Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) (4 page)

Chapter Four

@smartCupid Winning the 21st century dating game is hard work. If it were easy, nobody would play. #compatibilitymatrix

@AdamDatesRUs Dating is a numbers game, and I’ve got the numbers. #winner

“The Fluff ’N Fold? I asked you to take me somewhere you’d take a date, and you chose the Fluff ’N Fold?”

Jane winced at the censure in her own voice. Grateful he’d agreed to the three dates, she was loathe to be too critical, but dragging a woman to do laundry at the Fluff ’N Fold—not likely to be high on a client’s list of non-negotiables.

He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Hey, you’re the one who wants my intimate details for her criteria matrix. What’s more intimate than a guy’s premium Hanes?”

“Maybe we should consider one of the more traditional methods? Like getting coffee?”

“No. I’m good with the Fluff ’N Fold.” He opened the Laundromat’s silver and glass door and she walked in, crossing the gray-tiled floor to the oversized machines in the corner.

Peering over the basket he’d made her carry, she took in the cramped space. The place was empty, but a few abandoned machines rattled enough that she needed to raise her voice so he’d hear her over the noise. “You really think this place will inspire you to create your perfect list of criteria?”

“I do.” He walked past her, hefted his basket onto one of the long tables and started sorting his whites from his colors. “I like this place. It’s real. It’s personal.”

“Too personal.” She eyed a pair of shorts she remembered from… Nope, not going there.

“Who showed up on whose doorstep this morning?”

She shrugged off her parka and focused on the issue-laden laundry basket. “The search for your perfect match should be an unforgettable, revelatory experience—and not just because it smells like laundry detergent.”

“Let me see if I can get this straight,” he said. “Finding the ideal woman isn’t about chemistry, but it’s not about laundry either, right?”

“Right. Kind of. No.” She picked up a pair of jeans from the basket and tossed them in with a blue sweater. “What I’m saying is that defining the kind of woman you want to spend your life with is serious business. It’s a jumping off point into eternity that could determine your life and your destiny.”

“My destiny?”

“Okay, maybe that’s going a little too far, but it’s certainly about more than laundry, or even intimacy, or passion. It’s about compatibility.” She tossed a few items into the machine.

“Hey, you just put a few of my whites in with the reds. Watch it.”

“Can we stick to the subject of matchmaking please?” She tossed a pair of shorts at his head, which he snatched out of the air before they hit her target. “Let’s agree for the sake of it, that creating a list of criteria is an important process, potentially leading to fifty years of matrimonial bliss or, conversely, to a relationship that ends after two hours of sheer, unadulterated torture. Everything depends on the criteria, so they need to be right.”

Adding the shorts to the rest of his whites, he said, “Let’s get one detail straight, I committed to three dates, not matrimonial bliss. I’m a confirmed bachelor.
Confirmed
.”

“Yes, but finding your true love will change all—”

He held up a bottle of colorfast Tide and waved it in a circle. “And since we’re talking criteria, when did you turn into such a chemistry-free zone? Such an anti-romantic?”

“What are you talking about?” She looked around the Laundromat as if someone there would vouch for her. “I’m not anti-romantic. I’m a matchmaker. Of course, I’m romantic.”

He opened the bottle and tossed a cap and a half full of detergent into the industrial-sized washing machine. “About as romantic as a pit bull chewing through somebody’s ankle.”

“Okay, fine, I admit it. If you’re talking about the hot and sexy, gaze-into-my-eyes-and-let-me-make-you-the-center-of-my-universe kind of romantic, then yes, maybe you have a point. But successful relationships are not about that hot and sexy stuff.”

He turned the knob to start the wash cycle. “No?”

“No. They’re about work and commitment. Relationships are about compatibility and predictability. If my mother taught me anything about love, it’s that chemistry doesn’t last.”

“Chemistry is the necessary spark—”

She held up both palms. “There’s got to be more holding two people together. If not, somebody leaves and somebody gets burned. I understand this fact, which is why I’m a successful matchmaker. I help my clients avoid getting burned.”

“That’s love? The absence of pain?”

“For some people, yes.” She turned away and traced the letters on two of his Columbia University tees before tossing them into the sudsy water. “Frankly, by the time most people turn to a matchmaker, they’ve been burned a few times already and they’re hoping to avoid any more painful scars. By focusing on compatibility and predictability, I’m able—”

“Right, the P word. I forgot. Back to your infamous list.” He emphasized his words with a bit of eye rolling and handed her a stack of quarters.

She took the coins and forced them into a second machine as her temper threatened to erupt like a flare gun. “You’re the one who chose to discuss the qualities of your ideal woman in the middle of a Laundromat, a completely unserious choice requiring a five block hike, all the way down Lexington. Carrying laundry baskets.”

“What’s your point?”

“I don’t think you take the matrix seriously. That’s the point.”

And why the hell didn’t he? He knew she’d worked hard to get out of Brooklyn. He was there when her father walked out on her family, leaving her mother with three kids, a broken down house, and two fistfuls of accumulated debt. To be fair, he was never there at night to hear her mom come home from her second job, tumble into bed, and cry quietly so no one would hear her. But Jane heard. Her mother was a smart woman in many ways, but when it came to love, Jane knew how to play it smarter.

Charlie leaned his hip against the machine. “The Fluff ‘N Fold is part of
my
matrix. It’s everyday love.”

“Right. Everyday love.” She turned away from him and his almost-empty laundry basket. Even if she did miss Charlie, the heat they’d ignited in the Caymans couldn’t be allowed to continue. Even if a tiny part of her felt terrible about the end of their friendship, about everything that happened on Grand Cayman that had led to The Napkin. He’d been a fixture in her life for so long, she never should’ve fallen victim to chemistry. She pulled a tablet computer from her bag. “You don’t have a criteria list already, so—”

“What makes you think I don’t have a list?”

She glanced pointedly at the line of industrial dryers along the back wall. “Maybe because you advocate Laundry Dating?”

“I’ve got a list.”

Her gaze took in the worn tee and navy athletic pants that hugged his perfectly toned body. He was beyond everyday sexy. He was right. Laundry was intimate. Friggin’ chemistry.

She flipped the tablet open and punched in her security code. “You’ve got a list?”

“Surprised?” he asked.

She stared down at the screen to avoid looking into his eyes because the new crinkles at their edges, the ones that weren’t there last time those eyes coaxed her out of her clothes and into his bed, were even more lethal.

New rule. No crinkles.

“What’s on the list?” Her voice held its own challenge. “A girl with the right kind of upbringing?”

The casual tone of his voice evaporated. “The right kind of upbringing?”

“An ivy leaguer,” she said, with a nod toward one of his university T-shirts still in the basket. “All Swank Town and appropriate. Not from Brooklyn.”

“Not from Brooklyn, huh?” He eased his body away from the washer and walked toward her, his hands buried in his pockets. “What do you think? After all, you’re the matchmaker.”

“I think…” Thinking was impossible in this place, with his magazine-cover-worthy boxer-briefs spinning in the machine behind her. He stepped closer and her gaze drifted south. Probably going commando. Her fingers banged on the tablet. “Criteria number one. Not. From. Brooklyn.”

He smiled at her as if he was betting on a race he’d already won. “And blond.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Blond?”

“Definitely blond. An even-tempered, sweet blonde. Maybe a little shy.”

Hands stalled above the digital keyboard, she looked over at his six-feet of provocative in total disbelief. “Shy?”

“Oh, yeah. I love to watch a sweet, shy woman tremble when I touch her, see her blush as my hands caress her skin.” Reaching out, he skimmed the curve of her hips with his fingertips, burning a red-hot trail she feared would leave a mark. Rational thought needed to kick in—right now. “Is this the kind of touch you think a sweet, shy woman might like?”

She shifted her hip away from his touch. “Not bad.”

“Maybe I need to be more specific.” He moved closer and she stumbled back a step.

“You’ve got specifics?”

“Oh, I’ve got specifics.” His teasing expression morphed into a don’t-dare-doubt-me look that wreaked havoc with her diminishing equilibrium. “A pretty blonde with a sweet Southern accent and a knack for making a man feel wanted in a dozen different ways.” He took a step forward and her backside bumped up against the Maytag. “Laid-back and easy, but with depth.” He inched closer, crowding her with his length until she dragged her body on top of the oversized machine. Even with her sitting atop the washer, he still topped her by several inches.

She shoved the tablet into the slim space between them. “Got it. Sweet, easy, and deep.”

Sweeping the tablet to one side, he set his hands on top of the washing machine and leaned in close. “And she needs to be a good kisser.”

“A good kisser.”

“And enjoy really great sex.”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Really great sex.”

“Like on top of a washing machine…in the middle of the day…smoking hot sex.” He stepped between her legs and her thoughts drifted to a rainy, island morning and those hips working their magic. Her fingers gripped the edges of the tablet as she hugged it against her chest like a shield, some kind of chemistry-proof vest.

“Got it. A sweet, shy blonde who wants to rock out some smoking hot sex on a Maytag.” Not exactly a tough-talking brunette from a back street in the Heights, but if sweet and shy turned him on…

“Oh, and glasses. She’s got to wear glasses.”

“Since when have you liked glasses?” Her brows knit together in confusion. All of a sudden, he’d developed some kind of naughty librarian fantasy?

“Kinda goes with the sweet and easy.”

Jane white-knuckled the tablet, fighting for some semblance of professional distance, but his voice was an invitation to sin and considering the last year without sex—sans her six days in heaven—she wondered how long she could hold out.

No way would she make the same mistake twice. She wanted to win this bet and save her ass. And her company. And her best friend’s job. And it wasn’t just their reputations on the line. This was NY. The competition was fierce. If she wanted Smart Cupid to continue to grow and thrive, she couldn’t afford to lose this wager. She couldn’t afford another lapse in judgment.

Come on, Jane, get it together.

“Next question.” She tapped to a different screen on the tablet. “How would you describe yourself: searching for a good party, career-focused, a Wingman, or just your average guy?”

“Just your average guy.”

As he spoke, he traced the line of her jaw with his fingers. She lifted her gaze and watched the way his eyes darkened from a smoky gray to a warm, dark coal.
Average, my ass.

“Are you going to do that after every question?” she asked. “Because as far as flirting goes, yours is a little over-the-top and I’m trying to obtain some serious, scientific answers here.”

“Just wondering what kind of touch my dates will enjoy. Think this is good?” His thumb grazed across her cheek. “Or maybe this kind is better.” He angled closer and dropped his hands to her knees, running his thumbs along the inside of her thighs. She’d taken to higher ground to avoid him, but with him so close there was nowhere to go.

She slapped his hand and drew a line in the air between them with her index finger. “Don’t cross this line.”

A low chuckle rumbled up from his chest as he leaned closer, way past the line. He brushed a curl away from her cheek. The simple touch made her tremble.

“No crossing the line…”

“Kinda fun, don’t you think?”

My goodness, she never should’ve insisted on rules. He’d seek to break them just on principle.

“I think we need to skip to the lightning round.” Holding onto sanity by a thread, she tapped violently through several screens to a series of shorter questions. “First answer that comes to your mind—Nirvana or The Beatles?”

“Beatles.”

“Beatles or Stones?”

He ran his hands ran alongside her hips, definitely over the line. “Can’t always get what you want.” She gazed up at his lips as he answered, but all she heard was, “Want, want, want.”

The next question was damned near a whisper. “The Dark Side or The Light Side of the Force?”

A small smile touched his lips. “Oh, I love the Dark Side.”

She tried to speak, but nothing filtered down from her dopamine-addled brain. And then he was kissing her. Tenderly, at first, his kiss seemed to test its limits, equal parts bitter and sweet, like a Manhattan. His hands moved up her back and tangled in the curls at the nape of her neck. He deepened his kiss slowly, adding intensity with her every soft sigh of encouragement. Her heart pounded against the tablet she held against her chest as his lips traveled her skin, gliding across her collarbone, burrowing in her neck, moving to lick at her earlobe, until finally coming back to capture her mouth, biting and nibbling at her bottom lip, exploring the depths of her. Logical or not, she loved the rhythm of his mouth against hers, light and tender, slow and passionate, playful and teasing. How much she’d missed the feel of him—the feel of his strong, rangy body, the taste of his lips, the citrus and spice scent of his skin—all of him threatening her ability to stick to her own damned rules.