Don’t just take it from me though. You can hear it from the man himself. I sat down with Easton Ford, and he’s happy to tell you why his parties are the best and only way to meet your future love.
Our edited interview follows . . .
So, there you go, straight from the source. But he didn’t change this romance addict’s mind. I say this to all of you wondering if these parties are your only chance . . . They are not.
Take heart, my friends. Keep on trucking. Keep making those online profiles. Keep swiping right or swiping left.
Go to the pickling class. The bar. The jazz club. Join a gym. Ask out the guy who works in the coffee shop.
You’re not missing out if you don’t warrant a Carpe Diem invite.
The only way you’ll miss out is if you stop turning over every rock as you find the great love of your life.
Kiss all the frogs!
This is your most devoted guide to romance, signing off.
20
Ruthless
From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford
* * *
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
Really?
* * *
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
Did you think I’d be anything but honest?
* * *
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
I appreciate honesty. But that was character assassination, and you know it.
* * *
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
To quote you back to you . . . Really?
* * *
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
Fine. But at the very least I vehemently disagree with your assessment. And I want to talk to you and explain why.
* * *
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
We’re talking now. I’m happy to listen.
* * *
My best,
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
I’m not going to march into your studio. I’m not going to show up at your place of work and demand to know why you wrote that. I’m simply asking if we can talk in person.
And if the answer is no, I will be on my way and you will never hear from me again. I am always a gentleman even when I am a determined motherfucker.
* * *
Easton
Dear Determined Motherfucker,
* * *
Honesty is sexy. So is gentlemanliness. I’m at the gym down the block, though. Later?
* * *
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
What do you know? I’m at the warehouse on Nineteenth Street, prepping for the next party. Stop by when you’re done attacking the StairMaster. Address below.
* * *
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
How did you know I use the StairMaster?
* * *
Bellamy
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
It’s the most attackable piece of cardio. Ergo, perfect for you.
* * *
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
Touché. I’ll cut my workout short. See you in forty minutes.
* * *
Bellamy
21
A Gentlemanly Fucker
I’m still seeing red as I press the button on the buzzer to let Bellamy into the warehouse. The groan of the industrial elevator heralds her arrival with the crank of the gears as the elevator rises.
I head to the doors, huffing in impatience as I wait.
When the elevator opens, I half expect to see a sweaty, disheveled Bellamy in yoga pants and a sports bra. Instead, there’s her no-nonsense doppelganger. And, fuck my life, that’s just as hot.
She steps out in a V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers. No makeup either, except for glossy red lips, and her hair is pulled high in a ponytail. Freshly scrubbed from a post-gym shower, she’s as alluring as ever.
I’m still pissed about the piece, except now I’m turned on too.
I gesture her into the industrial-style loft space with a sweep of my arm. There’s barely any furniture in here—just a grand piano.
“Come in,” I growl as I stalk away from her and over to the instrument.
“Should I let my friends know where I am?”
I toss her a look that says don’t joke about that. “No.”
She raises her hands in surrender. “Fine. Bad joke.”
“I don’t think you’d have come here if you thought there was an issue.”
“You’re right. It’s not an issue. I’m good being here.”
“Good. You should feel that way with me.” When I reach the piano, I spin around, folding my arms. “So, that was quite a hatchet job.”
She lifts her chin. “I wouldn’t call it a hatchet job. It was a fair and honest assessment.”
I arch a brow. “You call that fair? Is that really what you think of me? That I’m some sort of master puppeteer? A kind of elitist matchmaker?”
Her look says duh. “Easton, you are those things,” she says, her assessment cool and even.
I smile, winningly. “I’m providing incredible opportunities.”
“And I’m assessing them on my show.”
I stab my finger against my sternum. “It’s my job to help people meet.”
She points at herself. “And it’s my job to analyze whether those methods work.”
“I wouldn’t call that an analysis. It was an evisceration,” I say, taking a step closer to her. “And I seriously can’t believe you think so little of me.”
“I seriously can’t believe that’s the worst thing that’s happened to you today.”