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.”