Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) Page 14

  His arms encircled her waist to draw her down on top of him. “Morning, angel.”

  Angel. God, she loved when he called her that, so sweet and familiar. A messy avalanche of emotion plummeted into her stomach. Desire followed by need and…panic…complete, total panic. Need? She couldn’t afford to need him.

  “Coffee,” she said, struggling to stay calm and think. “Must have coffee.”

  “Addict,” he teased, still reaching for her as she pulled away.

  She pulled the chenille blanket around her shoulders. Don’t look back. Don’t look at him stretched across the bed like he belonged there. Do. Not. Look. Back.

  In the kitchen, she pulled out two coffee cups and pressed the red button on the Keurig. Thank God for Starbucks K-Cups, life savers when a girl needed a quick caffeine hit. And did she need one now. She was rattled and needed to pull it together and think. Think. Think. Think.

  Charlie came up from behind her, wrapped his arms around her middle, and all rational thought evaporated from her passion-addled brain.

  “I have a little addiction of my own,” he said, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. “Want to indulge it with me? In the shower?”

  She gripped the edge of the counter to keep from melting into a puddle of longing on her kitchen floor. That particular addiction was mutual. Definitely mutual.

  But addiction led straight to heartache. She turned around in his arms. He was still so naked. Damn, it was hot in her kitchen. She wondered if turning up the AC helped in this kind of overheated, that-man-owns-one-helluva-package type situation. Probably not. And, it was February. Maybe she should just open a window. Or, um, like every window.

  His hands skimmed down her back to settle on her hips. “What do you want to do today? Because I have a few ideas.”

  Her impulse was to cut and run. Cut and run. My goodness, she was so muddled she kept repeating herself. “I have to go to work.”

  “Maybe I can pick you up for lunch. Take you to that little place across the bridge.”

  Charlie, naked in her kitchen. Sex in the shower. Lunch. Her whole body was shaking, she couldn’t catch her breath, and her heart was pounding out of her chest. She was having a full-blown panic attack. Lunch. In Brooklyn. A real date.

  She wanted a real date. She wanted love and passion, and the knockout kiss.

  “Think about it,” he said, nuzzling that spot behind her ear. “I’ll get dressed and run out, grab us some of those bagels you love so much, and I’ll be right back.”

  Be. Right. Back.

  A kick of raw pain landed in her stomach.

  Jane shoved it aside and closed her eyes, envisioning every day in his arms, a lifetime of loving him. She wanted it. All of it, love, chemistry, lunch in Brooklyn…a future.

  The image was perfect. Too perfect. As perfect as every night with her dad. If he’d made a run at the tables, a big score, he’d come home, smiling, happy, arms loaded up with flowers for her mother, expensive presents for her, and Jake and Nick. His little trifecta he’d call them. Her mom would smile and make some fantastic dinner, with an icebox cake for dessert. Jane had loved those days.

  Every one felt perfect, like a small piece of heaven in Brooklyn…until he’d left.

  Be. Right. Back.

  That’s what her father had said.

  Be. Right. Back.

  The thought of Charlie leaving, of never coming back…not this morning, but someday, inevitably…even the thought of it sent a shockwave of pain through her system, a pain so great she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. How would she survive when he left?

  No, she wasn’t having lunch. Not lunch in Brooklyn. Not with Charlie. Maybe last night was for passion, but this morning was for answers. For smart, rational thinking. For logic. For self-preservation. Not for lunch.

  “Charlie, we played the Brooklyn card last night and it was wonderful and everything, but now it’s time for reality.”

  His body straightened into a long, tense line. “The Brooklyn card? Last night wasn’t a game, Jane.”

  “I know, I didn’t mean…” Everything was coming out wrong. “Yes, okay, it’s true. Brooklyn felt like home and the whole night was so sexy…”

  “Ridiculously sexy.”

  She lifted her gaze. “Except I’m not that girl anymore.”

  “What girl?” He relaxed and tugged her hips a little closer. “You’re not the girl who made love to me last night here on the kitchen table? Because if not, let me introduce myself.”

  She pressed his hands away. “No, Charlie, I’m not that love struck Brooklyn kid. I’m a woman who matches people based on compatibility, on shared belief systems and values, on scientific data. Not so-called chemistry and passion.”

  He let out a groan. “You’re killing me, Janey. I’m standing naked in your kitchen, talking about morning sex and you’re blindsiding me with science. Can’t we talk about this later? Much later.” Their gazes collided, and a sudden sizzle sent the temperature of the small space between them soaring. “When we’re a little less naked and ready for action.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  His lips fell to that vulnerable spot behind her ear. “I’d even be willing to discuss it while I re-introduce myself in the shower.”

  She was shaking. Literally shaking. “Charlie, be serious.”

  He kissed away her objection. “I am being serious. Last night was one of the best nights of my life. Correction: the best night.”

  “But—”

  “To hell with steadfast and reliable. I love the way your body reacts to mine, the way you crave the feel of me.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he just kissed her again. “No, Janey. After last night, I’m not letting you walk away. Not again. Not without a fight. I want to start the next chapter of our life together. Right now. You and me. Chemistry and compatibility.”

  Part of her wanted to say, yes. Another part of her wanted to run. His passion took up too much space in her brain and in her heart. She needed a relationship to complement her, not take over. That’s why she lived by the Ultimate Man List. Her desire for Charlie consumed her, drove her wild with need, and destroyed her dedication to smart love. And she needed to believe in smart love.

  “Chemistry isn’t part of logical compatibility.”

  He tossed her a killer smile and brushed another sweet kiss across her mouth. “Let me be the man who blows your list of criteria out of the water.”

  A killer smile and sweet kisses. The kind of combination that sent a logical girl careening down the emotional rabbit hole. She gripped the edges of the blanket. The kitchen seemed to be closing in on her, and for a minute, Jane thought she might pass out, her heart was beating so damned hard against her chest. This was exactly why she steered clear of gambling and emotional entanglements. The panic. The banging heart. The fear. The goddamned freaking fear.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t.” She pushed past him and rushed down the hall into her bedroom.

  “You can’t what?’ he asked, following her and hanging back in the doorway.

  Still half-wrapped in the blanket, she pulled on a pair of sweats and yanked a flannel shirt from the closet. “I can’t fall for chemistry.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, all casual confidence. “I think we’re long past that.”

  She let the blanket fall to the floor and dragged the shirt across her shoulders. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Of course he did. He was a man secure enough to stand gloriously naked in a woman’s bedroom while she freaked out and lost her mind. “Well, I’m not. Brooklyn or no Brooklyn, and no matter how sexy last night was, I can’t fall for that kind of passion. I won’t.” She buttoned the shirt with trembling hands. “Besides, I’ve already got your next date lined up.”

  “When the hell did you do that?” He chuckled, tugged her toward him by the hem of her shirt, and undid each button as fast as she could close them. “While I
was sleeping?”

  She yanked the shirt away.

  “Janey, you’re just afraid.”

  “Hell yes, I’m afraid. I admit it. I’m terrified of being my mother, of being that girl who gave up everything to catch passion like some form of lightning in a bottle, only to get burned.”

  He grabbed his T-shirt and his damned Levis from the corner of the bed and dragged the jeans over his hips. “Talk about playing the wrong card.”

  Her jaw tightened reflexively like she was preparing for a fight. “What card?”

  “The ‘thanks for the great sex, but now it’s all about the matrix’ card.” He smiled up at her, all sweet and crinkly, and the chemistry between them sizzled as if on cue. “I’ve seen you totally naked. I’m not buying it.” A warm flush infused her skin and she looked away as he pulled on his T-shirt. “But, hey, you’re the expert.”

  She flinched slightly at his words, but refused to let him get under her skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re Cupid, right? You’re the one with the algorithm and the database and the screwed up dating app. But if you ask me, that stuff is all bullshit, because like it or not, love’s a gamble.” She made a move to walk out of the room, but he caught her elbow. “Your lists and apps don’t see everything. Here’re a few things you don’t see in your matrix. I run a foundation that funds a scholarship in my mom’s name so kids from broken homes can get an education. I’m committed to being there for those kids in a way that my father never was for me. Kids like Joe—the bartender from Temptation—the bar which I own, by the way.”

  “You own the bar?”

  “Own it, rebuilt it, brought your brother in on the deal, partly so I could employ as many of the kids as I could, and partly because the place was close enough to walk you home on the nights you came by. So I could make sure you got home safe.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “But you don’t know any of that about me, because you think of me in a certain way, and I don’t even know why.”

  A charged silence grew between them, interrupted only by the sound of the outside traffic, or an apartment door closing down the hall. He turned back to look at her, square in the eyes. “Why did you leave the cocktail napkin?”

  Her voice was whisper-soft. “The Rum Runner Girl.”

  “Who’s Rum Runner girl?”

  She crossed one bare foot on top of the other. “The bartender at the island—you know, the blonde—at the poolside cantina. I, um, it seems stupid now, but I thought you were flirting with her when you were showing her how to make a Rum Runner, so…”

  “Flirting with the bartender? That’s why you took off?”

  “When I saw you whispering with your head bent so close to hers, I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get out of there.”

  His eyes narrowed in a way that told her he was angry. “Jane, you didn’t just leave. You hopped on a plane and tore out of there without one fucking word. I had to FedEx your luggage.”

  “I told you, Charlie. I’m not going to be my mother.”

  “And I’m not your catch-you-in-the-rearview dad.” Eyes locked with hers, he drew in a breath. “A perfect match can’t be predicted scientifically. No matter how many measurements you stuff into your database. Every single day is a risk.” He bent his head closer. “I’m willing to chance a little bit of pain—and, babe, what you did to me in the Caymans fucking hurt—if I have you in the end. I can handle the long-term—can you? Or is a cocktail napkin relationship the best you can do?”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “That’s not fair.”

  “Really? ‘Cause it sure feels like you’re ready to bolt.” He scanned her face as if he was searching for some kind of answer. “I want to bet on something that matters. I want to bet on you and me.”

  “I don’t bet, remember?”

  He stared at her for a long, long time, before letting her go.

  The look on his face told her he finally understood that she’d never risk looking inside his heart, and even if she did, that she’d never see anything, but another man who’d eventually walk out on her.

  Charlie took a step back. For a moment, he looked as devastated as he had when he’d turned up at their house after his mom died. In the next instant, his face was blank. “Okay, then, go make me a better match.” He gave her a quick nod and turned to go, leaving her shaking and already half-filled with regret.

  Guess she’d finally found their deal breaker.

  Chapter Fourteen

  @smartCupid Wait for a person who will love every maddening, crazy, imperfect thing about you. Because that’s everything.

  @AdamDatesRUs Will tomorrow be the end of logical love in Manhattan? #racetothefinish

  Misery.

  6:30 PM.

  Twelve hours after watching Charlie accept her final deal breaker, Jane sat on the buttery-soft leather sofa in her sweet, cozy living room, wearing pajama bottoms and her favorite Ray’s T-shirt, indulging in a state of unscientific, plain old-fashioned misery.

  This morning NY Singles had predicted a loss for Smart Cupid. She was officially a loser. But instead of searching every nook and cranny of the city for Charlie’s true love, she’d spent the day crying into her pajamas. Proof positive. Broken hearts were counterproductive.

  6:32 PM.

  Three minutes since the last time she’d watched the YouTube video. She pressed reload on her cell’s palm-sized screen and watched it again. If she was going to torture herself, why not go all out? New tears pricked the back of her eyes as she watched Charlie kiss her in the moonlight outside her apartment. She could still feel his hand tangled in the hair at the base of her neck, still taste the spice on his lips. She turned her cell phone over in her palm to check the time. Again.

  6:33 PM.

  Maybe she needed to watch it one more time. Better than the real hell of reviewing the date reports scattered next to her. Cupid Reports for Charlie Goodman, stained with her tears. She felt the kick of regret in her stomach. Returning to her risk-free life—without midnight pizza runs and sex on the kitchen floor—was going to cost her. But she’d played her hand and now she needed to face the fact that she’d lost Charlie. Face it and try to live with it. No time like the present. She picked up one of the files and skimmed over the matrix data to the comments to the post-date interview with Marisa, the wonderfully, offbeat Sagittarian.

  Charlie is a great guy and New York Magazine could not be more right. The man is smoking hot. Not to mention kind and funny and smart. A little obsessed with the Rocky movies, but other than that, he’d be a perfect match for me.

  She shook away the image of a kind, funny, smoking hot Charlie. She needed to stop re-reading the words inside those damned reports. Nothing in them could unbreak her heart.

  A knock on the door startled her.

  6:37 PM.

  Jane groaned and covered her face with both hands. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was talk to her neighbor about the sad state of dating affairs in Manhattan. Apartment 4306 was always looking to be struck by that elusive love lightning, always knocking on Jane’s door after her hopes scraped up against the reality of another disappointing relationship.

  Normally, Jane was happy to be a shoulder to cry on, happy to help her examine her relationships and suggest a more logical approach to love, but 4306 was devoted to the lightning method. And tonight, Jane suffered from her own form of love shock.

  Maybe Charlie was at the door. Suddenly, her heart was on overdrive, spinning out wildly before coming to a complete and total stop. She sat up, wiped at the mascara under her eyes and smoothed the line of her pajama bottoms. Setting aside the tablet and the date reports, she walked over to the door, each step a movement toward an answer to the dual questions: if it was Charlie, why was he here? To post-date his last date? She couldn’t bear the thought.

  She stood on her tiptoes and looked through the peephole. A fun house mirror version of Marianne stood outside the door, armed to the teeth with a Gristedes
bag full of intervention supplies: Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy…and tequila. She loosened the security chain and opened the door, feeling guilty, wishing it were Charlie.

  “Girls’ night in.” Marianne held up a bottle of Pinot Noir, another of Tequila Gold, and the pretense that everything was fine. “I brought reinforcements.”

  If she’d not been entirely heartbroken, Jane would’ve smiled at her friend’s misguided cheerfulness. As it was, she stepped aside and let the girls’ night in.

  Marianne marched down the hall and into the kitchen. She set the bags on the counter, removed a stack of movies and handed them over. “You choose.”

  Jane leaned against the counter and eyeballed the videos. “If Rocky is one of these movies, I’m going back to bed.”

  M.A’s gaze skimmed over her face, taking in the puffy eyes, red nose, and miserable lips, but to her credit she did not say the obvious: you look like shit. Nor did she mention tonight’s date.

  Instead, she smiled and said, “Rocky? Why would I bring Rocky? This is girls’ night, only chick flicks allowed.” She pressed her hands together under her chin like she was one of Charlie’s Angels. The middle one. Only she was wearing a navy toggle coat, not a bikini.

  Charlie had always called her angel. She pushed the heels of her palms against her eyes with enough force to prevent more tears from spilling on to her T-shirt. Shit. Did every little thing need to remind her of him?

  A rogue tear tried to sneak out of the corner of her eye, but Jane smashed it away with the heel of her hand. The last thing she planned to do tonight was cry in front of her friend. And she certainly refused to cry in the middle of her kitchen holding a stack of movies that included Titanic and The freaking Notebook.

  She flipped through the stack and handed them back to Marianne without making a selection. Her heart declined to join the party. “Anything, except The Way We Were.”

  Jane loved that movie, but not tonight. Tonight, if she watched Redford give up a perfectly imperfect Streisand all over again, her heart might remain in shredded pieces for another six or seven years. Redford was even dumber than she’d been. Well, maybe not.