Evie
“It reminds me of me,” he says when we reach Mama June’s. The dull orange sign is missing a J. Mama une’s.
“It does?” For some reason this possibility makes me a little giddy.
“I’m kind of ashamed that I only just now connected the dots. But it’s not that different. You review fashion and clothes.” He taps his sternum. “I review cheap eats.”
“Your hobby is my hobby,” I say, and that giddy feeling zips through me, like a line of fireflies sparking against the night.
But that’s a risky feeling to possess for a client, so I dismiss it immediately. I march to the counter, order chips and salsa this time, and grab a table. The formica is scratched, the napkins fall apart from touching them, and the linoleum floors are badly in need of a scrub. This place is the definition of hole-in-the-wall. It’s not my style at all, but Dylan seems to get a kick out of it.
“Do you believe you’re a pain in the butt?” I ask, returning to my task of getting to know a client, rather than lingering on a newly realized shared connection.
He takes a chip and dips it into the green salsa, scooping out a dollop. “Probably. But isn’t it good to be honest about yourself?”
“I think it is.”
“What about you? What if you had to list the traits for a matchmaker that define who you are?”
I tilt my head to the side, considering. “I think I’m an upbeat person. I like to find the positive in nearly everything.”
A smile crosses his lips.
“Why are you smiling?”
“You can’t steal my answer.” He points a finger at me in mock accusation.
My jaw drops. “How am I stealing your answer?”
He taps his chest. “Ridiculously happy disposition.”
I pretend to be offended. “You’re the only one who’s allowed to be cheerful?”
“Yes. I’m claiming good cheer and humor.”
I shake my head, narrowing my eyes. “You’re not allowed dibs on both, especially since you consider yourself a pain in the ass, too.”
“My brother said that. Do you think I’m a PIA?”
I scoop some fiery red salsa and crunch into the chip. It barely registers as mildly hot, while Dylan follows suit and quickly fans his face. When I finish, I dab a napkin on my lips. “I think you’re particular, but that’s not a bad thing. You seem to know what you like. Whether it’s taco shops, tea, robots, tapioca balls, sugar packet hockey, or your work.”
“Or finding a woman. Am I particular there, too?”
My answer comes swiftly. “You’re not. You’re surprisingly not that picky.”
He scoffs. “I thought I was.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” I say, reassuring him. “You’re open-minded, and that’s a bonus when it comes to matters of the heart. You’d be amazed at some of the requests I receive.”
“Try me.”
“There are men who only want to date models, or women who have C-cup breasts. Others refuse to see anyone who isn’t blond, for instance, or older than twenty-eight. That’s the biggest line in the sand. So many men have assigned arbitrary age rules.”
“Guys are dicks.”
“But women are dicks, too,” I say, taking another chip. “I have women come to me and say, ‘He has to have such and such money’ or ‘I won’t date anyone who makes less than seven figures’ or ‘Don’t set me up with anyone who’s under six feet tall’.”
“And do you find people for them?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. I turn them down.”
He snaps his head back. “You do?”
“Of course. You didn’t take every bit of funding you were offered for your company, did you? If memory serves, you turned down Crossroads Sycamore Capital because you didn’t like the terms.”
“You researched me?”
“I research all my clients,” I say with a smile.
He nods, as if he’s impressed. “Sort of like how I researched you earlier. Checking out your blog.”
The spark reappears, tripping over my skin, lighting me up. But what a silly reaction. I shouldn’t experience hummingbirds in my belly simply because he looked me up. “That’s why I don’t accept all clients, especially those with unreasonable expectations. I don’t think assigning limits is the way to find love or to be happy.”
“But I do think it would be great to have reasonable expectations exceeded,” he points out.
A smile creeps across my face. I raise a chip in the air. A toast. “To exceeding expectations,” I say, tapping my chip against one of his. We dip together, Dylan choosing the salsa verde while I opt for the hotter red salsa. Once he finishes, he takes a drink of water, then gives me an I’m waiting look.
“What?” I ask curiously.
“We’re not done with you,” he says, stabbing his finger against the table. “You’ve only told me one thing on your list of three.”
“You really don’t take no for an answer.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
“Fine. Fine.” I tap my finger against my lip, noodling on his question. I land on a basic truth about myself. “I can be particular about how I like things done. How I want the bed to be made, the drawers to be closed, the curtains to hang.”
His eyes bug out. “You’re one of those people?”
“First I was a text-destrian. Now I’m one of those people,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Text-destrian,” he says, clearly impressed. “Nice. And yes, you’re one of those people. A neat freak,” he says, as if it’s the plague I’ve caught.
“Neat and owning it. Don’t tell me you’re a messy slob?”
“No. But I don’t understand making beds. I don’t get it at all. Just explain it to me. For years, I’ve wanted to know why it matters. Literally, no one can ever explain the benefit of a made bed. But an unmade bed is genius. You just get back in it at the end of the day. Why make it?”
I draw a deep breath, my mind whirring with images of crisp corners, organized pillows, and carefully aligned comforters. My God, I so love a well-made bed. It brings calm to my soul. “A made bed is beautiful. It signifies neatness. It shows an organized mind.”
“Isn’t a cluttered mind a good thing? Didn’t someone famous say that?”
“Is your computer screen cluttered?” I counter.
He recoils. “No way. I have a neat, clean minimalist desktop.”
“And why shouldn’t a bed be the same?”
“Because a bed is for sleeping. A computer is for…everything.”
The problem solver in me comes out in full force. I must show him the beauty of a made bed. “Come with me.” I grab the basket of mostly-eaten chips, dump the rest, return the salsa tubs to the counter for cleaning, and reach into my wallet to leave a generous tip in the jar.
He clasps his hand over mine, shaking his head. “My treat,” he says, his voice a soft, sexy whisper. I want to protest, to tell him I insist, but he curls his hand tighter, and I’m speechless.
His hand on mine sparks a wave of goosebumps on my arms, my body telling me I like his hands on me. I want more of his touch. I imagine how I’d feel if he ran his hand up my arm, to my shoulder, through my hair. A shudder races through me, and I do my best to tamp down my reaction to a suddenly overactive imagination.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice like a feather.
“You’re welcome.” His eyes never stray from mine, and for a sliver of time he holds my gaze by the counter at Mama une’s.
Then I wrestle my attention back to my plan. We leave, and fifteen minutes later, I stroll through the front doors of the Luxe Hotel. My friend Nate Harper is the CEO, and I’ve texted him for a quick favor. The concierge greets me and hands me a room key card. Dylan and I walk past the chichi sushi restaurant in the lobby, head to the elevator, and soon arrive at room 521. I slide the card in the door.
Dylan sets a hand on my arm. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I’m not trying to seduce him at all.
I open the door, and a perfectly modulated blast of cool air greets us. We stroll across the navy carpet to a king-size bed perfectly appointed with a gorgeous white duvet and mountains of blue velvet pillows. I gesture to it, as if I’m a saleswoman, showing it off. “Tell me. Doesn’t this bed make you want to do everything on it?”
Then, to demonstrate my point, I fall back onto it, like a snow angel.
I prop myself on my elbows and meet his eyes. His green irises darken, and his lips part. He stares at me, and something shifts. The look in his eyes is no longer challenging. He’s not asking me to prove a point. His eyes are hungry. He stares as if he’s considering my question seriously, and I realize that maybe it does sound as if I’m trying to seduce him. I’ve pushed the limits here. I’m in a hotel room, trying to prove a point to a client, and in reality, my skirt is riding up my thighs, and I’m sprawled on a pristine, inviting bed.
This kind of bed is designed not only for sleeping, but for the best kind of sex in the world—hotel sex. The kind of loud, dirty, wild sex you can have when you don’t have to make the bed in the morning.
For a flash, I see Dylan hovering over me. Pinning my wrists. Pressing his body against mine. A wave of heat washes over me, and my skin is flush, my heart slamming hard against my chest.
I want that.
I want to feel that abandon.
And that goes against my personal code of ethics as a matchmaker—thou shalt not fall for a client.
I glance down, and see my skirt is riding up. It hits mid-thigh, revealing more of my legs. I tug it, and when I look up, Dylan is staring at me with darkened eyes. “Yeah. This bed makes me want to do everything on it.”
* * * *
In the elevator, I speak first. “The third thing is sometimes I push to make a point.”
“Do you?” He gazes at me as the elevator chugs downward.
I nod, swallowing. My throat is dry. “I do. I just did.”
His lips quirk up. “I think I like that side of you.”
I like a lot of sides of him, and that’s becoming a problem.