Stud Finder (1001 Dark Nights) Read online

  But I haven’t made time for the dating that would lead to romping since business has been my top priority.

  It still is, which is why I’m here at Quickie, since helping Dylan will make me an even better matchmaker. I’m ten minutes early because I don’t believe in arriving late. Ever.

  As I wait on the sidewalk outside the shop, I partake in one of my favorite activities—watching people.

  I craft stories as I scan the block. Cruising past me in sky-high heels, a rail-thin woman barks into her phone about picking up a dress from the tailor. What event is she attending? Is the dress for her? Is she having the hem hiked up or the waist taken in? Does she want to look sexy for an ex or proper for work?

  “And make sure the neckline plunges an extra inch,” she instructs.

  Sexy for an ex.

  Next, I spot a businessman scurrying into a black Honda with a pink mustache sign on the dash. He holds the door for a pig-tailed, pip-squeak blonde in a yellow poufy dress.

  Weekend-working dad is taking a break from the office to take his daughter to a princess party.

  A tall guy with muscly, ropy arms on display in a blue tee enters my line of vision. The soft faded jeans show off a great ass. The kind you can grab onto while he pounds you.

  Whoa? Where the hell did that dirty thought come from?

  I shake my head, chasing it away, as I resume my inventory.

  That shirt makes it dead clear he has a flat stomach. I slide into my happy zone of admiration for a moment, because he truly possesses a fantastic body. The trouble is he’s wearing a ball cap, and his head is bent over his phone.

  I frown as I write his story. Hipster dude, unable to interact with the world. It’s not that hard to put your phone away, guy.

  He lifts his face, and I blink.

  Then I admonish myself.

  I should absolutely not be admiring the body of my new client.

  Not. At. All.

  I conduct a full mind sweep as I wave at Dylan, affixing the most cheery, chipper matchmaker face I possibly can. The I-was-not-checking-out-your-ass look.

  I’ve known Dylan for the last year or so. He’s our first baseman, and a Scrabble teammate in a monthly competition hosted by some friends, not to mention the winner of the Punniest Costume from Olivia’s most recent Halloween party, put on by her friend Henley at the Battery Park penthouse she shares with her husband, Max. Sporting a blue shirt, Dylan had draped a phone cord around his neck and hung a rubber chicken from it for Chicken Cord on Blue.

  How have I never noticed his ass before? Maybe I was looking at the chicken. Although, in all fairness, I think I checked out his behind on the field in Central Park when he whacked a grand slam earlier this summer.

  I wave. “Hi, Dylan!”

  He stops a foot away from me. “Hey, Evie, person who’s not holding a cell phone like everyone else in the city. How do you function?”

  I laugh. “I know. I’m a throwback.”

  “And it’s not even TT. Throwback Thursday,” he says, quickly explaining. “You’re old-school interacting with the RW.” He pauses, peering at me through his brown eyeglasses. “That’s real world.”

  “I figured as much.”

  He laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. I get caught up.” He steps closer and offers a hand to shake. He stops. Shakes his head. “Wait. That’s weird. We can hug, right?”

  A smile crosses my lips. “We can definitely hug IRL.”

  He laughs again, and this time it’s not awkward.

  As he wraps his arms around me, he says, “I was debating a cheek kiss, but that seemed old-fashioned. Same as a kiss on the hand. By the way, did my sister tell you she thinks I’m socially clueless?”

  I don’t answer him right away, because his arms are so sturdy, stronger than I’d expected, and I’d nearly forgotten how tall he was—I’m guessing six foot one. And he smells so good, like deodorant, which is actually quite a nice scent on a man since it means he’s showered, and he’s clean.

  I’m a big fan of clean.

  As surreptitiously as I can, I draw a subtle inhale, savoring the fresh smell before we separate. “There’s nothing wrong with socially clueless. I believe we’ve all got a bit of a dork in us.”

  He arches an eyebrow and eyes me from stem to stern. “Fine, where’s your dork? Because I don’t believe it. You’re perfectly put together.” His green eyes roam over me, taking in my new black lace skirt that hits at the knee—it’s springy and fun, but not, ya know, vaginal-length, like far too many skirts are. I’ve paired it with a lavender short-sleeve top, with little silver studs down the side stitches. On my feet are Mary Janes. Which are the perfect shoes—chunky heeled for comfort and adorable for fashion.

  “Also, that’s a cute skirt,” he adds.

  I can’t help myself. I have to price brag. “Twenty-two dollars at Audrey’s Closet. I found it on the back rack, and I couldn’t resist.”

  He offers a hand to high-five. “Score. Next time, you’ll be telling me you have a Groupon for boba tea.” He wiggles his eyebrows in mock excitement.

  “I wish.”

  He points. “You’re a bargain hunter.”

  “Sometimes. And to answer your question about my inner dork, I have one in me since this”—I run my finger along the bottom of my chin, highlighting my scar—“is why I don’t look at my phone on the streets.”

  He peers at the faded blue line on my chin. “You have a cell phone wound. I’ve heard of people who trip and fall while looking at their phones, but I’ve never met such a rare breed of person.”

  I jut my hip out and curtsy. “Now you have, and it was no ordinary trip and fall.”

  He presses his palms together in plaintive prayer. “I must know every gory detail.”

  Chapter Five

  Dylan

  Walking and tweeting, jogging and Facebooking, and running and emailing all require a particular type of focus. I’m not saying I’m a pro at that sort of multitasking. Not at all.

  But I do enjoy a good cell phone mishap tale. “Let me guess.”

  She parks her hands on her hips, saying go for it.

  I study her, tapping my finger against my bottom lip, as if I can discern how she might have landed on a YouTube compilation of cell phone mishaps. Then I find myself distracted because Evie is an interesting combination of cute and sexy—she has a perfectly put-together look to her with her shampoo-commercial hair and her outlined lips, but her clothes are fun, and even though they’re completely appropriate, they don’t hide the tight, trim figure she has.

  Her legs are muscular, her waist is trim, and her breasts are small, but firm. She has a certain blue-eyed, fair-haired bubbliness, like you might run into her on Rodeo Drive with a chihuahua poking its head out of an expensive handbag on her arm. But instead, she’s a New Yorker through and through, and a bargain hunter. And her lips, all slick with pale pink gloss, they look perfect for—

  I slam on the brakes. “I don’t think it was a street sign.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Not a trash can, either.”

  “Correct there, too.”

  I screw up the corner of my lips. “Did you take a tumble down some stairs?”

  “Nope.”

  I snap my fingers. “Sidewalk grate.”

  Her smile spreads across her face, and that bubbliness is out in full force. “I don’t know why I’m smiling. It hurt like the dickens.”

  “Was it a sidewalk grate left wide open?”

  “Do I detect a little fascination with the abomination in your tone?”

  I shrug sheepishly. “A little. You can tell me to shut up.”

  She laughs. “It happened several months ago. I was answering a message from a client, walking down the street like I could handle anything that came my way, click-clacking along, and I smacked into the grate. With my thighs.”

  “How did you not fall headfirst? I’ve seen YouTube videos of this happening, and the person almost always falls headfirst.”


  “Yoga.”

  I groan inside. Is she one of those yoga-is-life people? Meditation and moon cycles and be-mindfulness bore me to tears. “I always thought yoga was sort of dull. All that om would lead to me doing this,” I say, then drop my head to the side and snore loudly.

  She shoots me a quizzical look, and I realize I’ve done that thing again—where I say what’s on my mind, and I should maybe lock up some of my thoughts more tightly. “Sorry. I meant to say, yoga obviously teaches badass ninja reflexes.”

  She winks. “Nice save. Although I think it taught me balance, and as soon as I felt I was off-balance, I let myself fall back onto my butt. Maybe you should try yoga since I noticed you might be a candidate for a cell phone mishap, too, someday.”

  “True, that. But on another note, is there a scar on your butt, too?” My eyes widen, and I cringe. “Shoot. Was that inappropriate?”

  “There’s no rear-end scar on this booty,” she says, smacking her ass, and for a flash of a second, I’m jealous of her palm connecting with her curves.

  But that’s a strange feeling. Like an errant piece of code. Because why would I want to smack her ass?

  “But I did require five stitches on my chin,” she adds.

  “I never thought I’d meet an in-the-flesh phone-faller,” I say.

  “And that’s why I don’t walk and text.”

  “I completely understand your reticence, and I greatly appreciate you sharing the story of such woe.”

  “Glad I could entertain you.”

  I point to Quickie. “Me, too. Should we go into the naughtily named boba tea dealership?”

  “Yes, though I should confess I’m not a tea person.”

  “I’ll try not to hold that against you.” I yank open the door, then gesture for Evie to step inside.

  She smiles appreciatively. “You are a throwback. Such a gentleman.”

  “What kind of troglodyte wouldn’t hold a door for a woman?”

  “You’d be surprised at the kind, type, and sheer volume of troglodytes alive and well today.” She pauses. “Also, just so you know, most women still appreciate when a man holds the door. So kudos to you. I’m only saying that since I’m sure the future Mrs. Dylan Parker will be grateful.”

  “Good to know. But she’ll probably keep her name, don’t you think? I’m not sure she’ll want to be Mrs. Dylan Parker.”

  “Touché. I’m impressed.”

  “And I’m impressed with this absolutely stunning machine,” I say, taking a long look at the white, oval, tea-dispensing contraption parked against the wall.

  Glass covers the top half, and inside it, two robotic arms wait to fulfill orders entered via a keypad. A guy with a hat that says Quickie on it is stationed at the counter, next to a sign for fruity tea. He’s likely the machine’s backup.

  “Hey there,” I say.

  The man narrows his eyes at me. “We kicked your ass last night.”

  “Come again?”

  Evie points to my head. “I suspect he means your Yankees.”

  I pat my hat. “Oh yeah. Sorry. My sister told me not to wear it.” I yank it off, and instantly Evie reaches out a hand and brushes it over the ends of my hair. The gesture startles me but her hand on my hair feels good, too. I blink, trying to figure out why she’s touching me.

  “Your sister is right. Hair this nice you don’t want to hide.” Ah, Evie is touching me in her friendly, matchmaker way.

  I turn to the dude at the counter, and since he’s clearly a Mets fan, I promptly trash-talk the other NY team.

  Evie says nothing as we trade zingers at each other, reminding me that she’s not into sports. And hey, it’s not a requirement that the future Mrs. Parker like sports, but it would sure be fun. After a debate on pitching, the guy gestures to the oval machine. “I should kick you out, but instead I’ll let you drink the city’s finest boba tea.”

  I turn to the robotic tea dispenser and meet Evie’s eyes. Hers are blue, a shade like tropical waters. I’ve never noticed them before. Or maybe I’ve never looked so closely. “What type do I order? I’ve never tried it.”

  “I’ve never tried it, either. Bit of a coffee snob,” she says, patting her chest.

  “Bit of a tea snob. I should go for jasmine then as the base flavor.”

  Her eyes light up, even brighter than before. “Ooh, and I should go for black tea, since that’s closest to coffee. No sugar—nothing that tastes like a shake.”

  I shudder. “Neither coffee nor tea should ever taste like a shake.”

  “Right? We already have milkshakes, and those are awesome enough.”

  “Milkshakes are unequivocally awesome. We should get milkshakes next time,” I say, then I turn from her. Why am I suggesting a next time, as if we’re on a date?

  I peruse the keypad and input our beverage details. A robotic arm whirs to life. It clunkily stretches and pushes a cup against a spout. Dark liquid fills the plastic cup, then the robot jerks ninety degrees and pushes against a lever. Boba tea balls shoot from a dispenser straw into the cup.

  I nearly bounce on my toes as I snap cell phone shots. “It’s ridiculously cool.”

  Evie flashes me a grin. “It is pretty cool.”

  For a second, I hold her gaze. We might not have much in common, except in this moment we seem to share a bit of hot drink snobbery, as well as an appreciation for this fine machine. As I take the two plastic cups, I remind myself that it doesn’t matter what we have in common. She’s here to help me find a perfect match.

  That’s why I refuse to check out her legs as she sits down in the booth.

  I take my spot across from her and lift my plastic cup in a toast. “To trying new things,” I say.

  “I’ll drink tea to that.”

  “Speaking of new things, let’s cut to the chase. How does this whole deal work?”

  “The one where I find you the love of your life?”

  I laugh. “I was thinking the one where you save me from my socially clueless self. But yes, the love of my life works, too.”

  Chapter Six

  Evie

  I laugh lightly, loving his ability to poke fun at himself. He’s a bit rough around the edges at times, but he also has surprised me with his humor and manners.

  Manners have become shockingly overlooked in our society today, but I still contend they go a long way to winning someone’s heart.

  I wrap a hand around the cup then say, “First, you tell me a little bit about what you’re looking for. Be as straightforward as you can because the better I know you, the better I can find somebody who’s right for you—who will fall in love with the man. Not the wallet.”

  He grabs his wallet from his pocket and brandishes it—it’s a brown leather billfold. “It’s a nice wallet, though. Admit it.”

  “It’s a little small for my taste,” I tease.

  He leans forward on his elbows. “Don’t let the size of the wallet fool you.”

  “Are you saying what’s inside is quite large?”

  He wiggles an eyebrow. “I’m saying other things are.”

  A flush blooms across my cheeks. “Cocky much?”

  He gives a carefree shrug. “Maybe I am.”

  I glance at the table for a moment, because now my mind has traipsed across the dirty meadows to thoughts of large things.

  When I look up, I try to affix a thoroughly professional expression on my face. “As I was saying, I know many women in Manhattan. I can vouch for them. I’ll only match you with women who are open and interested in the same type of relationship as you are.”

  “So no flingers need apply?”

  “Flinger? That’s funny. I haven’t heard anyone use that yet. But yes, I’ll make sure you’re only paired with someone who wants more than a fling.” I set down my cup and meet his gaze, making sure he’s looking me in the eyes. “It’s really heartwarming to meet a guy who knows what he wants and doesn’t want to play games.”

  Now it’s his turn to blush,
and my stomach surprises me by flipping when I see his cheeks go red. He looks at the straw, his light brown hair flopping over on his forehead. There’s something so sweet, almost innocent, about Dylan, but I love his raw honesty and the fact that he seems to know himself so well—flaws and all. So few men, and women for that matter, can hold up a mirror and assess their reflection honestly.

  I take my first sip, and holy smokes. This beverage is not supposed to be delicious. I’m supposed to hate it. I suck up three tapioca balls in one strawful, and my eyes widen.

  Dylan lifts his drink, and the reaction on his face matches mine as he drinks. “Wow. That was way more fun than it should have been.”

  “There’s something incredibly satisfying about sucking on tapioca balls, I’ve just learned.” I raise an eyebrow naughtily, affording myself this one minor flirtation. “And yes, I do know that sounded dirty.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “I have no problem with dirty.”

  “You wouldn’t. You just made the comment about large things.”

  “Do you mind large things?”

  I roll my eyes. “I have no problem with largesse.” I take another drink and bite into a tapioca ball. “This is just so satisfying.”

  He does the same. “It’s sort of like the fork sugar packet game.”

  “What’s that?”

  He jumps up from the booth, heads to the counter, and asks for a fork. The Mets fan gives him one, and he returns and grabs a sugar packet from the holder on the table. He positions the packet just so on the end of the fork, then smacks the tines. The pink packet flies up, arcs, and swoops down, landing in my lap.

  “Lucky me. I have a sugar packet in my lap.”

  “Your turn.”

  I shake my head as I place the packet on the table. “I’m not any good at games.”

  He arches a brow. “It’s a sugar packet. You can do it.”

  I glance around, like I can find a reasonable excuse to avoid catapulting Sweet’N Lows across a tea shop. But seeing as we’re the only customers and Mr. Mets is engrossed in a book, I can’t find an out.