Lucky Suit Read online

  They were so dang perfect for each other. All they needed was somebody to bring them together, even if it took a little subterfuge. No harm, no foul. Besides, they were both so stubborn in their own ways. That was why they’d needed her—to smush them together as only she could. So what if she’d had to pretend to be Cameron for a few nights? All for a good cause, and clearly she’d made the right call.

  * * *

  Jeanne: I knew you’d hit it off! So thrilled. I won’t say I told you so.

  * * *

  Kristen: You did tell me so. I have to turn my phone off now, but we’ll be there in five hours and I promise to send you a barrage of photos!

  * * *

  Jeanne: Wait! Five hours for what—

  * * *

  A new message landed, and she clicked on it, opening a photo. Her eyebrows lifted. They were toasting each other on a plane? In first-class seats? What was that all about? And where were they going that took five hours to get there?

  Yet they were having fun and already flying together.

  Perhaps she was a better matchmaker than she’d thought.

  With a satisfied grin, she went inside and prepped for her own date, grateful that Joe had had the gumption to call her up after the auction. They’d already gone to a classic car show the other afternoon in South Beach, and they’d had such a fantastic time that he’d asked her to go to the racetrack tonight. That man was a handsome devil, and she was delighted that he didn’t seem to care that she was fifteen years older. Did that make her a cougar?

  She roared at herself in the mirror and brandished her cougar claws.

  “So be it.”

  She swiped on mascara, some lipstick, and headed to the racetrack.

  Her phone dinged once more as a hot green sports car cheetahed its way around the track.

  “You waiting for a girlfriend to give you an out?” Joe teased.

  She patted his leg. “Puh-leaze. If I didn’t like you, I’d tell you to your face.”

  He flashed an I’m waiting smile. “Well?”

  “You know I like you. The question is, how much do I like you?” She smiled.

  “I’d like to know how much.”

  “So would I,” she said flirtily then grabbed her phone. “Let me see if it’s Kristen.”

  She flinched when the photo loaded. What were they doing there? Were they truly in Sin City?

  “Look,” she whispered, showing him the picture of Kristen and Cameron beneath the Vegas sign.

  “Seems they like each other. Just wanted to get away for a night in Vegas.”

  She knew Cameron had been heading to Vegas for work, but had Kristen gone along with him? Didn’t she have to work the next day? Vegas was . . . well, a five-hour flight.

  Her phone buzzed once more.

  She startled.

  And what was this? Elvis? And a chapel?

  She froze. Kristen, her sweet, darling, clever Kristen, had fallen so quickly she’d eloped in Las Vegas?

  She shook her head, like there was water in her ears. “She was supposed to look at urban art, get a cup of coffee, and maybe have a kiss,” she blurted out.

  Joe cocked his head, stared at her quizzically. “Come again?”

  She shoved the screen at him, showing him the string of texts. “They eloped! They ran off to Vegas and got married.”

  Joe nearly spat out his drink as he gawked at the photos. “What is up with kids today?”

  “I knew they’d like each other, but this seems a touch extreme.”

  “Just a little.”

  But at the same time, she couldn’t help but pat herself on the back. It was extreme, but sometimes you just knew.

  15

  Cameron

  * * *

  As the hotel executive shares his ideas for where he wants to introduce a Lulu’s Chocolates cart in the lobby of The Luxe, a newer Vegas resort, I listen furiously, giving him my undivided attention as best I can.

  Because my attention these last twenty-four hours has definitely been divided.

  I’m here, chatting in the lobby of this hotel.

  But my mind is back in Miami, running around the city as we pranked Kristen’s grandma, making her think we loved our setup so much we’d run off to Vegas to tie the knot.

  Photoshop for the win.

  Right now, I’m hardly thinking of photo-doctoring software that made us look like we were in a first-class cabin or under the famous Vegas sign. Nor am I thinking of poker chip–themed chocolate, though I know I should be.

  I’m remembering that last kiss.

  An airport kiss.

  The kind that makes you want more. That makes you wish one person wasn’t going one way and the other person going another.

  Heck, I’d love to be hopping on a plane to Miami again tonight, rather than returning to New York.

  When the meeting ends and the exec tells me the deal looks good, I ought to be happy.

  Too bad when I hop on a plane that evening, I’m not exactly jumping for joy.

  As I fly over the country, I tell myself it was only one date. “Get over it, man.”

  16

  Kristen

  * * *

  The next morning, I hit the roller rink at the crack of dawn, working out on my skates. I have an hour before I need to be at work, so I skate then return home, ready to shower.

  Grams pounces on me the second I walk through the doorway.

  She grabs my wrist. “Tell me everything.”

  I clasp my hand to my chest, flutter my eyelids, and do my best starry-eyed impression. “Oh, it was magical, and I’m in love.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “You are?”

  The funny thing is . . . it doesn’t feel far from possible. Not today, but down the road. Maybe in a few months, I could honestly see myself falling for Cameron.

  That’s what doesn’t add up.

  It’s illogical. It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous.

  But it’s also why my heart weighs heavy.

  Grams stares at me, studying my hands. “Where’s your ring?”

  I walk inside, drop my bag on the couch, set my phone on the table, and turn around. I don’t have the energy to keep up the prank anymore. I’ve pulled her leg and gotten her goat. It was a blast, and yet, I’m sadder than I want to be.

  I shrug. “It was a joke. We didn’t go to Vegas to get married. We spent the evening running around Miami, taking pictures under palm trees and then photoshopping them to look like the Vegas sign, an airplane, and so on.”

  Her eyes bulge. “What? How?”

  “We bought champagne and glasses, went to the monorail, parked ourselves in the seats, and toasted on it.” I don’t add that we kissed on the monorail and that it was some kind of magic that didn’t need an ounce of retouching in a photo. “Then Cameron photoshopped it to look like we were on an airplane.”

  Her jaw clangs to the floor, cash register–style. “You didn’t.” Her tone says she can’t believe she’s been had, yet she’s also wildly impressed.

  “We did. Then we snagged the Elvis impersonator on the beach and went to a chapel here on South Beach, and we pretended to get married.”

  “Why did you do all that?”

  I park my hands on my hips. “Why did you catfish me?”

  She tuts. “I would hardly call it catfishing.”

  “I would precisely call it catfishing.”

  She squares her shoulders. “I knew he was right for you.”

  “He’s great,” I say, unable to mask the affection I feel for him. “But I want to make my own choices. You had me going. You made me feel . . . a little foolish.”

  Her expression falters, and she frowns. “But you liked him.”

  “Yeah, I did. And I do. But I also felt kind of stupid when I learned it had all been a ruse.”

  “It wasn’t all a ruse. You loved chatting with him during poker, didn’t you?”

  I squeeze her arm. “I did, but don’t you see? I want to make my own choices, a
nd I want you to respect them.”

  She exhales, nods, and licks her lips. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just thought he was a good man for you, and it was the only way I could get you to meet him. Plus, I didn’t make anything up—everything I told you was from conversations I’d had with the real Cameron over poker. So technically, you were talking to him—just through me.”

  “Like you’re a medium now?”

  She snaps her fingers and grins. “Exactly. I was channeling him.”

  “You made it sound so real,” I say, a little sad. “I wished it’d been him. And I wish you’d just asked me to go on a blind date.”

  “After the pickle embalmer and the cheesy cheesemaker, you’d have said no.”

  “True,” I admit.

  “Aren’t you glad you said yes?”

  I scoff. “I didn’t say yes!”

  “You can’t think of ThinkingMan as me. He was Cameron. It was all him.”

  I shoot her a skeptical look. “It was actually all you.”

  “Technically, but the profile was based on him, and when I knew the two of you actually liked each other after your poker chat, I figured it was fine to set you up on a date.”

  “What if I hadn’t liked him playing poker?”

  “But I knew you would.”

  “What if I hadn’t?” I press.

  “Well . . . I don’t know,” she admits. Then she reaches out, wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry if I was out of line. I want you to be happy and to find the right person. I thought you’d like him.”

  I rest my cheek against her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the rose in the vase, fading after only one night, as roses do. “I did like him, and you were right. But here’s the trouble.” I separate and meet her eyes. “He’s gone. He doesn’t live here.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “What’s distance when love’s involved?”

  “One, we’re not involved. Two, it’s a big thing. Three—”

  “Just get on a plane and see him.”

  I raise a finger. “Do not secretly book me on a flight. Or him. Do you understand?”

  She laughs and raises her right hand. “I promise.”

  Then she mutters, “For now.”

  Later that night, I open my tablet, and I’m tempted to check out the online dating site. But the guy I want to talk to isn’t there.

  The next morning I find a text on my phone.

  It’s not from ThinkingMan.

  It’s not from LuckySuit.

  It’s from Cameron.

  17

  Cameron

  * * *

  I’m not over it.

  Not over her.

  Not interested in getting over the best date of my life.

  I have no agenda, no notion of what’s next. But as I walk down Sixth Avenue, the warm summer breeze wrapping around me, I picture the montage of moments I want right now.

  And all the shots are of Kristen.

  I decide to stop thinking about texting her . . . and text her.

  * * *

  Cameron: Question. When you skated, were you as feared on the rink as you were at the blackboard?

  * * *

  Kristen: But of course. I made opponents cower.

  * * *

  Cameron: I’m not in the least bit surprised. Do you still skate, and when you do, do you wear those socks that go to your knees?

  * * *

  Kristen: You mean . . . wait for it . . . knee-high socks?

  * * *

  Cameron: Yes, those.

  * * *

  Kristen: I do. Got a thing for knee-high socks?

  * * *

  Cameron: Interesting question. I’d love to find out. It would be helpful if you could send me a photo of you in full skater regalia, knee-high socks and all, and then I could answer you honestly.

  * * *

  Kristen: All in the name of research and learning, of course?

  * * *

  Cameron: Of course.

  * * *

  I wait patiently, threading through the morning crowds as I head to meet Lulu. Two blocks later, my phone buzzes and I’m rewarded with a photo.

  There. Is. A. God.

  It’s a picture of Kristen—legs only. She’s wearing white knee-high socks with purple stripes.

  Those legs in those socks. Kill me now.

  * * *

  Cameron: Do you realize you make socks sexy?

  * * *

  Kristen: Why, thank you. You make . . . polo shirts sexy?

  * * *

  Cameron: You remembered what I wore. :)

  * * *

  Kristen: Or maybe I’m looking at some of the photos we took . . .

  * * *

  Okay, now I have a city-wide grin stealing the real estate on my face.

  * * *

  Cameron: Maybe I’ve been doing that too. Good thing we took so many pictures.

  * * *

  Kristen: Do you have a favorite?

  * * *

  I stop at the crosswalk, click over to my photo folder, and find the last shot. The one I snapped at the airport. I didn’t photoshop this picture. It’s just us, before the night ended. I send it to her.

  * * *

  Kristen: Ah, I like that one too. And now I have one more to look at.

  * * *

  Cameron: I might have looked at it a few times already.

  * * *

  Kristen: I’m catching up to you right now on that tally. By the way, what are you doing today?

  * * *

  Cameron: Contemplating chocolate, business deals, and how to grow wings and/or learn to Apparate.

  * * *

  Kristen: And what exactly would you do if you could Apparate? Inquiring minds want to know.

  * * *

  Cameron: Take you out, pretend we were at the Taj Mahal, maybe add Mt. Everest or a Buddhist temple behind us, possibly even the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Or we could visit Monkey Jungle and mock up a picture of us in a barrel testing the baseline of fun. Other options—take you to a bookstore and get lost in books on philosophy. Go to a concert and decide whether indie is better than pop, or just debate it all night long. Take you to a roller rink and watch you skate in those knee socks, then take them off . . .

  * * *

  Kristen: Where do I sign up?

  * * *

  Cameron: You good with all that?

  * * *

  Kristen: With every single thing. But you know what I like most?

  * * *

  Cameron: Do tell.

  * * *

  Kristen: Talking to you as you.

  * * *

  Cameron: I like that too. More than I want to.

  * * *

  But now I have to end the conversation. I say goodbye and head into the shop, feeling both better and worse.

  18

  Kristen

  * * *

  I text him the next afternoon.

  * * *

  Kristen: Today my hair is purple. I ate eggplant for lunch.

  * * *

  Cameron: I’ve got an eggplant right here for you.

  * * *

  Kristen: *facepalm*

  * * *

  Cameron: You did walk right into that.

  * * *

  Kristen: I did. I totally did.

  That night he texts me.

  * * *

  Cameron: By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask about the Orion Nebula.

  * * *

  Kristen: IS THIS YOU?

  * * *

  Cameron: YES. WHY?

  * * *

  Kristen: You know this is how I was catfished! The Orion Nebula was the bait.

  * * *

  Cameron: I’ll prove it’s me.

  * * *

  I wait, and his picture appears on my phone. His face. Then his . . . feet? Is he actually wearing . . .?

  * * *

  Kristen: Are you wearing Crocs?

  * * *

  Cameron: Yes.
<
br />   * * *

  Kristen: Why would you show me Crocs and, more importantly, why would you wear them?