CHAPTER ONE

Men don’t understand women.

That’s just a fact of life.

Like that guy.

The dude down there at the corner of my bar. His elbow’s on the metal counter in an aren’t I casual and cool pose. He’s stroking his handlebar mustache, and he’s acting like he’s the best listener in the world as he talks to a hot brunette with square red glasses. But the thing is, he’s staring at her rack.

Fine, the brunette has nice tits. And I mean “nice” in the sense that they could occupy their own zip code.

But c’mon, man.

Her eyes are up there. And you’ve got to look at them, or the lady is going to walk.

I finish pouring a pale ale for one of our regulars, a businessman who pops in once a week. He’s working the whole my boss sucks for making me travel look, and at the very least I can help him in the drink department.

“This one’s on the house. Enjoy,” I say, sliding the glass to him.

“Best news I’ve had all day,” he says with a small quirk of the lips, before he chugs half the glass and plunks down a three-dollar tip. Nice. The bartenders here, who depend on tips, will appreciate it. But Jenny had to take off early because her sister had some sort of crisis, so I’m handling the last of the customers, while my business partner, Charlotte, is managing the books.

As Handlebar leans in closer to Red Square, she backs away, shakes her head, grabs her purse, and heads for the exit.

Yup. I could be a fortuneteller if my specialty was predicting when a man would score and when he wouldn’t. Most of the time, the odds are definitely not in the dude’s favor, because he makes the most common bar mistakes. Like starting the conversation with a stupid pick-up line. “Girl, you make my software turn into hardware,” or “You should sell hot dogs because you sure know how to make a weiner stand.” Yeah I couldn’t believe my ears either. Or how about this mistake? The guy who has a wandering eye and can’t stop checking out the other attractions. What woman is going to find that flattering?

The worst bar sin, though, is assuming. Assuming she wants to talk to you. Assuming she’s going home with you. Assuming you can kiss her without her permission.

You know what they say happens when you assume.

But me?

Just check my diploma. I double majored in college with one degree in finance and the other in the language of women—and I graduated summa cum laude. I have an encyclopedic understanding of what a woman wants…and giving it to her. I achieved full fluency in female body language, the clues, and the gestures.

Like right now.

Charlotte is tapping away on her laptop and biting the corner of her lip in concentration. Translation: I am on a roll, so do not bother me or I will throat punch you.

Okay, fine. She’s not really a throat-puncher. But the point being, she is giving off major Do Not Disturb vibes.

Handlebar, though, can’t read, speak, or write Woman. He’s sauntering along the bar, getting ready to make a move. Thinking he’s got a chance with her.

From my spot behind the bar, wiping down glasses, I can practically hear him clearing his throat as he preps to say hello to Charlotte.

I can understand why the man has my best friend in his crosshairs. Charlotte is pretty much a goddess of the highest order. First, she has wavy, blonde hair, paired with deep brown eyes. Most blondes have blue eyes, so Charlotte gets major points for the killer reverse combo that just slams you with its unexpected and absolute hotness.

Next, she possesses a fantastic dry sense of humor.

Plus, she’s whip smart.

But Handlebar doesn’t know those last two. He’s only aware that she’s gorgeous, so he’s about to make his play. He snags the stool next to her and flashes a toothy grin. She flinches, startled that this guy just invaded her blinders-on work zone.

Charlotte can totally handle herself. But we made a pact long ago, and re-upped when we went into business together on this bar. If either of us needs a fake girlfriend or boyfriend to gracefully get out of a sticky situation, we’ve sworn to step in and act the part.

It’s a game we’ve played since college, and it works like a charm.

It also works because Charlotte and I would never be a real couple. I need her too much as a friend, and judging from the number of times she’s laughed with me, or cried on my shoulder, she needs me too. Which is another reason why this tactic is brilliant—we both know we will never be more than friends.

I walk around the bar and head straight for Charlotte, right as Handlebar reaches her and says his name, then asks for hers.

I slide in and brush a hand on her lower back, as if she’s mine. As if I’m the one who gets to touch this body, thread his fingers through her hair, and look into those eyes. I tilt my head and flash him the biggest shit-eating grin, because I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who goes home with her in this scenario. “My fiancée’s name is Charlotte. Nice to meet you. I’m Spencer,” I say, and offer a hand to shake.

The guy wrinkles his nose like a rabbit, getting a clue that he’s just struck out again tonight.

“Have a good night,” he mutters, and scurries out.

Charlotte tips her chin to me and gives an approving nod. “Look at you. Captain Fiancé coming to the rescue,” she says, running a hand along my arm and squeezing my bicep. “I didn’t even see him making the moves.”

“That’s why you’ve got me. I have eyes everywhere,” I say as I lock the front door. The bar is empty now. It’s just us, like it’s been so many nights at closing time.

“And usually those peepers are busy scanning for available women,” she says, shooting me an I know you so well stare.

“What can I say? I like to give my eyes a good workout, too—just like the rest of me,” I say, patting my flat as a board belly.

Then she yawns.

“Get to bed,” I tell her.

“You should, too. Oh, wait. You probably have a date.”

She’s not far off. I usually do.

Earlier this month, I met a total babe at the gym. She worked out hard, then worked out even harder with me when I bent her over the back of the couch in my apartment. She texted me the next day, telling me how her thighs were aching, and she’d loved it. She said if I ever made it to Los Angeles, would I please look her up, because she wanted to ride my ride again.

Of course she did. Once you’ve had filet mignon, you don’t want to go back to hamburger helper.

I saved her number. You never know, right? Nothing wrong with two adults enjoying the night and parting ways in the morning with a spring in the step courtesy of multiple Os bestowed.

That’s how it should be. The first rule of dating is this—always please the woman first, then ideally a second time before you get yours in. The next two are equally simple—don’t get attached, and never, ever be a douche. I follow my own rules, and they have given me the good life. I’m twenty-eight, single, rich, hot, and a gentleman. Like it’s a surprise when I get laid.

But tonight, my dick is off duty. Early bedtime.

I shake my head in answer to Charlotte’s question as I resume cleaning the counters. “Nah, I have a seven-thirty breakfast tomorrow with my dad and some guy he’s trying to sell the store to. I need to be fresh and ready to impress.”

She points to the door. “Go get your beauty sleep, Spencer. I’ll close up.”

“I don’t think so. I came to fill in for Jenny. You go home. I’ll hail you a cab.”

“You do know I’ve lived in New York for five years, right? I know how to hail a cab late at night.”

“I am well aware of your independent ways. But I don’t care—I’m sending you home. Whatever you’re doing here, you can do at your apartment,” I tell her as I toss the washrag in the sink. “Wait. You’re not worried that Bradley Dipstick is going to be roaming around the lobby trying to give you flowers at this time of night?”

“No. He usually plans his apology ambushes for the daylight hours. Yesterday, he sent me a three-foot-tall teddy bear holding a red satin heart that said, Please forgive me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Send it back to him. At his office. With red lipstick on the heart spelling out N.O.” Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend is a grade A, top-choice douchenozzle, and the bastard will never get her back. I hold up a hand. “Wait. Is there any chance this teddy bear has a middle finger on his paw?”

She laughs. “Now that’s a good idea. I just wish the whole building didn’t know my business.”

“I know. I wish you didn’t have to run into him ever again in the whole history of time.”

I hail her a cab, give her a peck on the cheek, and send her home. After I close up, I head to my pad in the West Village—the sixth floor of a kickass brownstone with a terrace that has a view of all lower Manhattan. Perfect on a June night like this.

I toss my keys on the entryway table as I scroll through my recent messages on my phone. I laugh when my sister Harper texts me a photo from a gossip mag, one from a few weeks ago, of me out with the hot woman from the gym. Turns out she’s a celebrity trainer from some reality TV show. And I’m the “noted New York City playboy”—same thing the magazine called me when I was seen with a hot new chef at a restaurant opening in Miami last month.

Tonight, I’m a good boy though.

I make no promises for tomorrow.