Chapter 13 A Dating God
A DATING GOD
The CEO of Victoire walks me to the elevators. A tall, statuesque Black woman, Angeline is as elegant as the watches she peddles. “It’ll be good to be in business with you, Mister Ford.”
“And you as well, Miss Damon,” I say, pleased we sealed the sponsorship deal.
She stabs the elevator button with a purple fingernail. “And maybe I can work up the nerve to take you up on your offer of an invite someday.”
I laugh. “You? Nerve? I saw you negotiate like an expert. You’re all nerve, Miss Damon.”
She laughs too. “My nerve is reserved for the boardroom. I can be pure swagger in there. Out there?” She waves a strong arm toward the windows of her Park Avenue office building. “It’s a jungle, and men don’t always want a tiger.”
I scoff. “Men. They don’t often know what’s good for them.”
She nods sagely. “Isn’t that the truth?”
“But seriously, if you’re looking for romance, you should come to a party. As I said before, you have an open invitation. And I know some great guys for you.”
Already I can picture introducing her to a book editor, a venture capitalist, an athlete, and I tell her as much. “They’re all game for love,” I add.
Angeline shudders. Lifting her phone from her pants pocket, she clutches the device to her chest. “This is my lifeline. The in-person stuff? I’m just going to watch from the sidelines for now.”
But online dating comes with its own challenges, not to mention risks.
I’m talking about trouble a lot worse than eggplant shots you didn’t ask for.
Angeline is a wise woman, though, and knows the score.
She doesn’t need a lecture from a guy. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my thirty-six years on Earth, it’s that mansplaining is never needed.
The elevator arrives. “The Carpe Diem doors are always open for you, Miss Damon. And if there’s ever a man you have in mind,” I say, then lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “just let me know. I’ll grease any wheels to make an intro.”
She laughs. “You’re a regular Cupid.”
“The Greek god. Not the cute baby in a diaper.”
She stares at me sharply. “A dating god, of course.”
“I’ll take that.” I say goodbye then whisk down several stories, through the lobby, and out to Lexington Avenue on my way to meet Bellamy at the chocolate shop. The deal-making winds are at my back, thanks to putting Victoire safely in my pocket.
I send a text to Rory.
Your favorite brother: I have been elevated from rock star status to god. AKA, I sealed the deal with Victoire.
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Ooh! Get me that super-fancy watch. I can sell it on Craigslist and pay my rent for a year.
Your favorite brother: Please. That’s two years’ rent.
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: I WILL MEET YOU ON THE CORNER OF ANYWHERE AND ANYWHERE FOR THE DROP.
P.S. Congrats. Take me to dinner tonight. I like Vietnamese.
Your favorite brother: Done.
I tuck the phone away, but I don’t bother to try to wipe the satisfied grin from my face.
The last year has been a great one for Carpe Diem. Plus, I can snag dates when I want. I can’t complain about my lifestyle, avoiding serious romance for me, but bringing it to others.
That’s where Bellamy comes in.
An appearance on her podcast could be a boon to business. So I’ll be a very good boy today.
As I walk, I pop in my earbuds, and hum along to the Cannons tune on a new playlist TJ sent out to the crew.
A few blocks later, I’m fifteen minutes early for Bellamy so I can peruse the shelves at Lulu’s Chocolates for gifts for Mom and Grandma. Maybe even Rory too. I turn into the teal blue shop, ready to inhale the scent of chocolate and get the lay of the land when—
“I like anything with caramel.”
Turning my head in the direction of that pretty voice, I quickly adjust to the surprise.
I’ve been beaten at my own planning game.
Bellamy’s earlier than I am. She’s already claimed a spot in the corner of the chocolate shop, her purse and notebook resting on a white wooden table.
She kicks one foot back and forth, silver flats on her feet.
Faded jeans hug her long, lean legs, and some kind of soft, pale pink fabric has the good fortune to snuggle up against her breasts.
A few buttons are undone, revealing a white lace cami beneath the blouse.
Her chestnut hair curls over her shoulders, and her brown eyes are just . . . whoa.
If I thought they were captivating accentuated by the feather mask the night I met her, they’re somehow prettier in the day.
Brighter.
Bolder.
And lighter—like a golden brown, warm and honeyed, and why the fuck does she need to be so beautiful?
But now is not the time for deep thoughts on her looks. It’s the sparring hour. “But do you like dark or milk chocolate?” I counter, sitting across from her.
She parks her chin in her hands, then issues a command. “Guess.”
“Let the games begin.” I size her up, as if I’ll find the answer to the chocolate question in her face. I bet it can be found in her personality. Bellamy’s sensual, but with a touch of sweetness. That’s her podcast persona. Sexy, but romantic.
She gave up the caramel goods already, so I take a stab at the chocolate question. “Dark.”
A smile is her answer. “Well done,” she says.
I gesture to the table and all her accouterments. “Been here for a while?”
“I arrived a few minutes ago.”
“And we’re both still early. I see we have that in common too.” I lift a finger. “With one exception.”
“I bet you want to know why I wasn’t early to your party.”
Damn, she’s sharp. “Yes.”
Bellamy squares her shoulders. “I wanted to blend in. To see what your parties are like. So, I didn’t show up first.”
Her tone is forthright, and I like it. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Least I can do.”
“And I also appreciate your recon skills.”
With a smile, she nods. “I like to be prepared. And clearly you do too. A quality I admire.”
I crook a grin. “Ah, I knew I could get you to like me.”
“Did I say I liked you?” she teases.
“No, but I can read it in your eyes.” I take the moment to stare into those beauties. I could get lost in her eyes.
“Hope springs eternal,” she tosses back.
“Perhaps it does.” After all, I still hope to get her naked. “So, you like to show up in advance. I get the sense you called shotgun as a kid. You raised your hand first in class. You turned in assignments a day before they were due.”
“Do I need to admit a yes to any of those or have you already made those determinations about my character?”
Laughing lightly, I shake my head. “No need to admit what we both know.”
“And I bet you were the same growing up, Mister Ford.”
She’s spot on. “We’re cut from the same cloth,” I say.
Bellamy taps her notebook. “On that note, are you ready?”
I tsk her, wagging a finger. “Bellamy, not yet. Do not deprive yourself of life’s pleasures. Don’t you want some chocolate?” I gesture to the glass cases. Decadent squares and morsels call out to me.
“Who said I deprived myself of pleasure? Maybe I already had some.”
I stand, but then dip my face, brushing my cheek to hers. “Don’t ever deny yourself pleasure,” I whisper.
Her breath catches, but she presses her lips together quickly. “I won’t.”
I file away that hitch as I head to the counter, buy a sampler plate of chocolate, and return to my most worthy adversary.
I offer her a square. It’s dark chocolate with caramel coconut cream.
She bites into it and moans around the chocolate. “So good,” she says, then picks up a pink napkin and dabs at the corner of her lips.
I’d like to lick off that chocolate.
“Here’s my pitch,” she begins, setting down the napkin.
“My producer, David, and I talked about your parties. He wants a deep dive into them. They’ve become the must-have ticket in New York.
What does any single gal or guy want for his or her birthday?
A ticket to Carpe Diem, since they aren’t easy to come by and they aren’t available for the budget-minded. ”
She’s not wrong on either count, and that’s fine by me. “The best matchmakers don’t peddle their services for dollar-store prices,” I say. I’ve got a brand to defend.
“True, true. Which is why there’s so much chatter about the chance to meet that special someone at your parties.
They have a cachet, and you can hear the whispers: If I’m lucky, I’ll get an invite.
If I’m even luckier, maybe I can warrant a membership for a whole year.
We want to know more about the man behind the events. ”
My story isn’t hard to uncover. My life, my loves, my businesses have been lived out loud. Why would she need more about the man? “What do you want to know about me?”
“I want to know the why,” she says, leaning forward in enthusiasm. “Why you’ve become this old-fashioned Cupid of New York. And why your parties are your attempt to revolutionize dating in this millennium.”
“Because chemistry matters,” I say, giving the only relevant answer.
“That’s what my producer wants me to cover, and what my listeners want to know. Easton, I reach a lot of women. Women who want love. I want to tell them what sets your parties apart from Boyfriend Material, Tinder, even your old app, Coupled.”
My eye twitches at the mention of the last one. The stories I heard come back to me. “I wanted a better alternative for romance. Women especially said online dating wore them out. That’s what they told me when I went to conferences and events.”
“Yes, but why parties?”
“They’re better,” I say, keeping it simple. “And I want to give women what they want.”
“Will you tell me that on air? I want to roll up my sleeves and share you and your vision with others.”
She’s talking my language. Offering me a chance to reach my goals sooner. But I’ve been burned by not doing my research before, so I toss out some questions. “How much time do you need?”
“About an hour in the studio for an interview, and I’d love to cover one of your parties.” Her voice pitches up with hope. Her eyes are pleas.
But I’ve got limits. I shake my head. “No press at the parties. No media. It’s not a party, then. It’s a show.”
“Fair enough,” she says.
I’m not done with the negotiation though. “I also don’t want a profile.”
Her brow knits in confusion. “I thought you were open to it? Isn’t that what you just said? My boss wants a profile on you.”
But I don’t. “My story isn’t hard to find. The world doesn’t need to hear more about me. How about we focus on romance? What people can get out of a night at Carpe Diem?”
She takes a beat, perhaps considering this step in our tango. “Fine. I’ll focus on the parties, not the Gatsby. I’ll tell David as much.”
I grin. “Yes. Good.”
She sets down her pen. “Then do you want to come by the studio later this week?”
“You don’t waste time,” I say.
“I know what I want,” she says, determined.
I’m determined too, both to seize this chance for business and to spend more time with her . . . for me.
But I’m a patient man. My dick’s agenda can wait a little longer. First, the interview. Then, I’ll devise a new plan for wooing her into my bed.
“I know what I want too, and I’m willing to wait for it. And to work for it.” I let my gaze hold hers for a few more seconds, making my meaning clear. She nibbles on the corner of those lush red lips where the chocolate was only minutes ago.
“I hope you have stores of patience,” she says.
“I absolutely do.”
“Good. So do I.”
Perhaps two can play the waiting game.
When I leave, I buy her a box of chocolate caramels. “Think of me when you eat them,” I say as I press the box into her palm. “Fondly, that is.”
“I’ll do my best, but I make no promises,” she says.
“I’d expect nothing less,” I say, then head off into the city.