Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) Read online

  Like life was so easy after his mom’s accident, when his absentee dad was more interested in money than in his young son. So, he’d ended up in Brooklyn, surrounded by Jane’s broken family, knowing he’d never live up to his father’s expectations. Sure, everything came so fucking easy.

  Nick walked back over and handed him a set of darts. “Listen, dude, you want to keep the best parts of yourself on the down-low to avoid getting hurt, fine, I get it, but you can’t do that forever. One of these days, you’ll be ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “You know what.” Nick choked back some of his beer, but failed to hide his amusement. “Until then, you don’t need my advice.”

  He took aim at the board and hit the first set of numbers in sequence. “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “I’m your lawyer, not your therapist, so romantic advice is not included in my retainer. Secondly, she’s my sister, so talking about sex and romance is out of bounds.” Nick paused as a pretty redhead approached, right on cue.

  The woman smiled and zeroed in on her bachelor of choice. “Hi, Charlie.”

  He gave her a short nod. The attention from Jane’s jaw-dropping bet was looking great for his financials, but collecting all the single women in Manhattan wasn’t part of his plan. All he wanted was a little payback before he swore off dating for another six months.

  After a quick glance over her shoulder, the redhead held out a dog-eared copy of New York. “My friends dared me to ask if you’re as confirmed as the magazine says.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. Red was definitely attractive, all hazel-eyed and strawberry-blonde, but for the life of him, Charlie couldn’t shake a certain tiger-eyed brunette from his thoughts. The realization pissed him the hell off. There he was, standing in the back of his bar, a super-hottie flirting with him, and all he could see was his matchmaker’s face. Exactly why he needed to knuckle down and stick to the plan to kick her the hell out of his system.

  Nick clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s under contract right now to a certain Cupid.”

  She smiled, folded the right corner of the magazine, and handed it to Charlie. “Well, if you change your mind, I’d be happy to take you off Cupid’s hands. My number’s in the back.”

  Nick put a hand over his heart and let out a low whistle. “Hot damn, this is gonna be good.”

  “Maybe you need to consider a little matchmaking,” Charlie said.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Love doesn’t suit me.” Nick threw his darts and hit the outer edge of the board. “Besides, you need to worry about yourself.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Brother, you just let that sweet hottie walk away without buying her a drink—and you own the bar.” He jerked his head toward Red and Company and took a sip of his beer. “You got it bad, friend, no matter what you say, and if the object of your affection wasn’t my little sister, I’d be obliged to take you to a stag party or plan a guy’s weekend of poker and highlight reels.”

  “Now there is some real emotional honesty.”

  Nick clapped him on the shoulder a second time. “I love you, bro.”

  He shrugged him off with a laugh. “Get out of here.”

  “You want my honest advice?”

  Most of his life, Nick’s honest advice had gotten him into a whole lot of trouble. He took a pull from his beer, and said, “No.”

  Nick made a mocking sound in the back of his throat. “Save it for someone who doesn’t know you so well. Get it together and go for it. Before one of you totally fucks it up.”

  Because six full months of no contact wasn’t fucked up enough? Okay, sure Nick had kept him up to date, and he’d followed Jane on Twitter and Facebook—not stalker style, just browsing enough to keep current. He liked to think there was a reason neither of them had unfriended the other, or completely severed all connection. “Sounds like you’re spouting advice on romance.”

  “Hey, don’t give me any shit,” Nick said. “It’s totally magnanimous of me to offer my blessing. Even Jake is okay with it, despite being like a romance terrorist since his divorce.”

  “What happened to me being a good guy and a good catch?”

  Nick only arched a brow. Right. It was his sister.

  Charlie nodded dutifully, despite the guilt taking residence in his gut. “Not fucking it up.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s your chance to prove it.” Nick jerked his head toward the front of the bar, but Charlie didn’t need the warning. His Janey-sense tingled loud and clear.

  “Don’t worry. I can handle your sister.”

  At least, he sure as hell hoped so.

  “If you say so.” Nick picked up his suede jacket, dragged it across his shoulders and headed toward the door. “By the way, you owe me another round.”

  “Double or nothing,” he called to his friend’s retreating back.

  Nick offered a short wave over his shoulder, stopped to kiss his sister on the cheek, and took off through the front door. Coward.

  Charlie stood at the back of the bar and took in the sight of her standing in the threshold of the front door, looking sexier in a white button-down than any woman had a right to look. He gave her a short smile and a nod.

  “Couldn’t stay away, could you, angel?” he murmured to himself. Exactly what he’d been counting on. This was going to be all too easy. Like taking candy from a Janey.

  She swiped off her black beret, shoved it in her coat pocket, and swayed in the general direction of the bar, casually checking out the clientele, her eyes shining with curiosity and interest. Snooping.

  He watched her take a seat at the other end of the bar, and order her usual, a Vintage Rye 21 Manhattan in a short glass, on the rocks, two cherries. Another covert glance over her shoulder confirmed what he already suspected. She was definitely snooping.

  A grin slid across his face like a sloe gin fizz. Time to find out if her little green-eyed monster wanted to come out and play. He turned to take aim at the center circle and sent the next three darts flying into the middle.

  One. Two. Three.

  Bull’s-eye.

  Chapter Seven

  @Goodman Dating is a minefield of crazy.

  @SmartCupid Matchmaking is a science, but not every match that looks perfect on paper is perfect in love. Do. Not. Panic. Refine your criteria and recalculate.

  “For an experienced matchmaker, you’re awfully confused about your role here, Jane. You’re supposed to set up the dates, not go on them.” Charlie reached behind the bar for the remote, flipped over to the Rangers game, and tossed her a wink. “In case you want to watch the game while you’re on your little stakeout.”

  Taking a sip of her drink, Jane eyed him sweetly over the rim of the glass. “Don’t worry, big guy. I only came by to see if you were actually wearing the Rangers T-shirt and…incredibly, you are,” she said, taking in his shirt with a look that was all double cool with ice. “Just go on with your date and pretend I’m not here.”

  Yeah, right. She looked too damned good to ignore, all five-feet-sexy-something poured onto the barstool, wrapped up like an invitation in her white button-down and dark jeans, her sleek black coat thrown casually across the back of the chair. She leaned over the bar to nab the extra cherry for her drink, and inadvertently offered him a view of her cleavage that was so fantastic, Charlie thought he’d died and gone to Victoria’s Secret.

  He took a pull from his beer to cool down. “And here I was thinking you’d shown up for a round of pool.”

  “No, but I’m sure Summer is enjoying your talent for running the table,” she said, peering around his shoulder to scan the crowd. “Speaking of which, where is Summer?”

  The über-casual, offhand smile she’d plastered on her pretty face didn’t fool him. Either she was in some serious denial regarding her feelings about his date or she’d suddenly developed an acute interest in pool-playing skills. Odds were even.

  “Summer got a
call she had to take, and she also wanted to touch up her lipstick. Most of it came off when she devoured my hot…” He deliberately let the reply trail away and glanced toward the back of the bar as if his date might stroll out of the ladies room any minute, all dolled up and ready to let him take her home. Jane craned her neck to see past him.

  “While she devoured your…what?” she prompted, and tilted so far, she almost fell off the barstool.

  The new server, Aaron, dropped off a plate piled high with honey-barbeque wings as she gamely righted herself. Then, he delivered the fries.

  “While she devoured my hot wings.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, please. Did this hot wings and hockey routine ever really work for you?”

  “I seem to remember it working for you once upon a time.” That’s why he’d ordered her the plate of wings. And the basket of extra crispy fries.

  The eyebrow slammed down and her face settled into the give-nothing-away expression she’d inherited from the gambling branch of her family tree. Very convincing, except her gaze kept darting to the plates in front of her. A silent moment passed while she tried to pretend wings and fries didn’t seduce her as effectively as champagne and caviar did some women. One long inhale and her cool facade evaporated. She dove into the plate.

  A smile got the best of him, but Charlie wasn’t ready to forfeit his hand. He leaned closer and whispered into the slim space between them, “Between you and me, angel, that dating matrix of yours is genius.”

  Jane licked the honey-barbeque sauce from her fingers, having already worked her way through two drumsticks. “Genius?”

  “Total genius.” For emphasis, he tapped the cotton candy colored folder sitting on the bar, the one labeled, The Cupid Report. “At first I wasn’t convinced. She was sweet and a little shy, but then we played a couple rounds of Nine Ball.” He let go a low whistle as she added a stack of fries to her plate. “A game of pool is always a nice, easy way to get up close and personal.”

  “Up close and personal?”

  Tilting back his bottle, he took a sip of his beer and continued, “Not too many better ways to get know each other, maybe enjoy a little playful competition.”

  “Playful competition?” An adorable indentation formed between her brows as she glanced toward the back of the bar one more time.

  He kept his voice low and quiet, like a secret, and said, “Figured I’d get behind her and teach her how to hold a stick. Turns out she’s got natural talent.”

  Eyes wide, she pushed the appetizers to the side and pulled a toffee-nut bar out of the hidden compartment inside that wallet-type thing she carried. He fought back a grin. He’d barely started and she was already breaking into her emergency sugar stash.

  “I love a woman with a slow, sexy pullback. Especially when she knows how to take it straight and smooth and steady, waiting for the exact right moment until—boom.” He tilted his beer in her direction. “Down and in.” He tossed her another wink. “Corner pocket for the win.”

  The tear of the candy wrapper served as her response, and she bit into the chocolate as if her life depended on it. Maybe she didn’t recognize a serious redirection of repressed sexual need in her chocolate craving, but he sure as hell did.

  She closed her eyes, chewed slowly, and swallowed, then ran her tongue along her lower lip, licking away some residual chocolate. He took a sip of his beer and inwardly winced. Touché on redirection of repressed sexual need. How long would it take to un-repress it?

  At least one thing was clear. No matter what she said, Jane didn’t like the idea of him playing it dirty with another woman. And he was fine with that. He was getting under her skin and he wanted to find out exactly how far he could push.

  He took another pull from his beer and tapped into his inner Salt n’ Peppa. Time to push it. “Dinner’s on the house, Jane. It’s the least I can do to thank you and your compatibility matrix for sending Summer my way. Do you know she used to be a gymnast? Yep.” He nodded and grinned. “She’s double jointed. All kinds of bendy. Apparently there’s this little trick she can do where she—”

  “Can I get a piece of that double chocolate cheesecake, please?” she asked, grabbing Aaron’s shirt as he passed by on his way to the end of the bar.

  Charlie hooked his foot underneath her barstool and dragged it close enough to bump up against his own. “She’s also a gourmet cook, too. Breakfast is her specialty.” Her bourbon eyes stared back at him, wide and tinged with green. Oh yeah, there was no denying the bit of good old-fashioned jealousy at the edge of those eyes. Hell, if she was getting this riled up thinking about him playing pool with another woman, it was only a matter of time before he had her. Hook. Line. Sinker.

  “Charlie, I’m sorry about the cocktail napkin.” Her gaze dropped to her red sneakers, the right one half-tied as it dangled over the bottom rung of the barstool.

  Damn those red sneakers. She’d gone and turned the tables on him. He’d been loving this God-given opportunity to awaken her little green monster and now those untied red sneakers were about to become his Kryptonite, a reminder of their past and what he owed her family, a cue to lay off, do the right thing, and forget about settling old scores.

  After a sip of her drink, she continued. “Taking off the way I did, not returning your calls…” She shook her head and looked over at him. “The point is, you deserved better and I’m glad my matrix found the perfect woman for you.”

  Yeah, his whole revenge plan had just Schwarzenegger’d it out of the building.

  Hasta la vista, payback. Epa chamo, friendship.

  Charlie held up his hand. “I didn’t say she’s the perfect woman for me. She’s gorgeous. We have loads of chemistry, and a shared interest in…gymnastics. But is she ‘The One’? Way too soon to tell. I don’t care how positive your matrix is.”

  “Don’t dis the matrix because you can’t commit. Your date tonight was a ninety-six point match.” The toe of her sneaker tapped a staccato rhythm against the bottom rung of the barstool. “A ninety-six point match is statistically perfect.”

  “She’s hot and everything, but let’s face it, any woman who refuses to eat hot wings—”

  “I arrange a dinner date for you with a woman who fits your criteria perfectly, and you feed her hot wings at the bar and you’re not sure about her?”

  “She’s a vegetarian, for Christ sakes. Even if there’s a lot of chemistry, that’s got to be a serious consideration.”

  “Matchmaking might not be enough for you,” she said, in obvious frustration. “You might need some kind of dating surgery. A brand new amygdala.”

  “An amygdala?”

  She nodded. “The subcortical structure central to the limbic system. The emotional circuit center of the brain.”

  He stared at her and said nothing for a full minute. “Why do you know this stuff?”

  “I’m in the business of emotions. Did you think I had a box of matchmaking tips under my bed? Some kind of starter kit?” Jane worked her way back to the wings and fries. “Love is a serious business. New York is full of brokenhearted people with crushed amygdalae,” she continued. “People whose steamrolled limbic systems suffer like beaten-up cartoon piñatas.” She lowered her voice and shot a look toward the back of the bar. “And I am not about to let Summer become one of them all because of your fascination with chemistry.”

  “I’m not about to do anything with Summer’s limbic system…not unless she asks me to.”

  The muscles in her jaw worked, an obvious indication that he’d moved under her skin. “Listen, if you want a match to stick, you need to offer up some romance. Not just chemistry and bendy gymnastic tricks.” She emptied half the ketchup bottle onto the basket of fries, sorted them by salt coverage, and shoved a few into her mouth. “In your Casanova days, you would’ve known that instinctively. Like a baby mobster knows about a shake down.”

  “What are you talking about? You love hockey.” Charlie motioned toward the television. “Be
sides, as far as women and romance go, I don’t remember any complaints.” He leaned in extra-close. “Certainly not tonight.”

  She shoveled in a few more fries. “Seriously, what happened to your amygdala?”

  Charlie swirled a piece of her celery into the ranch—not bleu cheese—that she preferred. “Some woman wrapped it up for me in a cocktail napkin.”

  Her eyes flashed with an emotion that looked a hell of a lot like guilt. Or jealousy. Or just sheer pissed-offed-ness. “You cannot hold me responsible for the defunct nuclei in your temporal lobes. Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t fully functional long before me. We could go through the phone book and catch up on a few of your former flames—”

  He leaned over the bar to grab his cell phone. “Only if you really want to.”

  She groaned and waved a hand at the game on the television. “You can’t just offer up hot wings, hockey, and incredible sex to a perfect ninety-six match, along with a ‘let’s have some fun,’ attitude! No woman—no matter how sweet or double-jointed—wants to date Fanatical Sports Guy, the guy every dating manual says to steer clear of unless she wants to end up living in her in-law’s basement.”

  He pocketed his phone and turned his attention to the game. “Janey, give me a break here. The Rangers are looking at the playoffs.”

  “And I’m looking at a guy with a damaged amygdala, that’s all I’m saying.”

  He shifted closer, a smile edging across his face. “Nothing’s wrong with my amygdala, angel, and I’m not a Fanatical Sports Guy. I just like sports. All. Kinds. Of. Sports.” He raised his eyebrows and let his implication brew in her overactive imagination before turning his attention back to the game, only half watching, the other half of him still plotting a coup d’état of chemistry over logic. “Holy Mother of Christ, did you see that hit?” He looked back at Janey who, for the first time since she’d swayed back into his life, looked uncertain.

  “Where’s Summer?” Her hushed words called his bluff.