, kind, smart, and completely open to love.
He’ll be perfect for Bellamy.
So damn perfect, she’ll fall in love tonight.
That can’t happen.
I drag my attention back to my corporate partner, but I’m only half present. I’m also hunting through my mental file on Kendrick. “It’s going to be great,” I say. “Max will be here soon. And we’ll make sure you talk to him. I know it’ll go well.” I’ve said similar words to many clients, many times, on many nights. But this time, they feel off.
Everything feels a little off tonight.
Angeline’s hand flutters around her necklace, tugging it again. “I’ll stay right here, by these pretty paintings and the champagne bar. It’s been a while since I even had a date. But here I am, because romance is my Achilles’ heel. I can’t resist trying again.”
That’s it! I need to find Kendrick’s Achilles’ heel, and I think I’ve got it. I know from my database that the dapper man loves Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” I tell Angeline, then I leave her and head toward Bellamy at the bar. The brunette is chatting with the bespectacled guy and . . . no.
Just no.
If I’m not responding to app messages, she doesn’t get to talk to dudes.
Plastering on a smile, I stride right over to them. “Hello, Bellamy. Hello, Kendrick. How is everything tonight?”
The man flashes me a grin. “Fantastic, now that I’ve met Bellamy.”
“Bellamy makes everything better,” I agree pleasantly, but I’m a cat playing with a mouse.
“Thanks, Easton,” she says, then laughs. She sounds a touch nervous. Maybe about me coming over. But the three-second lull in the conversation that comes next is my opening, and I take it.
“I heard your podcast. So amazing how many times you’ve tried online dating,” I say, taking my time with the mouse.