Prologue
Everybody wants to come again, but not everyone can.
So, if I invite you to a life-changing night, you better save that date. An invitation from me offers a woman something hard to get and hard to pass up—charm, class, and a relentless focus on her heart’s desire that drives her to RSVP: Accepts with pleasure.
So much fucking pleasure. I’m a purveyor of it—the goddamn mayor of good times, the lord of lust, the emperor of ecstasy. A coveted summons to one of my underground events means an end to swiping, ghosting, and fishing.
Like a modern-day Gatsby, I woo the most fascinating, clever, and sexy women to my soirees—women willing to pay a pretty penny for the chance to meet the man of their dreams.
These secret parties aren’t for me. Please. Love isn’t in my cards.
I’m not even dealing myself in. I’m quite content to be the leading matchmaker in a brand-new age of romance in New York City.
At least, I was happy enough till she walked in on the celebration and table-flipped all my perfect plans.
And she didn’t even RSVP.
1
The Boys, the Bet, and the Babe
I’m not a party boy, but I love a good party.
I’m more of a connoisseur of human complexity, and bars are like a three-course meal for romance, dating, and mating.
Most of all, they are arenas for the game.
The costumed scene at The Lucky Spot tonight is a perfect example, and from my seat at the bar, I make mental notes for my own fêtes and scope out potential guests.
“Admit it. You wish you owned Manhattan’s most successful bar.”
I turn to my cousin, meeting his gaze across the counter as he pours a patron a beer. “Yes, Spencer, I dream of being you,” I deadpan, then return to studying the sea of people. This is just one of the watering holes Spencer owns in Manhattan. It’s Get Lucky for a Cause night, a modern masquerade for charity.
“Understandable.” Behind the bar, Spencer holds up a bottle of Patrón in one hand and a Macallan in the other, offering each to me in turn.
“Is that a trick question?” I shoot him a searing stare and nod to the scotch.
“Yes, Easton. That was a test to make sure the pod people hadn’t taken you over, given your costume,” he says, pouring the shot. “Who the hell are you tonight?”
I smooth a hand down my swank tux jacket, lifting the glass that’s part of the costume, just like the slicked-back hair and the grin required to pull this off. “This shouldn’t be too hard to guess.”
Spencer shrugs, the lemons attached to his T-shirt rising with his shoulders. “You got me.”
“And what, exactly, are you?” I counter, scanning his simple yellow eye mask and his citrus-covered shirt.
Spencer drags a finger across the words emblazoned under the lemons. When life gives you . . . “I’m wordplay, Easton.”
Behind me, someone clears their throat. “Weird. I would have bet a grand you were irony,” Nolan says, sliding up to join us, wearing Clark Kent glasses and a white button-down undone to show the Superman logo on the T-shirt under it. My bespectacled buddy eyes me up and down in my duds—tuxedo, vest, white handkerchief in the breast pocket, bow tie and a black mask. “Are you a bandit?”