Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) (9 page)

“Brooklyn is a turn-off?” Jane asked, tapping her fingers against the novels she still held against her chest. “Let’s go with the Sagittarian accountant. Definitely a better match for him than Summer.”

“But—”

“Did you re-match Summer with that wonderful single dad from Gramercy Park?”

“Yes, I did, but I’m worried about Charlie and the Sagittarian accountant.” Marianne touched her hand. “Isn’t he from Brooklyn?”

“No, he is not from Brooklyn.”

Her friend’s brows snapped together in confusion. “But he mentioned Brooklyn in his profile for New York.”

“Charlie is definitely not from Brooklyn. He’s uptown, not Bed-Stuy. An accountant with an appreciation for Central Park West might be exactly what he needs.” The idea made her queasy. She needed to book this date and get out of here—pronto. Before she changed her mind. “Make a reservation at that new hipster place in Tribeca, and send him the date details, but don’t worry about couriering him a decent outfit. He’ll only wear the damned Rangers T-shirt anyway.”

“You’re the boss.” Marianne said, disappearing with her tablet and the stack of Dr. Phil.

Alone in the self-help section, Jane considered her friend’s future if she failed to win this bet. Marianne had built the matrix. Jane owed her. Maybe it was time to start calling her contacts to try to find her a new job, with a new dating company, but she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

Maybe she really did need therapy. Or a daily regimen of cold showers and self-medication with beignets. She looked over at the overstuffed shelves full of advice, and her sidelong glance caught the Texas-sized smile on Dr. Phil’s face. He winked at her as if to say, “Still sure you want to stay on the safe side of passion?”

She yanked hard on her ear. Yes. The thought echoed through her brain. Followed too quickly by the memory of six wonderful, passion-filled days.

She picked up a second copy of the workbook.

Then again, a little therapy never hurt anyone.

Chapter Ten

@Goodman Anybody else think the Mets are going to be good this year? ‘Cause the Rangers are killing me.

@KathieLeeandHoda Our eyes on Charlie, getting all the news, the intimate details. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it. #bachelorsightings

“Think maybe the Mets hat is overkill?” Nick asked, and gave him a sardonic look as he opened the glass door of Third Avenue Sports Center and headed toward the fast pitch cages.

Charlie glared at his friend’s back and adjusted the ball cap lower on his forehead. “Don’t judge the hat. If the female half of Manhattan was camped outside your condo every day, you’d be wearing a Mets cap, too.”

“Actually, I’d be celebrating.” Nick folded a
Sports Illustrated
and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who put his face on a magazine and signed onto the Love Gamble.”

“Don’t remind me.” The attention from Jane’s jaw-dropping bet hadn’t been part of his plan. Tough shit now that NY Singles was calling him the Love Gamble Bachelor. Photos, magazine articles, information about his education, the address of the bar—the whole nine—all over Facebook. He’d spent yet another morning fielding calls about his love life, not his favorite pastime.

Nick swiped his electronic key card and opened the last batting cage on the right. “No sympathy from me, buddy. I’m a one-woman man.”

“One woman, every other week.” Like his sister, Nick had more than a few issues.

He nodded his concession. “Miss Last Wednesday was nice,
very
nice.”

“Any chance you remember her name?”

He shook his head. “Only messes with my rules. No sleepovers, no back-to-back dates, no Sundays during football season.”

“You, your sister, and rules.”

“Hey, grow up like we did, you need rules.” He dropped his equipment on the metal bench. “Besides, is it my fault they always need a commitment?”

Inside the state-of-the art cage, Charlie pulled a couple aluminum bats from his bag and set them down on the Astroturf. “Women.”

“Can’t live with ‘em,” Nick started the adage.

“Can’t keep my damned hands off ‘em.” Charlie chose a bat, set the pitch speed and stepped up the plate. “One of ‘em anyway.”

Nick scrubbed his face in his hands. “You need to keep that shit to yourself, bro, okay? She
is
my sister.”

“Yeah, well…” Charlie took one swing and knocked it out of the cages. “Fuck it, she’s never going to trust me if she doesn’t by now. I’m out.”

The hell with his seduction plan. That had Red Bulled it out of the window while he was walking down West 23rd. And revenge? Puh-lease. She’d turned the tables on him the moment she swept back into his life bearing bagels and a bad attitude.

Nick picked up a bat and tapped it on the side of his cleats. “I think if you’d tell—”

“Don’t, Nick. Don’t think. Your thinking always gets me in trouble.” After last night, he was ready to declare the game over. Rainout. Washed up. Whatever. “Time to call it a loss.”

He shrugged as if the conversation meant nothing, but Charlie knew better. “You want to throw in the towel, say it’s a total loss, hey, up to you. No doubt about it. My sister can be difficult.”

“Difficult?” Charlie released a short bark of a laugh. “She’s infuriating.”

A hit sailed over the wall. “Yes.”

“Quick tempered.”

Another down the third base line. “Can be.”

“She threw me out of her apartment and I was practically half-naked.”

Nick smiled. “Did she get photos? Because that’s pretty fucking funny.”

“Half. Naked.”

His friend stared him down. “Last warning. Too close to the TMI line.”

Charlie tapped the bat on the ground, impatient. “Yeah, well, your little sister went on national television and bet my love life. Not hers. Mine.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pointed his bat at Nick. “I didn’t do that, Nick. She made her own bet.”

“And you’re letting her lie in it.”

“No, I agreed to be her bachelor, bailed her out like always.” Charlie tossed the ball in the air and hit it off to the side. “But, hell, maybe it’ll work out and her criteria matrix will find my true love, because it’s obviously not Jane Wright.”

“Bullshit.” Turning on his machine, Nick started hitting and the sound of the fast pitch cracking against his bat punctuated every word. “And you know it. Yes, she’s scared, so she arms herself with her lists and plans, but at least she isn’t hiding.”

“And I am?” He pointed the end of his bat at his chest, dead center, before turning away to step over to the plate. “Now that’s bullshit.”

“In college, you dated half of Midtown.” Nick picked up a few balls and tapped them off to the side one by one. “Not once did I see you get serious.”

Charlie felt the rhythm of his swing catch fire. “You should talk about being serious.”

His friend laughed. “Hey, we both know I’m not cut out for love. But my sister never stopped trying. Sure, her list is crazy, but at least she has the balls to try. More than I can say about either of us.”

“Speak for yourself.” He continued swinging, a release for his pent-up energy.

Nick looked him square in the eye. “Truth telling time. You need to stop holding back and start making your case before you screw up this relationship permanently.”

“Make my case? Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“All this chemistry crap? Come on, Charlie, you’re starting to piss me off.” Nick pushed his sleeves back and leaned against the chain link fence. “The fact that you lost your mom sucks. Believe me, I get it. But we’re not kids anymore. And my sister’s not as secure as she pretends.” He shook his head and looked away. “Stop screwing around and tell her the truth. Make it real. Tell her you love her.”

Make it real.
With no answer to give, he tossed half a dozen baseballs into the corner of the cage, one after the other.

Nick stopped the last one with the edge of his cleat. “Listen, you can call bullshit with other people, but don’t try it with me, okay? I was there when your seven-year-old ass had nowhere else to go.”

He shot him a glare. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Nick bent down, picked up the balls and tossed them back over. “Get your shit together. If you don’t, your pride won’t be much consolation when she stops waiting for you and disappears. For good this time.”

“Get off my back, Nick. I lost my mom long before your father took off. I had nobody for a damned long time and when I finally take a chance…” He took another swing and the crack of the ball against his bat echoed through the cage. “I know all about being left behind, Nick.”
One wrong turn down a one-way street. One ridiculous pink cocktail.
He banged another hit, frustration making for good baseball. “But I told you, I’m out.”

Nick scrubbed his face in his hands. “Right, and that’s why you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

He set up the next round of pitches to fall right in his strike zone. “Hey, watch it, bro, she’s your little sister.”

Nick sighed. “She is, Charlie. Don’t forget that.” He grabbed a sports drink from his bag and twisted off the cap. “Maybe she needs to know that she’s not just some girl you’ll chuck away in a few weeks. Not everybody gets a shot at the real deal.”

Charlie started to protest, but he waved him off. “I know she tossed you out half-naked, and she’s tough and quick-tempered, and hell, probably emotionally stunted. But whether or not, you can admit it, Charlie, you love her.”

Not sure whether to laugh or bang his head against his metal bat, Charlie ran a hand across his clenched jaw and listened.

“You love that she survived Brooklyn, that she had the guts to build her company out of nothing, that she has a heart big enough to be Cupid. You admire that heart, and that doesn’t come along every day. Trust me, I know. Maybe instead of bailing her out”—he tossed out a set of air quotes—“you need to show her that you’re more than the guy who twisted her brothers’ arms until they let her play street hockey. Hell, give her a reason to believe she’s more.”

“More what?”

“More to you, buddy. More to you.” Nick turned off the machine and grabbed his gear. “Think about it. I’m hitting the showers.”

A fastball crossed the plate and Charlie cracked it to the fences. Oh, he’d think about it, all right. Insecure? Big-hearted? Nothing insecure about the way she kicked him to the curb last night. No. Not Jane. Nothing insecure about that woman.

Not one damn thing.

And as far as her big heart was concerned…well…up for debate.

Even if he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

…

Jane stood outside her favorite coffee shop and considered whether or not she needed a Plan B. Or a Plan C. Or maybe a full-on A to Z disaster plan. The entire day had passed without a word from Charlie—no text, no call, no nothing—not a good sign for date number two. She sighed and ducked into the shop.

Normally, she loved the cozy atmosphere of the place, the tables filled with college students and commuters, the occasional mom with a cherub-faced toddler strapped to her back, but with the sky darkening on day two of five, Jane felt cranky and in need of caffeine. If only the place sold her favorite extra hot, no-whip, triple mocha lattes intravenously, so she could administer the caffeinated substance directly into her bloodstream. Tonight, she was going to need it. If her second attempt to end Charlie’s bachelor days bombed, Cupid and Company would be hitting up the unemployment line. Hoping to avoid that nightmare, she planned to pull an all-nighter and strategize a new approach if this second date failed to inspire love. She checked her phone again. Still no Charlie.

She placed an order for her usual and stepped over to the side to wait it out. And that’s when she saw him—the Antichrist.

Probably there to gloat.

Even she had to say, the devil was attractive in an action-movie guy way. Intense, with a bit of an edge, despite his pricey clothes and cool manner. If he weren’t the enemy, she’d be typing a criteria list into her phone and setting him up with the barista who was having trouble keeping her eyes off him.

She frowned over at him. “Not enough to detonate a bomb under my career, now you feel the need to infiltrate my coffee shop.”

“Infiltrate is a strong word.”

She ignored him, and checked her phone one more time.

“Can I buy your coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Hands buried deep in the pockets of his neatly pressed trousers, he rolled back on his designer shoes, and spoke quietly, “Jane, about the bet…”

“I still have three days.”

“But you realize that there is no matrix. There’s no way to predict love. Not in five days. Not in five years. There’s no way to predict the future.”

She gave him a sidelong glance and picked up her order. Coffee in hand, she walked to the exit. He followed, laying out his matchmaking strategy as if it made a damned bit of difference. “The dating game’s all about the numbers,” he said, opening the door for her, “The more cards in front of you, the better your chances are of yelling, ‘Bingo!’”

After a fortifying sip of the coffee, she said, “True love is a science, Adam, not a game you win by playing the odds.”

The bitter February wind kicked up. “About playing the odds. I might’ve set them in my favor for this bet by picking your ex.”

She glanced over at him wondering how much he knew about her relationship with Charlie.

He caught her elbow and continued, “When the show came to me, I ran with it, but it was all about the publicity. I never meant to undermine your company. I’d heard about you and the bartender, and I thought…”

“You’d play matchmaker?”

A shrug of his shoulder informed his answer. “Me, matching Cupid? A helluva match, the kind that takes a company to the next level.” He held his hands out wide in apology. “But if you want to call off the bet, we can make it happen.”

“Call off the bet?” She tossed him a mini death stare, but considered the idea that he might—just this once—be sincere. “And miss out on the chance to see you passing out conversation hearts and chocolate outside the Cupid office? No way.”

He shrugged. “May the best matchmaker win.”

Jane watched him walk away knowing that even if she won, she’d still lose.

And damn, she hated to lose.