Chapter Nine #3
I force a tight smile, just in case Leslie can somehow tune into the movie reel of Linc glitching in my head.
Stop thinking about MJ 2.0. and his forearms right now.
Of course, Julian sends another I haven’t given up text now. “Not today, sir.” I quickly swipe it away, smiling at my reflection on the screen.
Thankfully, the mic clicks on, followed by the camera after a couple of seconds.
I’m not certain whom I was expecting by that name, but it absolutely wasn’t a gorgeous white guy in a gray tweed snap-front newsie hat wearing an I got six and a possible T-shirt.
I mean, yeah, he’s wearing a wedding ring, but my gawwwd !
“Sorry about that. A meeting with another client ran over just a bit. But, uh, hello. How are you?” Jesus, the smolder.
“Hi!” I smile way too hard, my voice shooting up to glass-break pitch, and naturally, the rest of the meeting goes just as smoothly.
He broods. I blink. Somewhere in between, he gently informs me that my profile “needs some work.” Which, understatement . After hearing about all the effort that goes into a successful first impression, I can’t help but think, yup, that’s about right.
Leslie, my very own dating concierge, has challenged me to take some “casual, bright photos.” Nothing too staged.
Meanwhile, he’ll work his magic on my profile, adding my dealbreakers.
No addictions, no narcissistic, ambition-less incel types, no men with questionable hygiene (or cologne abuse), no cheapskates, no love bombers.
And, of course, no Livingstons. Luxe Ladies -watching cheaters are just implied on the list.
It’s a little lengthy, but let’s be real: a woman knows exactly what she doesn’t want.
As for what I do want…
Not as simple.
“For sure, I need someone committed, consistent…and cute doesn’t hurt.” A self-conscious laugh squeaks out of me.
“Don’t be ashamed,” Leslie reassures me. “That’s a great place to start.”
Really digging deep, I add, “Maybe someone handy—not handsy. At least, not right off the bat. He’s got to have life goals, strong values…
” I trail off, and he nods repeatedly, urging the rest out of me.
“He’s thoughtful, can actually laugh at a bad joke, dances on beat, knows how to play Spades—I don’t know. ”
Leslie barks out a laugh. “Jotting that down and underlining it three times. How about physically?”
“It’s been a while, but kisses me tenderly until my toes curl, using his magic fingers to make me—”
“Uh, sorry, I meant his physical description.”
My face bursts into flames. “Oh.” I cringe, giggling. “In that case, I’d love it if he was tall, athletic, with deep brown skin. Ooh, gray eyes? Well, that would be nice, but I’m not making it a dealbreaker…yet.”
“Okay, great. For now,” Leslie says, his fingers moving rapid-fire over the keys, “based on all that good stuff—and the gray-eyed Spades champ with the magic fingers, of course—I’ll work with our executive matchmakers to schedule you for one of our private mixers and send you on a couple blind dates—”
I miss the rest of his sentence when the library door creaks, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of two fundamental truths. I never fully closed the door, and I have no idea how long Lincoln Bridges has been standing in the doorway.
Oh , God.
The way his eyes flicker to my screen tells me he’s heard enough.
“Oh, uh…Leslie, one sec.” Panic streaks through me as I jab the mute button and jolt off my chair to talk to Linc. “Hey, what’s up?”
Who knows? Maybe he didn’t hear everything. Maybe he only needs my input on Vincent’s interior designs.
“No, I was just going to go grab lunch for my guys,” he says, his voice a little more strained than usual. “Thought I’d ask if you wanted any tacos—”
“Tacos?” I perk up.
His smile’s tight, like he’s trying to maintain his usual easygoing demeanor, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His steely-gray eyes linger on me, like he’s holding something back.
My chest tightens.
Why did he have to show up right now?
“Uh, yeah. Nothing too fancy.” He shrugs. “There’s this food truck a few blocks from here that sells them, street-style. The guys love it. But I didn’t want to interrupt you if you’re, um, busy.”
Again, Linc’s gaze darts past me to my laptop, where Leslie’s still waiting for me to come back to the screen, and I know.
Linc’s heard everything.
And he’ll keep hearing it, too. He’s following The Divorcétante Chronicles . He’s going to know all about my dates—the good, the bad, the ugly, and possibly the ones that end with good morning .
I force a smile, resting my hand lightly on his forearm. “Say less, sir. My answer will always be yes to tacos.” I laugh, but it’s a hollow sound, trying to ease the discomfort radiating off him.
I hate how wrong this feels. How wrong I feel. Say something.
“Well then, ma’am…” He grins, slipping his phone from his back pocket and unlocking it to a note cutely entitled Lunch Orders . “May I take your order?”
I glance at the screen, where there’s a running list with all the crew members’ names.
“Do they have a shredded chicken one?” I ask, biting back a laugh at how cutely he’s taking notes.
As he continues, adding my cilantro, lime, and feta cheese, then teasing when I ask for a side of tomatillo sauce, not “green sauce,” I’m completely fixated on his face.
His piercing gray eyes. Smooth, intricate shadows and lines drenched in rich, dark brown skin.
The light dusting of salt-and-pepper beard scruff, catching the light spilling in from the windows. Full, soft-looking pink lips.
My heart rams my ribs.
His smile snaps me out of my thoughts, and I’ve got no idea how long I’ve been standing here just staring at him.
“Pause, peace, power, right?” he says, cutely.
Inside, I’m melting. Like, I’m just a jumbled mess of bones and nerve endings because… Why is this the worst situation ever? Why can’t he just be bitter and ugly? Why is his V-neck…showing so much neck?
“Uh…oops, shoot. Please, don’t forget my tomatillo sauce.” I smile awkwardly, rushing over to grab my purse, but Linc waves me off, telling me it’s his treat. Because of course he does.
He lingers, and for a moment, it’s just us, and everything we’ve left unsaid.
The awkwardness presses down on my chest like a weight I can’t lift. The tension is so thick I could cut it with a rusty butter knife.
“Linc—”
“Ebony, are you still there?”
Shoot, Leslie .
The universe saves me from myself. I toss a glance over my shoulder, torn between making Leslie wait and finishing my thought.
But really, there are two doors I can choose from: keep chasing the illusion of some perfect man who might love and cherish me or face the one standing right in front of me.
I’m learning it’s rarely ever a simple choice.
Except I don’t get to choose.
Leslie’s voice muffles as he starts talking to someone off-screen. “She said she’d be right back. I want to make sure we schedule two dates and the private mixer for her…”
Linc smiles. “I guess I’d better let you go.”
And everything inside me fights the truth of his words, even though I hate that he’s right.