Chapter 8
“Holy arm porn!” Emma held out her laptop. “You need to see this.”
“You’re interrupting Gilmore Girls to look at profiles?” Perched in the armchair beside the worn, brown leather sofa, Nicole tossed a piece of popcorn at Emma.
I need a new Saturday night plan, Lucy thought. But she reached across the couch and took the laptop from her friend’s outstretched arms. After two birthday parties, Lucy wasn’t up for a night out. She’d rather indulge in a Gilmore Girls marathon with her friends.
And arm porn.
She studied the picture. The profile shot cut off the guy’s head and everything below the waist. But the sculpted lines of his bicep left her wishing she could reach through the computer and feel his skin. This mystery man’s flexed muscles could inspire serious fantasies. Strong arms lifting her, holding her close, pressing her against a wall, kissing her as if he’d never let go, would never want to let go. She wouldn’t want to release him either. Her fingers would dig into his toned biceps.
Just like the other day, in the storage closet. Only this time, it wouldn’t stop with a single kiss.
“No, no, no,” she muttered. She would not indulge in another Jared Mitchell fantasy.
“Don’t be so quick to reject him,” Emma scolded. “He hits almost all the marks.”
“I don’t have a Fated for Love account,” Lucy murmured scanning the unfamiliar webpage layout.
“I opened one for you,” Emma said easily. “Now, I don’t think you should judge a man entirely by his arms, but—”
“Axe murders probably have great arms,” Nicole said. “From lifting their murder weapons.”
“Shut up, Miss Sunshine.” Emma offered Nicole a chilling look.
“You know I’m right.” Nicole slid off the chair, made her way around the coffee table, and claimed the empty couch space. She stared at the scene over Lucy’s shoulder. “This guy has axe murderer written all over him.”
“She’s right.” Lucy looked up and gave Emma a pointed look. “I’ve scanned through all of his photos. Not a single shot of his face. And the one of him with the other girl? It’s weird. They don’t look like they know each other. She’s looking at the camera, but he’s staring out at the ocean.”
Emma plucked the TV remote off the coffee table and hit pause on Rory Gilmore. “Forget about the pictures for a minute,” she said. “Read what he wrote. Not the part about him. That makes him sound like every other suit working in an office. Although based on this, I think he might run the company. But never mind that. Scroll down to the ‘What I’m Looking For’ section.”
“Read it out loud,” Nicole demanded as she rifled through the nearly empty popcorn bowl.
“Passion,” Lucy began.
Nicole rolled her eyes. “He’s an axe murderer who wants to get laid.”
“A passion for work,” Lucy continued. “For life. For taking risks. For building a family. One day. Before we get there, I’m looking for long walks on the beach, shared jokes, romantic dinners, and last-minute getaways. I’m looking for that spark of magic that ignites desire. I want to find the one woman I can’t walk away from.”
Lucy glanced up from the screen. Her heart rate kicked up a notch, as if she’d run up a flight of stairs in heels. She glanced up at the top of the profile and read the name. Philip Ryder’s desire for passion matched hers. He’d spelled it out right there in his profile.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“He probably copied that out of Cosmo,” Nicole said. “One meal with Mr. Arm Porn, and you’ll discover his need for “passion” is linked to his desire for a slim, pretty girl with big boobs in his bed.”
“Or he’s the real deal,” Emma said. “There’s only one way to find out. Hit the heart button on his profile and send him a message. Wait and see if he responds.”
Lucy clicked on the heart, and a message box appeared. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, she stared at the blinking cursor. “What do I write? ‘I like your passion?’ That sounds wrong. And a little dirty.”
Emma closed her eyes. “Risk number one: writing this message.”
Lucy nodded and typed. “Risk number two: meeting in person. But first I need another picture. One that tells me more about you. I want to make sure our ‘passions’ match. Your Daring New Friend, Lucy.”
She reread the message one more time and hit send. “There. It’s done.”
“If he sends you a dick pic,” Nicole began.
“I’ll know I avoided another disaster date.” Lucy closed the computer.
“Unless he’s the size of a porn star.” Emma picked up the remote and hit play. “Then you should take him to The Taco Bar. Maybe sneak him into the back and confirm that he sent you a picture of his dick. If he did, there’s nothing wrong with a little physical passion.”
“If that’s his response, I’ll ignore the message and move on.” Lucy set the computer on the coffee table. She turned her attention to the T.V. “I can’t slip into the back of Jared and Finn’s place to find out what my date is hiding in his boxers.”
I had my chance for that. And I stopped with a kiss.
From her brother’s best friend. A billionaire playboy. A man who thought that looking for “magic” on a first date was asking for the impossible. A man who kissed like he knew how to deliver passion.
But it was just a kiss, and it didn’t come with a guarantee of great sex.
Because I didn’t strip off his pants.
Yet.
And I won’t. I can’t. I’m going out with Mr. Arm Porn.
Philip Ryder sounded like her dream date. He’d cut to the heart of her hopes and dreams with one paragraph on a dating website. He hadn’t used full sentences. But still, it was exactly what she wanted to hear.
From Jared.
She reached for the popcorn bowl and stuffed a half-popped kernel in her mouth. Philip Ryder needed to send her a message. Now. Before she lost her mind over her brother’s best friend.
“Wake up.”
Lucy opened her eyes. The Gilmore Girls were still on the T.V., but she’d lost interest hours ago. Lifting her head off the plush throw pillow, she glanced around their living room. Nicole had passed out in the armchair. But Emma was hunched over her laptop, her legs folded underneath her.
Emma looked up from the screen. “He wrote back. And there’s a picture.”
“Of what?”
“I didn’t open it.” Emma held out the computer. “That’s personal. I don’t want to interfere.”
“That’s where you draw the line?” Lucy stretched her arms overhead as she sat up. Then she took the computer from her self-appointed matchmaker and clicked on the message.
Dear Daring Lucy,
I’ll match you risk for risk.
Risk one: sending this picture. You want to know something about me? I work hard and I love it. Some weeks, I live at my desk. But I play hard too.
Risk two: asking you to send me a picture in return. I want to know more about your ‘passions’ too.
Sweet Dreams,
Mr. Workaholic
“Well?” Emma demanded.
“I haven’t opened the attachment. Just the message,” Lucy said. “He’s matching me risk for risk.”
“I like him.” Emma stood. She picked up the remote and turned off the T.V. “Give him a chance, Lucy. You should have dinner with this one. He already sounds more promising than the last dozen dudes you went out with to escape the sucky fact your fiancé left.”
“That’s not why—”
“Yes, it is,” Emma said easily. “You wanted to prove that you could move on. And you did that with a dozen jerks and losers. Now it’s time to get serious about someone you might actually like or stop wasting your time.”
Is that what she’d been doing? Running from her heartbreak? Trying to prove to herself that she could claim the future she wanted? The one that had slipped through her fingers like the sand from Palm Beach’s shore.
“I hate it when you’re right.”
“That’s why I play Belle.” Emma paused in the archway leading to the hall and the stairs. “She’s the smart princess. Your girl fell for the first guy she met at a ball and lost her shoe.”
“Depends on which version you read. In some stories, Cinderella knew the prince first. As a man, not just a gorgeous, single and very powerful member of the royal family.”
“And she still lost her shoe. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just try to toss them away for the right guy.” Emma pointed at the computer. “Open that picture and respond tonight.”
“You’re not my fairy godmother, Em.”
Emma laughed as she headed for the stairs. “I’m so much more than that. I’m your matchmaker.”
“Great,” Lucy muttered as her friend’s footsteps faded. She didn’t need a matchmaker. She had profiles on three different dating sites. Well, four now thanks to Emma. She sighed and turned back to the screen. In a few hours, she needed to be dressed to play her part again for another little girl’s dream party. She should follow her friend up the stairs and head to bed . . .
Or I could end this right now. One picture of his face and I’ll learn why his profile highlighted his arms.
She clicked on the picture. The image filled a portion of the scene. Her eyes widened, and she cocked her head to drink in the full wow factor. She’d expected a man’s face. But this shot didn’t tell her the color of his eyes.
Philip Ryder, the self-described workaholic, had sent her a picture of his desk. Judging from the angle, the phone—or whatever he’d used to capture this insight into his world—was sitting on the far edge. He hadn’t bothered to angle the camera. A stack of papers filled one side of the picture and continued above the top of the image. On the right, she spotted a pen. The generic, black ballpoint didn’t offer a clue as to where he worked. But unless this was his home office, Philip Ryder had taken a big risk by posing for this picture.
A man’s hands rested on the desk’s edge between the stack of papers on the left and what looked like a paperweight on the right. Muscular forearms filled most of the shot. But his abs covered the background like mouth-watering wallpaper. No shirt. Just a sculpted six-pack on full display. If he’d worn pants, the camera had cut them off.
She should close the message and send a quick thanks, but no thanks note. She had rules about ab pics.
But this one is just for me. I asked for a picture that showed something about him.
“He’s still at work.” Lucy glanced at the digital clock on the cable box. One in the morning on a Saturday night and this man was at work.
Shirtless.
She studied the image for more clues. She couldn’t see much of the room beyond his muscles. Papers covered the desk’s surface. And that paperweight . . . oh wow, that was not a paperweight.
A pair of metal handcuffs rested beside his pen, one cuff stacked on top of the other. But I play hard too. He’d written that in his message. And he wasn’t talking about surfing on the weekends. Philip Ryder, the poster man for arm porn, possessed lickable abs. And he liked his toys.
I want to play with him.
Her imagination kicked into overdrive. She pictured that body, those arms coupled with Jared’s face. She saw his playful smile as he dangled the handcuffs in front of her. She completed the wicked fantasy with her clothes piled in the corner as she held out her wrists. His desk, his bed, up against the wall—the location didn’t matter. Her body begged for this mystery workaholic to take her. Heat pooled between her legs. Her brain, drugged by this picture, sent a misguided signal to her breasts: High alert! We’re about to get down and dirty.
She imagined his lips touching her, offering a hard, demanding kiss as he secured her hands. She’d never tried handcuffs. Not even with the man she’d planned to marry. But she wanted to cast her inhibition aside. She would lose herself in this imaginary kiss that felt . . . familiar.
As if she’d seen those arms somewhere. Or touched those abs before.
In The Taco Bar’s supply closet. When Jared pressed his lips to mine.
But Jared’s face didn’t belong in her fantasy. She refused to spend the next month, or even the next week, reliving Jared’s kiss. He would disappear back to New York and move on with another one of his arm-candy girlfriends. Sure, he had claimed that she wasn’t another one of his affairs. But she couldn’t trust his words. She’d know him for years. He’d always placed work first—like Philip Ryder, the workaholic.
Still, Philip put himself out there. He was looking for a relationship. Why else would he waste his precious work hours creating a Fated for Love profile?
To get laid like the rest of the jerks she’d dated.
Lucy picked up the computer and headed for her office. If she let her cynicism win, if she stopped taking chances and going on dates, she’d never find the man who could deliver the future she wanted. Watching the Gilmore Girls with her single girlfriends wouldn’t lead to marriage.
She headed for the office space across the hall. Setting her laptop on the loveseat, she pulled out her phone and propped it up on the desk using a silver, plastic crown left over from one of the parties. Her fingers toyed with edge of her pink tank top. She dressed for her girl’s night in head-to-toe Victoria’s Secret, from her white lace demi-bra to her Pink branded yoga pants and sleeveless tank. But she knew that if she took this picture and sent it to a virtual stranger that she ran the risk the image wouldn’t stay secret for long.
Take a chance. He might be worth it.
She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it on the loveseat beside the laptop. Then she folded the band on her yoga pants down revealing her abs. She didn’t have a six-pack. Not even close. But the crunches she attempted once in awhile left behind a hint of definition. She rested her left palm against the desk and reached for her phone with her free hand.
Click. Click. Click.
She picked up the phone and scanned the images. The last one. She’d send that image to Mr. Ryder along with a message.
Mr. Workaholic,
I’ll match you risk for risk. But I might have to borrow your handcuffs. Mine are pink and fuzzy. They would look out of place on your desk.
Yours truly,
Naughty in Pink
She read through the brazen words. She couldn’t send that to a stranger. First of all, it was a lie. She didn’t own handcuffs. She’d never ventured beyond vanilla sex. But the thought of sending this picture to Mr. Arm Porn?
Simply thrilling.
Her breasts agreed, forming tight peeks beneath her bra. Post break-up Lucy went after what she wanted. And right now, she wanted Philip Ryder—handcuffs and all.
She hit send.