Lazer Focused: A Jet City Billionaire Romance (The Billionaire Matchmaker Series Book 1) (6 page)

A
shley

Oxytocin. Ever heard of it? It's called the cuddle hormone. It could just as well be called the bonding hormone. When the hormone is present during pregnancy, the new mom will bond appropriately with her newborn. The more oxytocin in her system, the tighter she bonds. When she nurses her baby, more oxytocin, more bonding.

The same hormone is released after sex, giving rise to the theory that's why women bond with the men they sleep with. It's hormonally based. If this is true, it makes a certain sense that the more times you sleep with a man, the more you will bond with him. Especially if the sex is good. And explains why women stay with total douches they know are bad for them. Which is why many top matchmakers recommend holding off on sleeping with a prospective mate for as long as possible. Giving yourself time to get to know him and determine whether he exhibits any deal-breaking qualities. Why handicap yourself too early and set yourself up for more possible heartbreak than necessary?

So maybe the cuddle hormone was to blame for me having Lazer Grayson on the brain. Maybe during all those years of going without sex it had built up to an extreme level, just waiting to be released by the first man I slept with. Which didn't explain why I hadn't bonded all the much with my vibrator.

In any case, I'd left him my business card. Which had my cell number on it. And, yeah, I may have charged out like I didn't care. But that was a classic leave-the-door-open move. Text me, maybe. Guys don't call the next day. Lazer was savvy enough to know that.

But it was good manners to text after you slept with someone. Although there was that sticky bit from me about how this was just a hookup. Hookups didn't demand it.

And so I spent the flight home oddly optimistic that when I took my phone off airplane mode, I'd have a text from him. Something flirty and noncommittal. No such luck. Which should have been a relief. But wasn't. I was so horrible at following my own advice.

Instead, I had a desperate text from one of my Sweethartes, Miss Understanding, wanting advice about the date she'd had last night. I gave all of my Sweetharte's private code names. It helped me remember them better. At any given time, I personally handled around a hundred clients. And helped my two apprentice matchmakers with theirs. And screened new ones with my assistant's help. That was a lot of people to remember. And a lot of handholding to do. Many of my Sweethartes wanted complete confidentiality. They were embarrassed to be seeing a matchmaker, as if they'd failed at one of life's basics—finding a mate. The nicknames preserved their privacy in case we were ever overheard.

Miss Understanding was so understanding of her matches' flaws and problems that if I'd been less kind, I would have named her Miss Doormat. But that wasn't me. Anyway, I had to call her back and walk her through yet another post-date wrap-up and relationship therapy session. It was her third date with the same man.
Uh-oh.
What had gone wrong now? What had Mr. Date done that she would patiently bear?

I spent an hour on the phone with her before the other client calls started coming in. Weekends were busy times for matchmakers, and there was no such thing as a vacation. I was their priest, their bartender, their therapist, their confessor. Sometimes it was a terrible burden.

Monday morning I was running behind before I even got to the office. The media was all over me for turning away the over-thirty female crowd. Hey, if they wanted to take their chances, they were welcome to sign up for the database. But I wasn't taking their money and giving them false hope when there was none.

Summer was a bad time for bad press for matchmakers. It was a slow time of year in general. I still got new clients, but not in droves. The singles crowd is tan and in shape and full of optimism that they'll meet their future mate on the beach. How can the guys see them splashing around in the bikini bodies and not find them hot? They head to the Hamptons full of the fantasy that they'll just bump into Mr. Right and he'll fall madly in love.

When September hits, and the fantasy has been dashed for yet another year, business rolls in. I had to hang on through the slow months a little longer. And come up with a way to turn this black eye into a feather in my cap, pronto. Acting successful had worked for me before. Maybe it was time to spin this again as me being too successful and busy and having to find some way to eliminate potential clients. All true. But the stench of ageism wasn't sitting well with Manhattan women.

My assistant, Lottie, had a smile on her face when I walked into the reception area of our office suite. "Are the skies really the bluest blue in Seattle?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know about that, but the men may be the hottest men in Seattle."

"Better than San Jose?"

"Less techie, more outdoorsy."

"So? West Coast office?" she asked.

"Maybe. I'm still mulling it over."

"Seattle, then?"

Why did she singsong that question? What was up with her? It was like she was in on an inside joke and I was out on the outside.

I gave her a piercing, thin-eyed look. "What do you know that I should?"

"Nothing." Her answering laugh was tinged with nervousness and lies.

"Nothing, is it?" I headed toward my office.

Her gaze followed me.

I threw open the door. Sitting on my desk was the most enormous bouquet of flowers I had seen in a long time. Satisfied clients sometimes send me flowers as a thank you. I'd even had a few clients who had a crush on me and tried to show it with a floral delivery. This didn't feel like either.

Flowers can send powerful social messages. These weren't roses, the flower of romance. They were dahlias in pinks, whites, and purples, like those in Pike Place Market in Seattle. Foxglove and wild baby's breath. Northwest flowers of all kinds. Next to the flowers was a large basket full of fresh blackberries, exotic coffees, a bottle of the Northwest wine Lazer and I had had at dinner, some Northwest chocolate truffles, and a beautiful Chihuly glass bowl.

My eyes were wide and my heart was about to beat its way right out of my ribcage. I'd met some lovely men in Seattle. But only one had the kind of cash and style to send something like this.

Lottie came up behind me, watching as I crossed to the desk and opened the card.
In case you didn't have time to visit the Market and pick up a few souvenirs.
If you're ever in Seattle again, look me up.

Lazer

And his number.

I was shaking so bad and smiling so large it was ridiculous. And bad, very,
very
bad. The last thing I needed was another hookup with him. My last dose of the cuddle hormone hadn't even worn off yet.
Just walk away, Ashley.

But did I listen to my rational, experienced matchmaker self? My fingers shook as I pulled my phone out and texted him back, knowing full well I should have at least delayed a response and played hard to get. It never does any good to respond too soon to a man's overtures. But in this case, maybe a blunder was exactly what I needed. Maybe too much enthusiasm would send him running.

The flowers are beautiful. The basket delectable. So thoughtful of you. If you're ever in New York, you have my number.

Lottie arched a brow. "You just broke Rule 32."

It was an inside joke. We were always laughing about the rules. Rule 32 was a stand-in catchall for breaking any rule at all.

"Just being polite," I said. "Blame my mom. She taught me to always send a thank you as soon as possible after someone sends you a gift."

"Uh-huh," Lottie said in my ear in a tone that suggested she should have had her hands on her hips. "And the part about he has your number?"

"Were you reading over my shoulder?"

"Someone has to look out for you." She was clearly amused and happy to see me showing some interest in a man. Lottie had been pushing me to get back out in the dating world since the one-year anniversary of Ruck's death. "Don't ever let Miss Fastest Response in the East hear you broke her record." She laughed. "So. You have an admirer!"

"I have a potential client."

"That doesn't look like a potential-client-type gesture to me."

I'd hired Lottie for her powers of observation and keen knowledge of human nature as much as her office management skills. There were times, like this, that I regretted it.

L
azer

I couldn't get the matchmaker out of my mind. I kept telling myself she was a relationship expert. It was dangerous to fool around with a woman like that. That didn't stop me from looking her up. Studying her website and Google footprint. Cyberstalking to find out everything I could about her. And buying her damn book on matchmaking.

Her profile was fascinating. She coached clients on relationship dos and don'ts and how to date and play the mating game. Which meant she knew how to play the dating game as well as I did. The thought quickened my pulse. Damn. Just how much fun would it be to match wits with another pro?

Maybe I was so into her because I'd met my match. No, not the future mate and wife kind of match. The match of my skill.

Ladies, there are no absolutes. But most guys like the thrill of the chase. When in doubt, give them that thrill. Caveman days might be over, but guys still like to do the hunting and feel in control of the relationship. Except in rare cases, let us lead the charge. And when you do lead, make us think it was our idea all along.

Ashley, with her knowledge of the hunt, presented the ultimate challenge for me. It was as exciting as hell. And stupidly dangerous. I shouldn't have sent her flowers. Long-distance relationships were crap. I didn't know her well enough to attempt one. But she was like the big cat in the safari of dating. And I had her in my sights. With the chemistry and mind-blowing sex between us, I'd be a fool not to.

I admired the way she played the game. Despite her quick response to the flowers, she wasn't falling all over herself to be my girl. In fact, one could say she was only being polite and thanking me for a thoughtful gesture. What kind of douche guy doesn't make some kind of gesture after having such hot sex with a woman? For our effort of going the extra mile, guys like to be thanked for their thoughtfulness. Believe it or not, we like to feel appreciated, too.

One flirty thank-you text from her and we mutually let it drop. But I had the feeling we were each playing chicken, waiting to see who would blink first and make the next contact. I could jump on a private plane and fly to Manhattan for dinner or brunch any day I wanted. Did I want?

It had been a long week of holding back. My fingers itched to text her. Maybe surprise her. I had plans for the weekend with my buddies at Lazer Lodge, my place in the Cascade Mountains. My weekend escape. It was remote. Part of the year it was only accessible only by helicopter. One crazy small private road was clear enough during the summer to provide access by car. If you were a bit of a thrill-seeker. Once the snow fell, the road was out.

Lazer Lodge was the size of a respectable resort lodge, with all the amenities. It was in the fifteen- to twenty-thousand-square-feet range and fashioned like a hunting lodge right out of the Depression era, when the government hired out-of-work men to build lodges that didn't need to be built. It was constructed from logs and river rock, with a contemporary twist. I'd worked long and hard with the architecture firm who designed it for me to get just the right look and feel. I wanted it to blend in with the surroundings and be completely in the Northwest style. It was built from the finest materials, most of them locally sourced.

The lodge had all the modern conveniences, including a pool on a cantilevered deck. A view to kill for. Plenty of bedrooms. Some of them with fireplaces and bearskin rugs. Fake bearskin, of course. But very soft, good imitations. A media room I used when I held meetings at my place. An office. A state-of-the-art kitchen large enough to accommodate the most discriminating five-star chefs.

The ceilings in the bedrooms and other enclosed rooms were twelve feet high to add to the feeling of spaciousness. The central feature was a large, open great room several stories high, with windows along the back so large and clear it was made to look as if it was open air. I had gone for a tree house effect. A house nestled in the evergreens. A row of sliding doors opened to the cantilevered patio deck, where the view was best and the pool was designed to vanish into the horizon. The lodge faced west to take full advantage of the magnificent sunsets.

My friend Kayla, the wife of my mentee Justin Green, had jokingly described her first impression of it to me this way, "There's a Washington State Lottery commercial on TV where a guy lives on top of a mountain and parasails down into town for a coffee. Then zip-lines back up. You remember it, Lazer?

"When I first stepped into the lodge—in complete awe, I might add—I wondered whether the lottery commission had patterned the house in the commercial as a modest version of Lazer Lodge. Or if you had been the one to take that fantasy one step farther."

Her description was apt. I loved Kayla. It was too bad Jus had snatched her up first. I only met her after they suddenly eloped in Reno. Maybe it was her immediate inaccessibility that made her so enticing. I've always loved a chase. I was sure she'd been coming on to me at first. Now she was madly in love with Jus.

My favorite room, besides the master suite, was my red room of game, my gaming room. The logs of the walls had a reddish hue, and there were red accents here and there. Red pillows with outdoorsy designs. Prints with red themes. Nothing too garish. It was all the gaming equipment, both modern and retro, that made the room.

I liked to escape the heat of August and the city by heading to my mountain lodge. And get away to think. Right now I wanted to get away from my own mind. I hadn't been able to shake a certain matchmaking woman from it. That wasn't like me at all. I'd even come close to texting her once or twice. That way lay disaster.

I often entertained at the lodge. This weekend was a special event. I had a group of my closest college buddies out. The gang of five, we called ourselves—Cam, Jeremy, Austin, and Dylan.