Evie
Quickie.
I’m meeting him at a place called Quickie.
I shake my head, amused and baffled that a store would choose such a name. I stare at the orange sign and squint as if the letters will rearrange themselves into something that doesn’t suggest an afternoon romp.
Not that I have anything against afternoon romps. Though, truth be told, it’s been a while since I had a romp at any hour of the day. Afternoon, evening, or morning.
I’m a big fan of romping, but the sad reality is I’ve been too busy with building my business to have time.
Ironic, because I tell my clients we always make time for the things we want. Lord knows, I make plenty of time to hunt out bargains at the best vintage and consignment shops all around Manhattan, and I post them on my blog for fun.
But I haven’t made time for the dating that would lead to romping since business has been my top priority.
It still is, which is why I’m here at Quickie, since helping Dylan will make me an even better matchmaker. I’m ten minutes early because I don’t believe in arriving late. Ever.
As I wait on the sidewalk outside the shop, I partake in one of my favorite activities—watching people.
I craft stories as I scan the block. Cruising past me in sky-high heels, a rail-thin woman barks into her phone about picking up a dress from the tailor. What event is she attending? Is the dress for her? Is she having the hem hiked up or the waist taken in? Does she want to look sexy for an ex or proper for work?
“And make sure the neckline plunges an extra inch,” she instructs.
Sexy for an ex.
Next, I spot a businessman scurrying into a black Honda with a pink mustache sign on the dash. He holds the door for a pig-tailed, pip-squeak blonde in a yellow poufy dress.
Weekend-working dad is taking a break from the office to take his daughter to a princess party.
A tall guy with muscly, ropy arms on display in a blue tee enters my line of vision. The soft faded jeans show off a great ass. The kind you can grab onto while he pounds you.
Whoa? Where the hell did that dirty thought come from?
I shake my head, chasing it away, as I resume my inventory.
That shirt makes it dead clear he has a flat stomach. I slide into my happy zone of admiration for a moment, because he truly possesses a fantastic body. The trouble is he’s wearing a ball cap, and his head is bent over his phone.
I frown as I write his story. Hipster dude, unable to interact with the world. It’s not that hard to put your phone away, guy.
He lifts his face, and I blink.
Then I admonish myself.
I should absolutely not be admiring the body of my new client.
Not. At. All.
I conduct a full mind sweep as I wave at Dylan, affixing the most cheery, chipper matchmaker face I possibly can. The I-was-not-checking-out-your-ass look.
I’ve known Dylan for the last year or so. He’s our first baseman, and a Scrabble teammate in a monthly competition hosted by some friends, not to mention the winner of the Punniest Costume from Olivia’s most recent Halloween party, put on by her friend Henley at the Battery Park penthouse she shares with her husband, Max. Sporting a blue shirt, Dylan had draped a phone cord around his neck and hung a rubber chicken from it for Chicken Cord on Blue.
How have I never noticed his ass before? Maybe I was looking at the chicken. Although, in all fairness, I think I checked out his behind on the field in Central Park when he whacked a grand slam earlier this summer.
I wave. “Hi, Dylan!”
He stops a foot away from me. “Hey, Evie, person who’s not holding a cell phone like everyone else in the city. How do you function?”
I laugh. “I know. I’m a throwback.”
“And it’s not even TT. Throwback Thursday,” he says, quickly explaining. “You’re old-school interacting with the RW.” He pauses, peering at me through his brown eyeglasses. “That’s real world.”
“I figured as much.”
He laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. I get caught up.” He steps closer and offers a hand to shake. He stops. Shakes his head. “Wait. That’s weird. We can hug, right?”
A smile crosses my lips. “We can definitely hug IRL.”
He laughs again, and this time it’s not awkward.
As he wraps his arms around me, he says, “I was debating a cheek kiss, but that seemed old-fashioned. Same as a kiss on the hand. By the way, did my sister tell you she thinks I’m socially clueless?”
I don’t answer him right away, because his arms are so sturdy, stronger than I’d expected, and I’d nearly forgotten how tall he was—I’m guessing six foot one. And he smells so good, like deodorant, which is actually quite a nice scent on a man since it means he’s showered, and he’s clean.
I’m a big fan of clean.
As surreptitiously as I can, I draw a subtle inhale, savoring the fresh smell before we separate. “There’s nothing wrong with socially clueless. I believe we’ve all got a bit of a dork in us.”
He arches an eyebrow and eyes me from stem to stern. “Fine, where’s your dork? Because I don’t believe it. You’re perfectly put together.” His green eyes roam over me, taking in my new black lace skirt that hits at the knee—it’s springy and fun, but not, ya know, vaginal-length, like far too many skirts are. I’ve paired it with a lavender short-sleeve top, with little silver studs down the side stitches. On my feet are Mary Janes. Which are the perfect shoes—chunky heeled for comfort and adorable for fashion.
“Also, that’s a cute skirt,” he adds.
I can’t help myself. I have to price brag. “Twenty-two dollars at Audrey’s Closet. I found it on the back rack, and I couldn’t resist.”
He offers a hand to high-five. “Score. Next time, you’ll be telling me you have a Groupon for boba tea.” He wiggles his eyebrows in mock excitement.
“I wish.”
He points. “You’re a bargain hunter.”
“Sometimes. And to answer your question about my inner dork, I have one in me since this”—I run my finger along the bottom of my chin, highlighting my scar—“is why I don’t look at my phone on the streets.”
He peers at the faded blue line on my chin. “You have a cell phone wound. I’ve heard of people who trip and fall while looking at their phones, but I’ve never met such a rare breed of person.”
I jut my hip out and curtsy. “Now you have, and it was no ordinary trip and fall.”
He presses his palms together in plaintive prayer. “I must know every gory detail.”