Dating Mr. Right: A Collection: Four Standalone Romantic Comedies Page 19

  After we solve the first clue and our teammates go off to check out a traveling exhibit, I seize my first shot at wearing her down on the steps of the Met, thanks to carbs.

  I shudder at the thought of carbs when Ginny points to a pretzel cart. “I’m hungry. I think I’ll grab a pretzel.”

  But if pretzels ring her bell, so be it. I swivel around. “Pretzels are on me,” I offer.

  Her lips hook into a smile. “But it’s not a date.” She says it a little flirty, like she’s making her point, but also leaving the door open.

  “I know. It’s only pretzels. I can buy the only pretzels though,” I say, because this is progress.

  “But it’s not a date for these only pretzels,” she repeats.

  “Someday it will be.”

  Ginny shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “And that someday, it won’t be pretzels.” She arches an eyebrow in a naughty little wiggle that reminds me of our finishing chats.

  I pump a fist. “We’ll start with a snack and work up to a someday.”

  “Yes, let’s start with pretzels and see where we finish.”

  Oh yeah, even with carbs, this is getting good.

  The next day we’re working the clue at Washington Square Park, trying to figure out where it’ll take us, when

  Ginny yawns. “Sorry, guys. I’m a bit off my game. Had a late night with my daughter.”

  “Is everything okay with her?” I ask.

  Ginny smiles, and it’s a new kind of grin, proud and maternal. “She’s great. But she possesses a common trait among ten-year-olds. She forgot to tell me we had to make cupcakes for a school project until the very last minute. We were up late baking.”

  My brow furrows. “Why not just go out and buy the cupcakes?”

  Ginny recoils. “I’d be shunned.”

  “For real?”

  “It’s completely verboten. You can’t bring in store-bought cupcakes when the class is asked to bake.”

  “Ah, that makes sense and fortunately, I have the solution. Next time, ask me.”

  She stares at me incredulously. “Why?”

  The answer is easy, so easy. “Because I’ll help you bake. You can call me anytime.”

  “But . . . you’re twenty-five,” she sputters, even though age has nothing to do with whether I, or anyone, can bake.

  And that’s when I know. That’s when I fully understand this woman. Our age difference worries her. I smile. “I get you, Ginny.”

  “What do you get?”

  I lean closer, so close I can smell honeysuckle and it’s fantastic. “You think I’m too young for you. I’ll have you know I’m a mature twenty-five, and I can bake my ass off.”

  She sighs heavily. “And I’m an old thirty-five. You know that, right?”

  I shake my head. “Doesn’t bother me. I don’t even think about the age difference. You shouldn’t either.”

  “I shouldn't think about how young you are?”

  “Only to think about how much energy my youth gives me in many areas.”

  Her lips curve up. “Is that so?”

  “That is so so.”

  I can sense her bending as we return to the clue, but before we can tackle it, my teammate Leo spots a pink backpack left in the park. After a quick debate, we decide, obvs, to return it to the kid.

  I grab it, and run like the cheetah I am to return it to the kid who owns it.

  When I return, barely breaking a sweat from my run, I swear Ginny’s looking at me in a whole new way.

  She sets a hand on my arm. “That was amazing what you did, and I don’t mean your stamina.”

  “I’m the full package, Ginny.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  And now I feel like I’m walking on sunshine.

  The next day, she’s not resistant at all. She’s the other Ginny, the flirty one.

  But she’s also the open one.

  Because as we debate where the next clue will take us, and I pray it won’t be Jersey, she laughs, I nudge her, and it feels like we’re all good.

  Like we’re in this burgeoning thing together.

  After we solve the clue, and return to Central Park, we discuss important matters like pizza.

  “You’re really telling me you’d just lift your pizza?” I mime eating a slice, flat as a board.

  “That’s how we do it down under,” she says with a cute little shrug.

  “And I don’t fold it when I visit my grandparents in Mexico City,” I say. “But we’re New Yorkers now. We gotta fold it. That’s how we do it here.”

  She laughs, and smiles, and all her resistance seems to have flown out the window. “I assure you, the lift works just fine for a slice.”

  But just to be sure that the hurdles are gone, I seize my chance: “Let me prove the fold is better. I’ll take you out to get pizza and prove it.”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Fine. You can prove it.”

  I thrust my arm in the air. “It’s a date. It’s a date, right?”

  She grabs me by the shirt collar, looks me square in the eyes, and says in that accent that kills me, “It better be a date.”

  Then she brushes a kiss to my lips, and I’m over and out.

  Wait.

  Make that done for when she lets go, and says, “You’re mine and I’m not letting you go.”

  There is no way I’m ever letting her get away.

  A few months later, I ask her to marry me and she says yes.

  The lesson? Persistence pays off.

  Love is a marathon, and you have to run every mile. You have to run every mile every damn day.

  And since optimism is my strong suit, I’m always up for the marathon of love.

  For more on Noah and Ginny’s romance, read the companion novel Birthday Suit and experience Lulu and Leo’s love story too!

  For a sneak preview of my next release, INSTANT GRATIFICATION, read on! INSTANT GRATIFICATION is a sexy friends-to-lovers, best friend’s sister, fake date romantic comedy and you can order it on all retailers!

  Prologue

  Jason

  When you’ve had to tell as many “how we got together” stories as I have, you get a fair idea of the range of things a man will do to impress a woman, from thoughtful to absurd to downright unbelievable.

  For starters, bro, did you really read Fifty Shades of Grey?

  But that’s only number one on the menu of items guys will pick and choose from in an effort to elicit flutters from a new lady.

  I know men who claim to love Pride and Prejudice. Even go so far as to say they’ve read the book. And maybe we do get that desperate to see what women see in Mr. Fucking Darcy other than an English accent. Which I have, by the way, but I still don’t understand the deal with Colin Firth any more than the next bloke.

  I’ve met fellows who swear they don’t like football of any variety—American or proper—to reassure a lady she’ll never be a widow to the footie. Or they’ll turn off a match on the TV with so much drama you’d think they were giving up a kidney.

  Or a man’s résumé will become suspiciously plump with female-friendly hobbies. Show me a single man in a yoga class, and I’ll show you a lad who’s trying to score major points with the fairer sex.

  The next thing he knows, he’s shaving his chest, shaving his toes, and shaving his balls. Which must mean he’s serious about her because that shit hurts.

  When it comes to manscaping, I think a trim here or there can go a long way, but go too far and you’ll look like a porpoise. And what woman wants to roll around in the sheets with Flipper?

  But by far the worst case I ever saw was a guy who swore to his sweetheart that he loved Ed Sheeran’s music. Even followed Ed’s Twitter feed and read reviews so he could convincingly wax on about the ginger phenom. (The fella even planned to tell his bride that he wanted “Shape Of You” to be their wedding song. I put my foot down. Go with “Castle on the Hill.” “Shape of You” is too obvious, and women can see through that lie.)

/>   As happy as I am that it worked out for these gents, especially after they pay my invoice as a specialty wedding service provider, it seems like a lot of work to keep up with all that—retweets, nether-region maintenance, or the pointless hell of football abstinence.

  I understand why men want to show off for women. Women are like sunshine and whiskey, lilies and diamonds. They’re sex and desire and everything good in the universe. They’re lovelier to gaze at than a priceless work of art. Hell, women are better than football, better than pints of ale, better than the Rolling Stones and occasionally even the Beatles, though I will deny that blasphemy even under torture.

  Women make a man’s merry-go-round keep turning, make life worth living. And they deserve to be annoyed if a guy who swore he hated football has a drawer full of Manchester United souvenirs.

  There’s a fine line between putting your best foot forward and shooting yourself in it, and it’s my job to help the lead-footed of the world win women without losing them.

  Damn shame, then, that the one woman I’d really like to impress is off-limits.

  With good reason. With a long list of good reasons, in fact.

  So off-limits is how she’ll have to stay, even when I learn she desperately needs my specialized knowledge to impress a new investor.

  But wouldn’t you know—I need something from her too.

  Badly.

  That can only mean it’s time to impress the hell out of myself by resisting every single temptation to step out of the friend zone with her.

  Chapter One

  Her legs wrap around my waist, firm and tight. Her heels make a vise grip, tugging me closer between her thighs.

  It’s the perfect position for countless naughty things. The possibilities are as vast as my filthy imagination is wide, and my imagination has won blue ribbons for its width.

  Its depth too.

  And its length.

  Yes, it’s an award-winning dirty zone between my ears.

  But down here? In real life? The breath rushes from my lungs as she squeezes.

  Holy hell.

  I. Can’t. Move.

  I can barely breathe.

  Truly Goodman has me pinned on the mat. She’s ferocious and strong, and there’s literally nothing I can do to escape her clutches.

  “Nice work, Truly and Jason! That’s how you neutralize a bigger, stronger opponent. With a back mount combined with a choke hold.” The praise comes from the instructor.

  Well, Truly’s definitely neutralized any chance I’ll be turned on in jujitsu class again, that’s for sure. The instructor gives the go-ahead for my opponent to relinquish her hold on me, and I’m both immensely saddened that the brunette unlocks her legs from my waist and also incredibly grateful I’m not about to die in the middle of this demo of a powerful grappling move.

  Truly breathes hard as she heads to the water fountain in the corner of the studio and takes a long, thirsty gulp.

  Water, yes. That’s a brilliant idea. I follow her to the oasis. “Have you registered those hands as lethal weapons, Truly? While you’re at it, license those legs too.”

  She turns around, eyes me up and down, then wipes her hand across her mouth. “And yet you made it out alive. No worse for the wear.”

  I glance down at my frame, considering her assessment. “We can have a go again if you’re interested in trying to cut off all the circulation in my body. I think you achieved a ninety percent shutdown, so why not go for broke?”

  She pats my chest. “I’m always happy to take you down in class if you think your pride can take it. How much ego did that cut off?”

  Scoffing, I answer, “Nothing I can’t spare, given its size.”

  “Glad to see you’re not suffering from ego shrinkage.” She laughs, then nudges my elbow. “Thanks for being such a good sport. I’m going to take a quick shower since I need to head to work for a meeting. Are you going that way?”

  I weigh whether to leave now, or loiter a bit and join her on her walk to Gin Joint.

  Who am I kidding? Those scales will always have a Truly-shaped thumb on them. “Is fifteen minutes good for you?”

  “Make it ten.”

  True to form, she’s ready quickly, looking fresh-faced and sexy as sin in a short, painted-on skirt and a black tank top. God, I fucking love summer. It’s the greatest season ever invented by man. I mean God. God invented summer, obviously. Man just invented the clothes that go with it.

  “So, we’ve established you can take any man, woman, or three-headed beast down in a dark alley,” I say once we leave the studio.

  “That was my goal when I started training a few years ago. But don’t sell me short. Four-headed beasts are now on my takedown list too.”

  “How about grizzly bears? Or, say, an anaconda?”

  “Been there, done that. But listen.” We stop at a light, and she glances at me then takes a breath. Her tone turns more serious. “You don’t go easy on me in class, do you?”

  I scoff and shoot her a you’ve got to be kidding stare. “Wait. You think I was going easy on you?”

  She holds up her palms. “Just making sure you’re not one of those guys who thinks he has to soften things for a woman.”

  “There’s nothing soft about me.” I take a beat. “As you well know.”

  She rolls her eyes. She does that to me a lot, but I won’t say I don’t deserve it. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “But it’s spot-on true. I’d never go easy just because you’re a woman.” I wiggle an eyebrow. “But let’s talk more about how hard you want me to be. Would you like me, for instance, somewhat harder, much harder, or oh my God, that’s so hard harder?”

  “Oh yes, please. The latter.”

  With a straight face, I answer, “Done. Consider it done.”

  “And I’m glad you don’t treat me any differently because I have girl parts. I want to be tough-as-nails in this martial art.”

  I rub my ear. “Sorry I didn’t hear anything you said after ‘girl parts.’ Everything else sounded like Take me home, Jason, and make me scream your name. Did I get that right?”

  “Sure. That’s exactly what I said.” She laughs as we turn the corner, heading down a tree-lined block in the heart of Chelsea. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Not a bit of relent when it comes to some things. And along those lines,” I say, stroking my chin, “that position we tried in class—just wondering if it made you think of any other interesting positions.”

  “Hmm.” She screws up the corner of her lips, as if considering. “Nope. Can’t say it did.”

  “None at all? Wrapping your legs around me didn’t trigger any memory?”

  We reach Gin Joint, the speakeasy-style bar she owns, though to call it a bar would do it a disservice. It’s an establishment with a full lounge, 1920s-style decor, and regular entertainment, including lounge singers. Her brother—my best friend—is one of those singers, and he helps draw crowds. Gin Joint has scored a place on more than one list of coolest theme bars in the city.

  She stares at the sky, still bright even as the sun makes its trip toward the edge of the horizon. “I keep drawing a blank.”

  “Want me to give you more hints, or just spell it out for you? Things you said. I mean, things you screamed.”

  She stares at me for a beat. “We had an agreement. That all stays in the vault.”

  “But sometimes it’s fun to revisit memories in the vault, isn’t it?”

  Laughing, she shakes her head. “Yes, but that’s not the deal we made.”

  I know, but what can I say? I love the chase even if it’ll never go anywhere, just for the sake of it. “So you do admit you enjoy taking a trip down dirty memory lane?”

  “You do realize that can’t happen again?” But a naughty glint crosses her pretty blue eyes. Ah, perhaps the memory is never far from the surface for her either.

  I zip my lips, but then instantly unzip them. “I’m just saying.” I drop my voice
to a whisper. “Three times.”

  “Jason.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Pretend you don’t remember every detail in triplicate.”

  “I don’t. I don’t remember a single one.”

  “And I die yet again.” I’m about to turn around when my mind snags on something she said earlier. “Who’s your meeting with? A supplier?”

  A grin seems to tug at her lips. “A restaurant and bar investor Charlotte hooked me up with. She’s such a great bestie. Anyway, we’re going to talk about expanding my brand. I pitched him on a new concept bar I want to start.”

  “You’re going to be the queen of Manhattan nightlife. I’ll say I knew you when.”

  “And you’re the king of gentlemen,” she says, a nod to the work I’ve done to establish myself as an expert on all the things a modern gentleman should know. “Are you writing a column tonight? Working on a new podcast?”

  I look at my watch. “Actually, I’m meeting up with Nora, and I need to get going. She won’t want to be kept waiting.”

  She stiffens, her hand freezing around the key in the lock. Her brow furrows as she turns to meet my gaze, her blue eyes inquisitive. “Nora?”

  Do I detect a lovely note of jealousy in her voice? That may be one of the most glorious sounds I’ve ever heard coming from Truly Goodman’s mouth.

  “Who’s Nora?” she asks before I can answer. “You’ve never mentioned a Nora.”

  She mentioned Nora’s name three times. If that isn’t a third time’s a charm moment, I don’t know what is. I decide to have fun with her. “She’s my date to the wedding I’m working this coming weekend.”

  “Oh.” It comes out heavily. “I thought you did those solo.”

  “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t.” I drop a kiss to Truly’s cheek, catching a faint whiff of her freshly scrubbed scent. I say goodbye and let her chew on the idea of me on a date.

  Here’s the thing: Truly has made it abundantly clear where we stand, and she’s 100 percent right that we can’t go there again—she’s my best friend’s sister, and she’s also my very good friend.