Lazer Focused: A Jet City Billionaire Romance (The Billionaire Matchmaker Series Book 1) (7 page)

My buds were computer science guys. Engineers. Coders. Gamers. Geeks. None of them were billionaires like me. Or anything close. But they'd done well for themselves. Made six figures a year. Worked for the tech companies in the area or ran their own small companies and firms.

We were belatedly celebrating Jeremy's milestone birthday, the big three-oh. He was the first of us to hit it. I was only twenty-nine and the youngest of the bunch.

We sat on the deck drinking craft beers and shooting the breeze, taking a break from video gaming.

"Thirty. Shit, old man." Cam slapped Jeremy on the back and took a pull of his beer. He looked out over the view. "Where are all the ladies? Why the hell are we all still single?"

"Because we're geeks who just spent most of Friday night playing video games?" Austin was always the voice of reason.

"You want a girlfriend?" I asked Jeremy for clarification. Wanting a girlfriend was understandable enough.

"Or a wife," Jeremy said, completely seriously.

Damn. I stared at him, trying not to let my jaw hit the deck. "Why?"

He shrugged, looking embarrassed and defensive at the same time. "Dude, you know my grandma passed a few months ago." His Adam's apple bobbed. "She and I were tight. I was closer to her than I am to my mom. She wanted a great-grandchild." He looked morose. As if he'd failed her. "She wanted to see my kids before she went." He took a deep breath. "Her death made me think about my life. Like, other than my parents, and maybe my sister, who would give a shit if I died?"

"Us!" I said, with the other guys echoing me.

"You guys don't count." Jeremy shook his head. "There would be nothing of me left after you guys and my parents are gone." He paused again.

The rest of the guys had gone eerily silent.

"I make plenty of money," Jeremy said. "Have a good job. I want kids. I've always wanted kids. I want them soon enough so I can see my grandkids. I'd like a family. I'd like to meet that girl and settle down. It's so damn frustrating in this town. It's hard to meet women who want the same. Too many girls just want to party. The women here are always looking for something better."

I expected the other guys to rib him mercilessly. Nope. They all chimed in. Enthusiastically.

"Exactly! There aren't enough women in Seattle. That's the problem." Dylan, my big bear of a guy friend with a wild beard, shook his head. He was one of those guys that could grow a full beard overnight. This large, bushy one made him look like a mountain man. But he wasn't inclined to shave it, no matter how much I ribbed him about it. "Not enough women, man."

"And those that we have are cold, cold bitches." Jeremy sighed. "Too picky. The good ones all have boyfriends. Possessive bastards. A woman comes on the market, she's snatched up immediately. If you blink, you miss your opportunity."

"The ladies don't want geeks. Not even geeks with good incomes who are willing to drop it on impressing them." Cam glanced in my direction and grinned. "They only want billionaires. Lazer was just a fucking geek like the rest of us until his ship came in. Now look at him. Why didn't you bring us some women for the weekend, Laze?"

"You wouldn't know what to do with a woman if she threw herself in your arms naked and handed you a condom." I set my beer bottle down on the table in front of me. Why did every conversation remind me of Ashley? How had this topic reared its ugly head again so soon?

"A friend of mine"—
Friend? Really?
That was how I was referring to Ashley now?—"who's a relationship/dating expert and I recently had a discussion about this. Seattle is one of the tougher places in the nation for college-educated men to find similar women."

The guys nodded.

"But there are still slightly more available women than men."

"Bullshit!" Austin said. "That can't be right. Since when did you become an expert on census data?"

"Not me. This woman I know."

The guys gave each other looks that were the equivalent of winks, nods, and elbows to the ribs. They knew how I knew most of my women.

I ignored them and grinned, egging them on. "Check my facts."

Austin pulled out his phone. "You're on."

"You guys aren't going far enough afield. You need to get out of the city limits." I launched into the spiel Ashley had given me, complete with stats. I'd been thinking about her all week. And wondering more and more if there was a way to hook up with her again. Sex was plentiful. But sex that great was hard to find. As were intelligent, beautiful women with a sense of humor that matched mine. Since a week ago, thoughts of sex were hitting my brain at more than roughly once an hour. Much more.

The guys listened attentively, if somewhat skeptically.

"I'd go out to the suburbs, if I knew for sure I'd run into the babes," Jeremy said. "But there's no point in wasting a trip for nothing. At least we know where the women hang out in Seattle."

"You know the definition of insanity." My mind was whirling with an idea. I'd been toying with it all week. "Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result."

"Better to be skunked in the suburbs than rejected in the city, is that what you're saying?" Austin was at least listening, even though there was a sarcastic sneer in his tone.

I nodded. "It's either that or head to New York."

"Bicoastal relationships never work." Cam shook his head. "I'm not moving to New York on the slim chance I'll meet my future wife. I can't risk my career on a gamble. I have too much too lose."

His thoughts echoed mine. What point was there in pursuing a woman who lived across the country? My mind was still whirring.

"What if there was a way to pinpoint where the women are here? The ones in the suburbs. The ones in the city." I blurted out my thoughts. "On Friday night, you stroll out of work, check your phone, see that there's a preponderance of eligible women looking to meet their soul mate at Bar XYZ, so you head there and take your pick."

The guys stared at me like I was holding out a bag of candy I was about to snatch back.

"An app?" Dylan said. "You're talking about designing an app based on census data and statistical analysis? Is that what I'm hearing?"

I nodded. "I am. With a voluntary location indicator, completely anonymous. Here are my thoughts—a guy walks into a bar. The app on his phone adds another single college-educated guy to the tally of available men there. No other identifying data. He's picked the bar because his app has told him there's a good number of single, college-educated women hanging there. Female app users who've enabled their anonymous location finder so the men can find them.

"The ladies who have the app see that another eligible man has just entered their territory." I could read my friends' faces pretty well. The gears were turning.

"Look. Falling in love is a matter of location and opportunity. Before the Internet age, people met and married someone from within a small radius of where they lived. Why should human nature be different now?" I looked around at the guys. They nodded.

"Even Internet dating hasn't changed it that much. Eventually, you want to meet the girl and check out the goods for real," Dylan said.

"Yeah. Dating sites." Cam shook his head. "Inflated bios that read like beefed-up résumés." He pitched his voice falsetto. "'I like lemon drops and slow walks in the rain along Alki. If you like these things, too, let's meet!'"

The guys all laughed.

"Headshots!" Austin shook his head. "Ever notice how the heavy girls only give you headshots? Like they're hiding something."

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. Show me what I'm getting. Trust me, that I'm not that shallow. I like curvy girls. I don't like being surprised when I show up expecting a thin chick and look like a douche looking around for one."

"The best way to find a spouse is meeting lots and lots of members of the sex you're attracted to and getting to know them," I said. "No phony online dating."

The guys kept nodding.

I caught myself. "I can't believe we're talking about trying to find you guys wives."

Dylan ignored me. His eyes were bright with excitement. "So we make an app? Like a fish finder for girls?"

I nodded.

"All right," Austin said. "I hate to play devil's advocate, but someone has to. If the girls are in demand—and we know they are—what's in it for them to sign up? They don't need it. They might not even like it. Why create competition for themselves and draw attention to where they are? Why key those girls in the suburbs in to where the guys are?"

"Kill-joy." Jeremy gave him a narrowed-eye look.

Austin held his hands up. "Someone has to try to poke holes in the idea. It's like testing a video game. We don't want to waste our time and fail right out of the gate creating a solution for a problem that either doesn't really exist or that no one wants solved."

"Austin is right," I said. "I've thought of that myself. That's why we use statistical data we pull from public records and publically available data sources to predict where the quantities of one sex or the other, gay or straight, hang out. And it's nation, maybe world, wide.

"Say a woman from New York decides to visit Seattle. And she wants to meet a guy while she's here. What does she do?

"She checks the app. And turns on her locator. She wants the guys to find her and doesn't give a crap about the local girls. You shift the dynamics and power source by shifting the paradigm using the transient business and tourist population in your favor."

Dylan was squinting like he was thinking. "I like it. I think we could do it. If we had some venture capital backing us." He looked pointedly at me. Venture capital and investments were my business. "Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

"If you're willing to work your ass off and invent something that could put you in my pay grade." I stared back at him, thinking I'd do anything for these crazy guys. Make them rich. Find them wives. Why did they want wives?

"I'll toss some capital in. Why not? I could probably convince some others to come in, too. But we'd be diluting our equity if I brought others in."

"I think it would be easier if Lazer just brought us some girls." Austin slapped me on the back. "Imported some from New York to Seattle. Solve their problem and ours. I like women who wear black. Don't most New York women wear black?"

"You want me to bring you some women?" I said, thinking ahead to the experiment that had been running through my mind. "Import women to Seattle. Find brides for all of you dickheads."

I shook my head. "I could do it. Bring some women over. Enough for my friends. But it would be a drop in the bucket as far as solving the larger problem for all the guys of Seattle."

"Who cares about them as long as I get my beautiful drop before she hits the bucket?" Austin winked.

"We'd need beta testers," Cam said. "Preferably beautiful ones. Ones that stand out and cause a stir. New York girls would do it for us."

"Let's do it!" Dylan nodded.

"Show of hands," I said. "Who's in?"

Dylan, Jeremy, Austin, Cam. Me.

"It's unanimous!" I raised my beer bottle for a toast. This was probably crazy. We were probably drunk. "To getting hot, eager women for my buddies, and solving the dire women shortage crisis in Seattle and everywhere."

Dylan clinked his bottle to mine. "To happy matches."

A
shley

Damn it! I knew turning down Danika King's money would mean trouble. She had the ear of the press and wasn't afraid to use it. She was a New York executive editor with plenty of discretionary income, high aspirations, and a lonely heart that was turning bitterer by the day. She was also thirty-three years old.

You're too old for me to be to find you a husband in this town, baby. Just too old.

I sighed heavily. Her anger and signature writing style were all over the papers and online media buzz.

Age Discrimination and New York's Most Popular Matchmaker

What does a woman have to do to get a husband in Manhattan? Looks. Money. Willingness. That and four dollars will get you a cup of coffee. But no amount of money will get Ashley Harte and her company Harte Mates to take you on as a client if you're a woman who's over thirty. And I mean days over thirty. Hit that milestone birthday and you're out.

Haven't women faced enough obstacles in the years since we've fought for equal rights and equal pay? Should we have to fight our own gender to get equal treatment to men in the dating pool?

Ms. Harte has no age restrictions on the male clients she'll take on. Men aged eighteen until death are welcome, gay or straight.

I never thought I'd see the day when women have to fight to get back into the kitchen. But that's exactly what educated, marriage-minded single women in this city face—

I glanced away from the article before my blood boiled over. What did Danika want me to do? Take her money just because I could? When the chances of me finding her a husband were about as good as winning the lottery? I was no charlatan and pretty much damned if I did and damned if I didn't.

Yes, I'd just lowered the age limit I was placing on taking on new female Sweethartes. But it wasn't out of meanness or spite. It was purely market forces. I didn't have enough educated men in my pool who wanted women over thirty to justify taking their money.

I took a deep breath and did my internal monologue about keeping calm. The view from my Manhattan office usually had a positive, soothing effect on my mood. Today I scowled at all the single men below who either weren't ready to commit or who hadn't gone to college, thereby rendering them useless to me.

Danika was being blatantly biased and unfair in her coverage of our conversation. I had offered to take her on
if
she was willing to settle—I hated that word. It didn't accurately convey what I meant. But I wasn't sure what did—if she was willing to
accept
a blue-collar mate. There were many lovely, lonely, commitment-minded blue-collar men in this city. But the women who came to me for my services didn't want them. Danika had basically told me where I could go. And now she was intent on ruining me.

I brooded as I waited for my three o'clock appointment to arrive. Mr. Three O'Clock was being mysterious. He'd bypassed the online form I required most potential Sweethartes to fill out.

When I first opened my business, I used to do phone consultations and screenings with each potential client. Until I realized I was wasting precious time with people who were either pumping me for free information, were not the kind of clients I wanted to take on, or who were merely looky-loos with no intention of signing up. And so the online screening form was born.

This potential client, however, had called Lottie directly and asked to bypass the form and go right to a private consultation. He said it would be worth my while and then he pointedly refused to leave his name, saying he was afraid of his identity getting out.

This wasn't uncommon in my business. Many men, especially, don't want it known they were working with a matchmaker. I used to take all my client meetings at various restaurants around town. I finally had to get an office to accommodate a growing number of clients who were obsessive about confidentiality.

He'd piqued Lottie's interest with his mysterious bent. And the deposit he offered upfront. She said he had a good voice and she had a gut feeling this was the thing for me, that I should see him. So she booked the appointment.

I wasn't sure I was in the mood for more games and a skittish guy who thought he was dating for the CIA. But I was desperate for men for my match pool. Over a barrel.

There was a knock on my office door. Lottie poked her head in. "Your three o'clock is here."

I spun my chair around to face the doorway where she stood.

She looked flustered. Lottie was never flustered. She also looked inordinately pleased with herself. She raised her eyebrows and wiggled them.

I shook my head at her ridiculousness. "If he's single and has a college degree, send him in."

I didn't care if he weighed five hundred pounds and had bad breath. Halitosis could be treated and weight could be lost. I was desperate.

Lottie grinned. We'd been a team since the beginning. I guessed she'd read my mind.

She lowered her voice. "I think you'll be pleased with him."

She opened the door wide and stepped out into the reception area while I smoothed my skirt and crossed my fingers, hoping for an eligible bachelor as I prepared to rise to greet him.

"Ms. Harte will see you now, Mr. Grayson." Lottie stepped aside.

My heart stopped.

Lazer Grayson glided into my office looking just as hot as he had in Seattle. Exactly as sexy and toe-curlingly delightful as he was in my fantasies. And memories.

No texts for a week and a half. No contact at all. And still I had that damn cuddle hormone coursing through me. Great sex can sometimes be a colossal curse. I'd been trying to forget him all this time. Finally the flowers he'd sent, a constant reminder of him, had died. And with it my hopes of seeing or hearing from him again.

Lottie had thrown the bouquet out for me when there were more petals on my desk than on the flowers and the flowers were more depressing than smile-inducing.

Sending flowers was the devil's own invention as a way for men to torment women with a beautiful reminder of them. I couldn't throw away such gorgeous, expensive flowers that reminded me of such an equally gorgeous man. That was too cruel. And wasteful.

Just when the flowers had finally been carted away, out of sight, out of mind, and Lottie had put the Chihuly bowl were I couldn't see it without specifically looking for it, in strolled their sender. And out went every rational thought I had.

I rose to greet him with as much dignity as I could manage, trying not to salivate. Jump for joy. Or squeal like an infatuated preteen. "You don't believe in texting, but cross-country traveling isn't against your credo?"

We'd been playing a game of relationship chicken in the form of who would blink and text again first. And though we might try to deny it, we both knew it. As the woman, I was being mysterious and waiting for him to make the next move. Some people would cry foul and call that playing games. I called it playing by the rules of love. Like it or not, that was the way the game was played. Cupid's rules, not mine.

He laughed as he set down the bag he was carrying and hugged me, still smelling damningly of Arrogance. Which, since that night, would forever remind me of sex and heat. And him.

"I'm here on business." His smile was confident to the point of cocky.

"I see. That still doesn't explain what you're doing in
my
office."

Lottie was lingering in the doorway, looking both surprised and too interested. I waved her away with a dismissive flick of my hand. She mouthed that she wanted all the details later, shook her head with a devilish smile on her face, and closed the door quietly behind her as she left.

Lazer released me. "It does if I'm here on business to see you."

"You've changed your mind?" I couldn't hide my surprise. And maybe I should have been delighted. After all, I was willing to take on a sumo-wrestling-sized client with bad breath just a few minutes ago. Having Lazer Grayson in my fold would certainly help bolster my damaged reputation. Visions of being the Billionaire Matchmaker danced through my mind.

He shook his head and laughed. "
Hardly
. I have a business proposition for you."

I arched an eyebrow, heart racing. "You could have left your name when you made an appointment."

"I could have. But where's the fun in that?" His grin was infectious. "What I have in mind is strictly confidential."

"You really are arrogant."

"I won't deny that."

"Have a seat." My office had a small, round conference table with chairs around it. I was trying hard not to give away how much he rattled me as I offered him a seat at the table. It was like I was having my first schoolgirl crush on him.

"Business is down?" he said, grabbing the leather laptop bag he'd brought with him as I headed to my side of the conference table.

I froze. "What makes you say that?"

He shook his head. "I do my research before making business propositions. And I read the news. You've made an enemy."

"You mean Danika?"

He nodded.

"She'll cool off. Eventually," I said. "Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?"

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Yes, I really was flustered. And flattered. And relieved, in a way, that I wouldn't have to tame my jealousy as I set him up with other women. As a single matchmaker, I'd been lucky so far that my heart had been in winter, frozen so that it didn't long for love. I had never been attracted to any of my male Sweethartes and been confronted by the moral dilemma of wanting to keep one for myself.

"So? Business?" I said. "I'm intrigued." I was nearly fatally curious.

"I hoped you would be."

The way his eyes lit up was totally hot. He'd looked at me like that once. And I was beginning to believe once was never enough. My mouth was dry.

He opened his laptop bag and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork and a pen, laying them on the conference table in front of me.

"What's this?" I tapped the top page.

"First things first. A non-disclosure." His eyes met mine.

"Before we can even talk generalities?"

He nodded. "In my business, it's procedure. Technology and intellectual property is valuable and easily stolen. Take your time. Read it over. You're agreeing not to mention anything we discuss outside this office or to any third party."

Now I was really intrigued. I grabbed the paperwork and skimmed it. I had enough business training to recognize a standard non-disclosure when I saw one. I picked up the pen, signed, and slid the paperwork back to him. "So? Talk. What is this top-secret business you want to do with a matchmaker?"

He hesitated. "It's complicated and many-pronged. But it boils down to this—I need adventurous single women. Educated women looking to settle down and get married. Fifteen should be enough to begin with. But if the initial phase works, maybe more."

I laughed. "The only problem will be narrowing the field to fifteen."

"There's a catch."

Why was there always a catch?

"They need to be willing to relocate to Seattle. At least temporarily." He paused and looked me in the eye. "And I need you to come with them."

My eyes flew wide open and my heart stopped. "What? Why?"

He laughed. "Don't look so shocked. I don't want to lose you and your matchmaking skills to Man Jose. I'm offering to be your angel and fund the expansion of your matchmaking business to Seattle."

Angel? He was a dark angel, if anything. But my traitorous heart pounded with excitement at the idea.

"Seattle has some excellent matchmakers already." I studied him. "A city with as many billionaires per capita attracts them."

He didn't look surprised. He nodded. "I know. But they don't bring their own women with them. Their model and styles don't match with what I have in mind. I have a much grander overall scheme. A matchmaking app, maybe even a franchise, you could be a part of."

"What I do is very personalized." My pulse raced from being so near him. He looked delectable as he discussed his business ideas. I leaned back in my chair, trying to remain cool as I studied him. "It can't be cookie-cuttered."

"I didn't mean to imply it could. But a new model of matchmaking could be established."

I was excited on too many fronts, both personal and professional. I was trying to be professional, but my mind kept wandering back to his bed and my body was crying out for another shot of cuddle hormone. His strong, square hands were right in front of me. I'd never believed in a lot of touching too soon in a relationship. And this certainly wasn't a relationship. But I wanted him to hold my hand. My fingers itched to intertwine with his. Crazy.

"Let's step back a second. While you were in Seattle, did you take any of the historical tours or visit any of the museums to learn about Seattle history?"

I shook my head, amused. I wasn't a history buff. "That's not my particular field. I don't generally find mates for my clients in local museums, unless it's at a special event."

"That's too bad," he said. "If you had, you would see where I'm headed. My office is on Mercer Street. I have quite a few friends who live on Mercer Island. Both the street and the island are named after one of Seattle's founding fathers, Asa Mercer.

"In the mid-1800s, Seattle was a frontier seaport and logging town. The population was overwhelmingly male. This was just after the Civil War. The South and East had lost an entire generation of men, but were full of young widows and women, who now had little prospect of marrying.

"Asa got the bright idea to import women to Seattle from the East. He got enough venture capital from desperate single men in Seattle to bring back four hundred and fifty potential brides. Due to some bad PR he got in the East just before he departed—it was a long sail around the horn in those days before the Panama Canal—he left for Seattle with only around forty.

"It was a failed plan. Even four hundred and fifty brides would have been a drop in the marriage mart bucket. But it was only supposed to be the first trip." He grinned. "The men understandably lost faith. No brides and their money gone. He couldn't raise enough for a second trip. He did, rather selfishly, secure a bride for himself. Another strike against him getting more money. The poor bastard looked too self-serving. There was some understandable discontent over that.