Chapter 17 Oops, I Did It Again
OOPS, I DID IT AGAIN
She hands me earphones and then dives in. “You run grand and exclusive underground parties for romance. Why are those better than what singles have been doing for the last decade? Meeting through apps.”
Ah, that’s easy enough to answer. “In my opinion, people were never supposed to meet online. When you meet someone via an app, you lose the most basic ingredient that you need for romantic success.”
“And what’s that?”
I suspect she knows my answer. The one I’ve been giving since I started Carpe Diem. “Chemistry. It matters, don’t you think?”
My gaze locks with hers, and she’s quiet for a beat that’ll be edited out of her show, I bet. But in the silence, a charge flickers between us.
Chemistry indeed.
“Yes, it does. But that’s my question for you. Why does chemistry only come in person? Can’t it come online?”
“You have to swipe on a lot of frogs, Bellamy.”
She smiles in acknowledgement. “True, but is that so bad?”
“Yes, it can be. I’ve made no secret about why I moved out of the online dating business.”
“To build a better mousetrap, I believe you’ve said.”
“Yes. I heard from single women, some men as well, who’d grown not only frustrated but exhausted with online dating. Defeated, even. And I thought there had to be a better way.”
“And in person is just that?”
“Yes, it’s better to meet in person. To meet people with similar interests. Similar goals. At my parties, you can meet people you can trust too.
“Online is the Wild West. My team and I are dedicated and thorough. We research everyone, vet everyone. We make sure there are plenty of potential matches—and that all guests are truly there for the right reasons.”
She stares sharply at me, her expression intense. “You’re a matchmaker.”
“In a way, yes,” I answer. “But we offer many potential matches. It’s like a romance buffet at the parties.
Yes, I often have matches in mind for guests, but just as often, chemistry leads the way.
You walk into the party hoping to meet someone in particular, and then you spot someone across the bar.
Maybe she has hauntingly gorgeous brown eyes and the most inviting lips you’ve ever seen,” I say, and Bellamy’s eyes flicker with a hint of excitement, but it passes quickly.
“But how do you know if you’ll spark?” I continue.
“You talk to her. You make your way through the crowd, strike up a conversation, and learn she can dress you down with one witty phrase. And soon, you discover she has a fiery personality, a quicksilver tongue, and a heart bigger than you’d thought. ”
Her lips twitch in a grin—one she reins in. “But you could find her online too. I bet that woman is on a lot of dating apps. She probably wants to make sure she isn’t going to miss her Prince Charming,” she says.
“And that woman is likely very busy, with friends and family and a rich social life,” I say. “So why should she spend all her time on apps sifting through the chaff?”
“Since you’ve already found the wheat for her?”
“Yes. We have. And that’s what I provide.
People have been meeting in person for millennia.
I’m simply bringing back what’s always worked.
Giving the old-fashioned, tried-and-true method a modern chance.
” I cock my head, watching her reaction.
“Have you ever met someone in person and every time you’re in the same room with him or her, you feel the heat? The wild, fevered energy?”
“Yes, I have.” It’s a gorgeous, honest answer. But she’s not a woman who bends easily—and I don’t expect her to now. “And you’re the expert on this because of your psychology degree?”
“My master’s degree certainly doesn’t hurt, but I also have real-world experience with apps.
The good, the bad, the ugly. I know what works and doesn’t work.
I’ve heard stories from users of apps, so I can offer something better in person.
And let’s say you meet someone in person—that meeting will make your online exchanges better.
Hell, maybe you even trade letters after you meet,” I offer, with a crooked grin.
“An epistolary relationship. How quaint,” she says drily.
But the flicker of heat in her eyes says there’s nothing quaint about our letters. “An epistolary affair can lead to some serious spark. Wouldn’t you say?”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, a sure sign she’s thinking of our fiery notes. “That’s possible. Letters can be quite . . . sexy,” she says, with a flirty twirl of her hair. “But you keep talking about spark and chemistry. And I know our listeners are wondering—is spark truly everything?”
“It’s vital. And you can’t replicate it in a lab. At the very least, it ought to be part of the foundation of any romance, don’t you think?”
Her eyes say she’s doubtful. “I’m not denying it has some power, and that you’re gleaning how to harvest it. But only for those who’ve been selected by you and who can afford the price of admission.”
“Most apps aren’t free either,” I counter.
“The fee for your parties is so much higher. And sure, maybe you can offer spark. But one person is choosing the spark. You. And what if you’re wrong?”
“But see . . . I’m not choosing the spark. I’m simply offering the opportunity for it to sizzle.”
“So long as you’re lucky enough to score an invite,” she says. “Many of our listeners have told me how terrible it makes them feel if they don’t make your list.”
“Understandably,” I say. “But that’s why I’m here today—the more publicity I receive, the more demand I can create for parties. And the more parties I host, the more people I can help find love.”
We chat more, and she’s tough as nails, as I expected. That’s for the best, though. I don’t want a puff piece but I’m pretty sure I’ve impressed the doubtful.
Soon enough, the interview winds down and she flashes me a professional smile. “Thank you so much for your time, Easton. You have a particular and specific approach when it comes to romance. I appreciate you sharing it. I learned so much about Carpe Diem.”
The consummate pro at the mic, Bellamy comes across as edgy but fair—which makes it nearly impossible to get a read on whether she thinks my livelihood is utter garbage or if I’ve changed her mind.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I say, and I hope the result will be pleasurable too, when she airs the piece.
She takes off her headphones and turns off her mic. I do the same.
“Better than having your teeth pulled?” she asks.
“I can’t say. I’ve never had a cavity. But I suspect, yes.”
She shoots me a saucy stare. “You show-off with your perfect dental health.”
I laugh, flashing her my pearly-white grin. “It’s all part of the . . . spark.”
Her expression softens. “You make some good points about spark.”
I’d like to make all the points.
And yup, there goes the brain. My thoughts are most decidedly back on sex now. But hey, the interview is over, so the sex brain is allowed to step up to the plate.
“Some sparks are undeniable,” I say in a low voice as I push out of the chair.
As she stands, she reaches for her bag from the floor. “Can’t disagree,” she murmurs as she slings it on her shoulder when a thunk hits my ears.
My eyes snap to the noise. Her phone must have slipped out of the pocket and hit the floor. I bend, reaching for it at as she does. We’re both kneeling, inches from each other.
Our eyes lock. Her gaze is stripped bare. That gamesmanship is gone from her face. “Such a shame you wouldn’t give me your number when we met,” I whisper.
A vein in her neck pulses, and it’s so fucking sexy. “What would you have done with it?”
“You know what I would have done, Bellamy.”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea,” she says, a little smoky.
“Called you that night,” I say.
“You wouldn’t have texted me?”
“Texting’s for men who don’t know what they want.”
The air between us crackles and neither one of us moves. “What do you want, Easton?” Her question is full of delicious import. Full of possibilities.
“To do something about this chemistry,” I say roughly, making my meaning clear.
The silence expands between us as the temperature in the studio kicks up.
With a soft shudder, she whispers a command. “Do it.”
Enough said.
I lean into her right as she parts her lips.
In a hot second, our mouths fuse together.
Her soft lips slide over mine. I kiss her a little harder, savoring all the flavors of her kiss.
The hint of cinnamon in her mouth, the honeysuckle from her lotion.
Most of all, the pure sex appeal of Bellamy Hart as she melts into an afternoon kiss in my arms.
She wobbles a bit because we’re still kneeling. I drop a hand to her hip, holding her tight. “Thanks,” she whispers.
“Anytime,” I say, then return to her lips.
I graze my thumb along her jaw, then thread my fingers through her hair.
A sexy gasp escapes her throat, and I want to linger in the decadence of this moment.
The softness of her breath. The spike of my pulse.
Every second of this kiss is like taking time to eat a delicious bar of chocolate, relishing every bite.
I don’t want to miss a single thing about this kiss. I want to experience all of it, from her tongue slipping inside my mouth to her hands on my knees.
But my favorite part comes when her palm slides up my thigh.
Oh yes, sweetheart. Travel anywhere you want. You can visit any place on the map of me.
Her hand roams up my leg, higher and higher, and we kiss deeper, our mouths turning urgent, frenzied. Sighs and moans sound between us. Breath rushes in and out.
A hot spark sizzles down my spine, and my cock thumps in my jeans.
Squeak.
The door groans open, a heavy push across the carpet.
We scramble apart. I jump to my feet and she does the same, both of us catching our breath. Moving away from the entry, I smooth a hand over my jeans.
Bellamy tucks her hair behind her ears as a man in horn-rimmed glasses steps into the studio. He sweeps his gaze over her, head to toe then back again, like he’s enjoying the view.
“Oh, hey there, Bell. So good to see you. Lucky me that you’re still here.” He sounds like he’s been waiting all day to catch a glimpse of her and doesn’t even look to see if anyone else is here.
“I was just leaving, David,” she says, her voice strained. There’s no returned warmth in her tone. Does she sound that way because he nearly caught us? Because he’s her producer? Or for some other reason? That last possibility nags at me as he stares at her, possession in his eyes.
She doesn’t look his way at all. She looks anyplace else.
“No need to rush out,” he says, missing or ignoring her discomfort.
“We can hang together the rest of the afternoon, go over the script and stuff in my office. Order something for dinner if we need to work late. No hurry, Bell.” The man’s tone is way too suggestive, and his stare hits ogle territory and lingers before he bothers to look at anything else in the studio.
Then, his grin vanishes in the blink of an eye. “Oh.”
His gray eyes laser in on my face like an inspection. What the hell? Is he checking to see if her whisker burn matches my stubble?
He jerks his focus back to Bellamy. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”
“I’m . . . not.” She seems uncomfortable, but she’s holding herself carefully, like she doesn’t want to rock the boat.
“Hey, there. How are you doing?” I ask him, because one of us should be polite. Maybe that will remind him there is someone else in the room besides her.
The guy doesn’t answer me. “Do you want Vietnamese or maybe Italian tonight? Italian is your favorite, right? You pick and we can dive into your script as long as we need.”
She mumbles something that sounds like doesn’t matter.
“Well, with as pretty a shirt as that, let’s not risk the red sauce,” he says, adding a wink.
I’m certain of two things—this sleazeball thinks he can fuck her, and he makes Bellamy feel awful. When he’s around, a different side of her comes out. She mumbles and stares at her shoes, shifting away from the confident woman she is. I wish she weren’t bothered by him so much.
But there’s a thing I know too. If I can help her, I will. “Ms. Hart, if you’d like to continue our interview, I’m happy to stay for longer.” I try to catch her eye, hoping she gets my meaning.
I’ll be your out to escape this fucker if you need me to.
She shakes her head. “I’m good. Thank you.”
As much as I don’t want to, I leave. Because that’s what she wants.