Dylan
This shirt.
Just look at it.
How pretty is this shirt? So pretty you just can’t even believe the price tag. I know, I know. I can barely believe it myself. Want to guess how much I plunked down for this royal purple number?
It’s six dollars times three.
That’s pretty much nothing!
And if you want to find such a deal, let me tell you where to go.
I study the picture of Evie in her purple shirt. At least, I think it’s Evie. She doesn’t post any photos of her face on her blog. I wonder if it’s because she keeps her fashionista blog separate from the matchmaker business, but at the moment, as the train rattles downtown, I’m more interested in the woman behind the shirt than the lesson on how to find a bargain.
Because she looks hot as hell in that shirt. Look at how it clings to her breasts. See how it enhances her natural assets. Admittedly, her breasts are on the smaller side, which is fine by me. I’m not the kind of man who needs to fill his hands—small and perky does the trick for this dude, and Evie looks fantastic in that shirt.
Not that I’m attracted to her. That would be silly. We’re polar opposites, and we’re in different places. I’ve been fortunate in that my career skyrocketed before I finished college. I’ve been on a crazy upward trajectory for the last eight years. Now that my brother and I have sold our company for buckets, I’m working on a passion project—adding some fun new features onto a GPS app that tracks pets. We’ll see how it goes, but in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind finding someone to share life’s moments with.
I wouldn’t mind if that someone was pretty, like Evie.
I blink, reminding myself that Evie’s job is to find that woman.
I close out her blog, so she can’t distract me any longer. As the train rumbles through the tunnels, I answer a few emails, setting a new personal best for speed of response, and hop off the train in SoHo.
I take the steps two by two, heading to meet Evie at the taco shop. I reach the top of the stairs and raise a hand to tug my cap down lower since the sun is casting bolts of sunlight at me. But that’s a phantom reaction—Evie gave me marching orders to dress cap-less, and I’ve followed them.
I squint through my lenses, since I didn’t bring my prescription shades. As I stride past a tapas restaurant, I think briefly of Evie’s homework assignment. She asked me to focus on the traits that my ideal partner would need to know about me. But she wanted me to push beyond the I like games, sports, and screens variety of answers. Will Evie ask me how I would handle different situations? Or my thoughts on politics, religion, and all sorts of ethical debates? Do I need to possess the same philosophical bent as my potential wife?
Wife.
That word reverberates across the gray matter.
I stop in my tracks and stare into a Sur La Table, gazing past the stainless steel pots and fancy pie pans. Am I looking for a wife? Sure, I’m ready for more than casual dating, but I honestly hadn’t taken this matchmaking plan to its logical conclusion—a ring on a finger.
I’ve never wanted to even live with someone. My last girlfriend, Brittany, was fun and sweet, and loved to hike, bike, and skateboard together. But she didn’t challenge me enough. I want someone to keep me on my toes. Because that’s what I can do for a partner.
I grab my phone and dial my brother, Flynn. He’s working in Tokyo this week, pursuing a deal, but with the time difference, he’s probably up.
He answers with gravel in his voice. “You better be dead to be calling me now.”
“I bit the dust last night. You’re talking to me in the afterlife.”
He groans. “Seriously. It’s six thirty a.m. Why are you calling?”
“Why aren’t you up? You’re usually out of bed at six a.m.”
“There’s this thing that happens when you travel to a foreign country. It’s called jet lag.”
“Right. I figured with yours, you’d be at the fish market now since it opens at six.”
“Five, actually. Five twenty-five for the tuna auction, to be precise. And I was there the other day. But even though I’ve acclimated, on account of being in awesome shape, I decided I’d treat myself to an extra hour of sleep. Anyway, what’s up?”
“What three things would you say make me stand out most from other people?”
He clears his throat. “You’re a complete pain in the ass. You don’t take no for an answer. And you have a ridiculously happy disposition.”
I scoff. “Wouldn’t point one be at odds with point three?”
“It would if we existed in a perfect theoretical time-space continuum. But we don’t. We live in a world with inconsistencies. And that includes you. You’re a walking, talking contradiction and a conundrum, as well as an oxymoron, so one and three can coexist perfectly, as they do in you.”
I stroke my chin. “Ah, yes. I do enjoy asymmetries living in harmony.”
“That’s you, little bro. But why do you ask?”
I reach the crosswalk and stop at the red light. “I bit the bullet. I’m going all in with the love pursuit. Olivia sent me to a matchmaker.”
“Yeah? That’s great,” Flynn says, and I fucking love my identical-twin brother for not mocking me this second. Even though we ride each other mercilessly, I’ll always have his back, and he’d do the same for me.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Just so long as I can put down a bet against the likelihood of you falling in love with someone who can tolerate you.”
And I take it all back. I huff. “Have I mentioned you’re a complete ass, and I’ll be calling you every day, every hour now while you’re overseas?”
“No, but have I mentioned I’m not afraid to use the call block feature on my phone?”
“Seriously. Why do you say that about me?” I ask as I cross and turn down the block toward my favorite taqueria.
“Because it’s my job to set impossible goals for you.”
“It’s my job to prove I can exceed them.”
“Exactly, man. Exactly. I say it because it’ll make you want to prove me wrong. Which is pursuant to my point number two about you. You don’t take no for an answer.”
“Dammit. You’re too smart.”
“I am,” he says, laughing. “And I’m going back to sleep, since I’m falling in love with my pillow.”
“Good night and good morning.” I end the call as I near the taco shop, marinating briefly on my brother’s assessment. Is he right on all three points, and do those traits serve me or hinder me?
When I reach the shop, I’m surprised to see Evie perched at a counter seat that overlooks the window. She waves broadly at me, and her smile lights up her face. When her grin spreads like that, a charge rushes down my spine, like I’ve been plugged in.
Like my skin heats up.
It’s an unexpected reaction, and I’m not sure what to do with it, so I try to ignore it as I walk inside.
She stands and gives me a hug.
“So we hug,” I say, the words coming out stilted because I’m not prepared to be this close to her. Correction—I’m not prepared to like being this close to her. That electric sensation doesn’t abate. It intensifies, crackling through my body and ratcheting up as I catch a whiff of her hair. She smells like a summer breeze, and she fits snugly against my body. Her breasts graze my chest as her arms circle my back.
I count in my head—one, two, three, four—and this embrace officially extends beyond the average socially acceptable time for hugs. But then, what do I know? I’ve spent so much of my life in the company of screens and machines, of nerds and numbers, and even though I’m no slouch in the ladies’ department, I’m not sure if this is the normal time for matchmakers hugging their clients.
“Yes, we hug,” she says, repeating my words in the same staccato tone I delivered them in, then pulls back. Her eyes roam up my face, and she raises her brows when she’s at hair level. She lifts her hand and ruffles some strands. “See? Why would you ever hide these locks? Your hair is lovely, Dylan.”
And that charge skates down my body, pulling on my groin as her hand slides through my hair. “Glad you approve, and I hope you approve of the salsas, too,” I say, since it’s easier for me to sidestep into my cheap eats mode than to figure out why Evie is making me hard.
Correction: very hard.
She gestures to the plate in front of her, filled with a variety of small tubs of salsas. “I was early, so I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to hand-select some from the salsa bar.”
I bring my hand to my chest. “Be still my beating heart. She’s punctual, and she likes salsa.”
“But I didn’t order yet, since I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go with just chips, full nachos, or taco-style salsa sampling?”
I decide to test her. “Answer on count of three. One, two, three.”
“Nachos,” we say in unison, and I raise a hand to high-five her. She smacks back, and I make my way to the counter to order.
I return with a basket covered in cheese, guacamole, and other goodies and sit next to her. “I’ll admit it. I’m impressed you already ordered. I didn’t peg you for someone who’d embrace the idea of a cheap taco shop, given your taco comment.”
She glares at me. “I didn’t peg you as someone who’d think I’d limit myself to only the finest dining when out with a client.”
“But be honest,” I say, as I grab a bean-covered chip. “You’re not a frequenter of dirty little taco shops.”
She grabs a chip drenched in guacamole and shakes her head. “No. I happen to love upscale sushi best. But I like to think I’m adaptable, and that it’s one of my best traits.”
I quirk the corner of my lips. “And would another one of your best traits also be lubricating a conversation with a starter comment like that?”
She laughs. “Did you like that segue into the top three traits homework?”
“I did,” I say. “Actually, it was quite helpful, because it’s a strange thing to have to think about—the three things someone should know about you.”
“Did you think about it?” she asks as she scoops her chip into one of the hottest salsas, an orange creamy kind that I fear will burn her tongue off.
I point. “Be careful. The orange is nuclear-hot.”
Her blue eyes glint as she bites into the chip without breaking a sweat or fanning the flames in her mouth. She simply chews. Takes a drink of water. And waits for my answer.
“Holy shit,” I say as my jaw drops. “Are you an alien? Are you made of steel?”
“Why?”
“You just ate that and didn’t react.”
“I’m kind of immune to hot things.”
“That’s insane. Watch this,” I say, dipping a chip in the same tub. I bite it, and eat it, but my tongue goes up in flames, and my forehead grows hot with sweat.
“Dylan, have some ice water.” She thrusts a cup at me.
I drink it all, then breathe fire. “How did you do that? You’re truly not affected by spicy foods?”
“Not the way you are,” she says, teasing.
“Oh, that was a low blow.”
She leans closer, bumping her shoulder to mine. “Couldn’t resist. Forgive me.”
My gaze tracks to our shoulders touching, and when her eyes follow, she quickly jerks back. “You’re forgiven,” I say. “However, I’m going to need to test this superpower with more salsa. Which kind of ties into one of the points you asked me to share. I actually talked to my brother before I saw you and asked him what he thought defined me.”
She nods her approval. “Good idea. I suspect he’d know.”
I rattle off my traits for Evie—I’m a complete pain in the ass, I won’t take no for an answer, and I have a ridiculously happy disposition.
“Which one are you needing to test with me?” she asks.
“It might be that I’m a complete pain in the ass coupled with not taking no for an answer. Do you agree?”
She takes a beat as if she’s considering all the sides of the argument, then she nods. “Those seem accurate. But yes, you also seem like a happy person.”
“And that’s why we should test your superpower. Since it would make me happy.”
She laughs. “You’re determined to turn this salsa eating into my Achilles’ heel.”
“I am. That makes me an asshole, doesn’t it? Point one.”
“I think it just makes you determined, and that’s a good trait.”
We finish off some more nachos, trying the rest of the salsas, but none attain the level-five lava rating of the orange one, so I grab my phone from my back pocket and search for the closest shop. “Here’s the deal. We need cheap tacos, and we need to test your talent.”
I hunt for a nearby shop, but before I find one, I remember something. “I better take a photo of this place.”
“Why?”
“To post it on Google’s search for food reviews. I have more than five million views of my photos of cheap taco shops alongside my ten-word reviews.”
Her pretty lips curve up in a curious grin. “You do short and sweet reviews?”
I show her my last one from Captain Habanero in Chelsea. “Good rice, drippy beans, melty cheese equals unsatisfying taco experience.”
She points to the black sludge in the photo. “It’s like a bean mudslide.”
I crack up. “I need to amend my review. Hold on.” I hit edit on the text, make some tweaks, then show her. “Good rice can’t save bean mudslide lubed with melty cheese.”
It’s her turn to laugh deeply. “I love it. And you post these for fun?”
I shrug. “I get a kick out of it. It’s a hobby.” I toggle over to my food app. “Five blocks from here. Let’s try Mama June’s.”
“To Mama June’s it is.” As we leave, I find my gaze drifting over her body. She wears a royal blue mini-dress that makes her look like she stepped off the set of Mad Men, only her dress is shorter than most, the skirt landing right above her knees, showing off her strong, toned legs.
My imagination lingers on her bare legs. “Okay, fess up. Where’d you get those legs?”
She looks down, as if she only just now noticed she has them. “These things?” She waves a hand dismissively. “Ordered them from a catalogue.”
“That’s impressive, to pick up a pair of legs that excellent from a store. What’s the model number?”
“They’re called legs, courtesy of walking in Manhattan.”
“I thought you were going to say yoga again. Like yoga is the cause of everything.”
“Nope. I’m one of those people who is weirdly lucky. I build muscle quickly. I walk everywhere, and it makes my legs strong.”
“They’re great legs, Evie,” I say, since I can’t seem to stop admiring them. “And they look good in that cute dress with the floppy collar.”
She smooths a hand down the fabric as we continue our quick pace. “Thanks, it’s a Peter Pan collar.” She fingers the thick white collar. “I snagged it for thirty-three dollars at a shop in Brooklyn.”
“I’ve no idea what a Peter Pan collar is,” I say, but I know this—I find her body so damn fetching in it that I want to know what she looks like underneath it. Without it. And that’s where my mind travels for the next few seconds.
But that’s risky. That’s dangerous. My brain is trying to trick me, and I need it on my side. I need it to stop undressing Evie, because she isn’t the endgame. She’s the means to the end. She’s the one who’s going to find me the woman I’ll love undressing. I try to refocus my thoughts. “By the way, I checked out your blog.”
“You did? Are you a closet fashionista?”
“No. I like to research business partners. It was interesting.”
She tilts her head curiously. “Why was it interesting?”
I decide to go for broke and tell her, since I just realized what her blog reminds me of.