Chapter 9
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were obsessed.”
I glance up from my phone to see Colton leaning against my office doorway, trademark smirk in place. I set my phone on my desk, screen side down. But the damage is done. He’s already caught me staring at Lucky Irish’s photo.
Again.
I ended up downloading the app and getting Colton to log me in, so I could receive messages in case her plans changed.
Or at least that’s what I told him. The real reason I wanted the app on my phone is so I could study her sublime little sunshine-y face when no one was around.
She’s just so unbelievably fucking cute .
I didn’t know a person could be so flawless.
“Just doing some final research before I embark on this date you forced on me,” I bluff.
“Research, huh? Is that what the kids call stalking these days?”
I throw a pen at him, which he deftly catches. “Don’t overthink it, bro.”
“I’m not overthinking it.” Even though I am.
I’ve looked up every social media account associated with every variation of her name, but of course nothing has come up.
This one photo and her fake name are all I have.
It’s hardly enough to justify my all-consuming fascination.
I’ve hardly managed to get any work done at all.
“What do you want, Cole? Don’t you have work you’re supposed to be doing? ”
“Don’t you?” More smirking, as he wanders into my office. “How many hours to go?”
Four hours and twenty minutes. “I don’t know. A few.”
He laughs. “I thought you might need a pre-date pep talk.”
“From you? No thanks.”
He ignores this. “The trick is to relax and play it cool.”
“Ground-breaking advice from Casanova.”
“Stop being such a grumpy fucker. You’ll scare her away. What happened to the always-charming Noah Maddox?”
“Don’t you mean Noah Steel?”
This reminder amuses him even more. “Dude, she’s a girl, not an SEC watchdog. You shouldn’t be this stressed out.”
I lean back and fold my arms. “I’m not ‘stressed out’.”
“You are. You’re getting all worked up because you’re so out of practice.
You’re worried she’s not as perfect in real life as she looks in her photo and that you’ll be disappointed like you always are and that you’ll have to let her down gently, which you don’t want to have to do again because they always get immediately clingy once they find out about the bank balance—and also you’re hot so they basically fall in love instantly and then you have to break their hearts,” Colton rambles in one long breath.
I glare at him. He’s not wrong. In fact he’s hit the nail directly on the head. “Did you just call me hot?”
“Objectively speaking, I can recognize that you’re not a complete troll, brother.”
“Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.” He’s making an attempt to help me relax and I can at least try to appreciate that.
“No more obsessing. You need to go in with zero expectations. Give me your phone.”
I look down at it. “No.” I don’t want him deleting her photo.
“I’m not going to delete anything.”
Colton takes my phone before I can grab it. “There.” He hands it back to me.
“What did you do?”
“I logged you out. And I’m not telling you the password.”
“Why? What the hell, Colton? What if she cancels?”
“She’s not going to cancel. And you need to chill,” he says firmly. “No more obsessing over her profile. Just meet the girl first and see if you vibe without any preconceived expectations.”
I want to argue, but he’s right—again—and it annoys me. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
The smirk is back. “Consider it payback for all the unsolicited advice you’ve insisted on giving me over the years. Now go home and get ready for your date. Wear something sophisticated and dashing.” Colton winks at me and laughs.
Before I can either punch him or tell him to fuck off, he’s out the door, leaving me alone with my jumble of anticipation—and now without any outlet for my fanatical over-analyzation. Damn him.
With Colton gone, I try to focus on work, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Lucky Irish.
Those blue-on-blue eyes.
That white-gold hair with its jaunty little sun-lit curls.
Those lush pink lips, shiny with lip gloss. Lightly parted.
For me. For my ? —
Fuck.
Just the thought of her is me getting hard.
That saucy little phantom image of her feels like it’s been seared into my brain by a sadistic blowtorch artist. I literally can’t think of anything else. There’s no point staying at the office. I need to head home, take a long, cold shower and pour myself a strong drink.
Avoiding everyone as I leave so I don’t have to be on the receiving end of any more gleeful speculations, I take the back staircase.
I end up daydreaming as I weave my Ducati through the Friday afternoon traffic.
Will she really look as beautiful as she does in the photo?
Most likely not. How could she? No one’s that perfect.
I need to prepare myself for disappointment.
Most likely it’ll happen the way it always does.
She’ll have photoshopped the image. She’ll show up looking like a second-rate version of the original.
She’ll be perfectly nice but completely…
ordinary, like they all are. We’ll make polite conversation but there will be no fireworks, like I’m always hoping for but can never find.
She’ll talk about her Instagram following.
Or her therapist. Or her cat. She’ll flirt awkwardly and pretend she’s not already picturing moving into my Hamptons house or going on wild shopping sprees with my money so she can make her vapid friends jealous by posting photos of herself living the high life.
Damn it.
Colton’s right. I need to chill the fuck out.
It occurs to me though that, this time, my date doesn’t know who I am. She’ll have no idea about the money, the business or the family legacy.
I’m a totally blank slate to her.
I can make it up as I go along.
I can pretend, for a few hours, to be whoever the fuck I want.
So what if she’s not the love of my life? It doesn’t matter. None of them ever are.
So what if I don’t fall in love with her at first sight? Obviously, I won’t. Because that just doesn’t happen to me. It might never happen.
I remember again my new resolution. To jump into bed at my very first opportunity without caring about the chemistry, just to get some of this pent-up frustration out of my goddamn system.
Watch out, Lucky Irish.