Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) (3 page)

And there it was. Her unbelievable way of saying something so abruptly, so startlingly honest. No swaying her hips or making coffee in his kitchen or batting her long lashes. He’d been primed for her usual game playing, but totally unprepared for honesty.

She glanced over at him, her expression open, vulnerable—because of their past or the memories she rehashed about her parents? He didn’t know.

Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip again. “Maybe you’d consider just a few dates.”

“Or maybe you could club me over the head and shove me in the Dumpster out back.”

“Five dates, that’s all I’m asking.” She looked like she wanted to shake him. Or strangle him. Or both.
Feeling’s mutual, angel
.

“That’s more than just a few favor dates, Jane.” A swift pain kicked him in the gut. She’d dragged herself over to his condo to save her company, but she didn’t give two shits about him. Not if she was so eager to fix him up with another woman. “Forget it.”

“If you could just—listen.” She pulled a copy of the magazine article from her back pocket and unfolded it onto the counter. “Every single woman in town knows you’re the year’s sexiest bartender. I could sign ten new clients tomorrow based on your profile picture alone.”

“My what?”

A nervous smile belied her bold approach and she tapped the article with her index finger. “Your profile picture. Thought I could post it on the Smart Cupid site.”

Man, she was a piece of work.
“Janey, I swear if you—”

She linked her fingers together, pleading. “Four dates.”

He cocked a dark eyebrow. “No.”

“Three.” Her palm hit the granite in one non-negotiable motion. “Final offer.”

“Let me think.” He ran a hand across the stubble on his clenched jaw and pretended to consider the three-date deal. “Since it’s your final offer… Yeah, still, no.”

“No? Honestly, no?”

“Maybe this will work better—
hell
, no.” Ignoring her low growl of frustration, he reached past her and grabbed a bagel out of the bag. “I’m a confirmed bachelor. Confirmed as in pizza is its own food group and football is the fifth season.”

He tilted his mouth closer to hers and she lifted her face as though unable to resist his gravitational pull. That took the edge off his anger. She wasn’t immune to him, never had been. A smile played at the corner of his lips. “If I remember correctly, you used to love football. A little early morning play action.”

She swallowed hard. Oh yeah, his girl had loved a little morning play action.

“And if I remember correctly, you’re not my type.”

Not her type. Go ahead and try to convince yourself, angel
. “Says who?”

Her chin angled in defiance, revealing the flushed skin that burned a trail from the curve of her cheek to the pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. “Says my Ultimate Man List.”

His faint smile widened into a dare as he took a step closer. “Show it to me.”

Her tongue darted across her lips. “I don’t carry it around with me.”

“No?” His smile widened into a grin. “I bet you typed the whole thing into the Notes app on your phone.” Maybe a lucky guess, but she wasn’t denying it.

As a kid, she was always writing lists, penning promises, setting goals. Around seventh grade, he’d pulled a list she’d written out of her jean jacket pocket.
Ten Things I’d Change About Myself
. He’d teased her mercilessly, of course, but, then and now, there wasn’t a damn thing he’d change about her. Wait, no, scratch that. He’d make the grown-up version a helluva lot less… difficult. Although he still sure enjoyed teasing her.

He leaned in and touched his index finger to the end of her nose. “C’mon, Janey. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

“Think you know me so well? Figure out the code and you can have the list.” She moved past him, pulled the phone from the pocket of her coat, and tossed it over to him. “Three tries.”

“A challenge.” He tapped on the back of the phone, willing the damn thing to cough up its secrets. He really wanted to see that list. “Let’s see…is it my birthday?” He winked at her and punched it in. “Nope, not my birthday. Valentine’s Day? After all, you are Cupid.” His fingers flew across the keys. “No, not V-Day either.” Obviously, he needed to think outside the box.

“Strike three and you’re out.”

He took a good long look at her, standing there in his Man Kitchen, all five feet, three inches of Brooklyn confidence. And it hit him. He punched in a code, and hallelujah, all the secrets of the universe, right there in the palm of his hand.

“A sentimental choice,” he said. “The old row house address.” Not at all what he expected.

“Give me the phone.” She made a move to grab, but he lifted it out of her reach and scrolled through the home screen.

“A deal’s a deal, angel.” He tapped on the icon labeled “UML”, and a virtual Post-it Note opened up onto the screen. “Number one is…rule-abiding?” He smirked. “Really?”

A lightning strike of irritation flashed in her eyes. “Playing by the rules can be sexy.”

“Number two…predictable?” Holding back a chuckle, he gave her a skeptical glance and her murderous look said she was seconds away from kicking him in the nuts. But he didn’t care. Her list was too much fun. Right up there with the 2002 classic,
Where to Make Out in Brooklyn.

He circled an arm around her waist and hauled her against his chest. She froze. “Admit it, sometimes it’s fun to be unpredictable and break the rules.”

Her voice was low and quiet. “No.”

“Have it your way, but I know better.” He held her close as he scanned the list, focusing on her compatibility requirements rather than the feel of her in his arms. “Supportive, intelligent, loyal. Now, there’s your top three.”

“Don’t mock the list.”

“And don’t forget, the three C’s: capable, committed, and cute.” He flipped the phone around so she could see it. “Christ, Janey, even I want to marry this guy.”

“You’re an ass.”

He looked down at her and smiled. “You gonna kiss me with that mouth later?”

“Not if you were the last man on earth.”

“Want to make a bet?” he asked, tracing a series of concentric circles on the vulnerable underside of her wrist, a particularly sensitive spot he’d discovered on their second night in the Caymans. He might have sworn off dating, but he wasn’t dead. And, like it or not, the chemistry between them bubbled to the surface like a bottle of Krug Champagne. She’d made a wager—well, he could roll the dice, too. “I’m cute. Are you sure I’m not your type?”

She tilted her chin again, unaware that the gesture created a perfect line from the curve of her throat to the V of her damned pink tee. “Absolutely sure.”

Leaning in extra-close, he whispered in her ear. “Because I’m not rule-abiding and predictable?”

His gaze ran the length of her face, her signature curves, taking pleasure in the darkening of her eyes, the soft quiet of her shallow breathing, the slight tremble of her parted lips. “Would a straitlaced man do this?” With his mouth hovering close enough to feel her breath, his fingers blazed a trail from the inside of her wrist to the base of her throat.

“Charlie, I told you, I want—”

“Reliable and unsurprising. I get it.” He stepped away, annoyed by his heart pounding against his chest. Maybe he’d gone too far, but damn, she drove him bat-shit crazy, and her notion of passion being overrated, and safe being…well, ultimately safe, made him even crazier. There was no safety valve in a relationship. Not in a relationship full of passion and fire, not in the kind of relationship he wanted. He’d set himself up for failure loving her all these years, and the truth hurt. A lot. He tossed her the phone.

She pocketed the cell and smoothed the cotton T-shirt over her hips. “And your list?”

He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, angel, but I’m not interested in any true love list.” He grabbed a bagel from the bag and strode out of the kitchen. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Hey, we had a deal, big guy.”
Always with the nicknames.
She trailed behind him, a routine from their days playing street games after school. She’d always been his “angel”, partly because her brothers were always into trouble, partly because, in some way, he felt like she’d always been there for him, watching out for him after his mom died.

“Big guy” came into play when he’d shot up to over six feet in high school. They’d started to get close, and he suspected she used the nickname like a shield to keep her distance. Damn it, she was tangled up in almost every memory, and seeing her now, the way they reverted back to teasing and touching like she’d never left… No. Nope. No more.

He turned around fast and she was hot on his heels, all amber-eyed and demanding. “That’s it?” she said. “Thanks for breakfast?”

A year ago, he’d fallen for her wide eyes and fast-talking mouth. But a year ago, he’d seriously miscalculated. This morning, it was her turn.

This wasn’t about him, he reminded himself. It wasn’t about missing him, or all the wonderful things they’d shared over twenty years. It was about her winning a bet. A bet that required him dating.

“Did you really think breakfast in bed was enough temptation to get me to dive back into the dating pool?” The corner of his mouth quirked up on one side. “Better think again—unless, of course, it’s an all-naked, all-chemistry kind of breakfast in bed.”

She stood there, arms crossed, all flushed and aggravated, not nearly as immune to his suggestion as she pretended. She still wanted him alright, despite all the safe, specific criteria on that Ultimate Man List she had tucked away like some kind of dating talisman. She needed passion and heat, someone to challenge her and protect her. If she didn’t know that by now, maybe it was time he showed her.

But it was risky.

He’d never been able to resist her. Not back in Brooklyn when she’d slugged him in the gut during a brutal game of Kick the Can. Not when he was in college and she’d begged him to take her to her high school prom on the same night Fast Lily Fox wanted to buy him a beer. Not even a year ago when she’d barreled into his bed, enjoyed a few rounds of multiple rock-and-roll-me-all-night and walked away. Like he was a service elevator or a roundabout.

But if he could get her to admit the chemistry between them? Maybe he could kick her out of his system, even teach her a lesson about the do’s and don’ts of breakups and bar napkins. Seducing Cupid might be the stupidest idea he’d ever had, but what the hell?

“I’ll give you three dates—take it or leave it.”

“Really?” Relief flooded her face, and a sharp pang of guilt shot through his system. “Oh, my God, Charlie, I am so going to take it. Thank you.” She threw herself into his arms and the sweet, vanilla scent of her hair surrounded him like a summer breeze cruising through Manhattan in February, all sunshine and hope. But hope was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He needed to keep his head in the new game.

She pulled away slowly, looking at him with the kind of suspicion a small-town sheriff reserves for the stranger in town. “I’m not being Punk’d, right?”

“No, Jane, you’re not being Punk’d. I’m really saving your ass.”
And giving you a master class—in chemistry.

He smiled down at her—all five-feet nothing so sure of her prepackaged ideas about love. She hadn’t always been so rigid, so hell-bent on logic and criteria, on back-burnering passion. Yeah, this could work. Let her find his match, and when thoughts of him burning up the sheets with a more statistically perfect woman drove her to set her own criteria list on fire, he’d walk away the winner. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Make yourself at home, angel. I’m going back to bed.”

She bit her lip again as her gaze traveled the length of him. For a minute, he considered scrapping his brand-new plan for the old one—hauling her down the narrow hallway into his bedroom. But no, he wanted more—complete recantation of her list and an admission that chemistry counted.

And if he had to go on a few dates to prove his point, to get his life back, well, he was fine with that. He kinda liked the idea of her spending her nights doing a post-analysis of his dates, thinking about him with other women. If she had a little green monster lurking somewhere under her little pink tee, he was ready to poke at it…and poke at it…and poke at it…until it reared its head and bit her right in the ass. A little payback for the cocktail napkin.

He leaned in a little closer. “Wanna join me?”

Chapter Three

@smartCupid Matchmaking is a simple equation: similar values + common goals / by minimal risk = successful long-term relationship.

@AdamDatesRUs No app can find love in five days, Cupid—not in Manhattan.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Charlie grinned that bedroom grin, half sleepy, half ready to play.

Just looking at his stubbly, early-morning jaw made her throat go dry. But, no, she did not want to join him. She didn’t need any more reminders of how well he knew her. In fact, she was changing the code in her phone right now. Her fingers flew across the keys. Better delete all those sexy vacation photos, too.

This was self-preservation.

She needed to maintain her professional distance. Even if he
was
standing within kissing range, looking sexy in pajama bottoms so perfectly formed to the muscles in his hips and thighs that they ought to be criminal. She didn’t dare look at his chest. Those pecs and abs, that wide expanse of smooth, tanned muscle. She swallowed hard. Kept her eyes up. Even if she was in the midst of a dry spell to end all dry spells. She was not about to free-fall. Not again.

No. No. No. She’d been smart to run fast and run far. Because Charlie Goodman was a drug to her, and like any addict, she couldn’t afford even the tiniest hit.

The edges of his mouth pulled up into a lazy smile. “Guess that’s a
no
.”

He turned to walk away, but she caught the back of his pajama pants with her fingertips. When he twisted back around, the gap between the fabric bunched in her hand and his skin offered her an unexpected and spectacular view of his perfect backside. So maybe she’d miscalculated a wee bit in coming here. And maybe she’d forgotten how deliciously rumpled Charlie looked when he first woke up. She was a grown woman, damn it. Not a kid with a crush. She let go of the fabric like her fingertips were on fire and it snapped back against his skin.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” He adjusted the waistband a little bit lower. Her gaze followed the line of the flannel, but when the pants dipped below the line of his hips, her heartbeat skyrocketed. A little further south of the pajama pants border, Charles the Second was waking up—

“Rules. We need rules.”

Given their obvious combustibility factor, surviving this bet would require, well, a few behavioral guidelines. Especially in view of the heavy duty flirting going on. Flirting, she reminded herself, that shouldn’t take place at all, given the circumstances that had torn them apart. Besides, they’d been down this road once before and where had it landed her? Alone with a chocolate addiction and nobody to watch Netflix with. She’d been ignoring Charlie’s hottie factor for more than half her life. She could do this. Reset the programming to the pre-hookup friend zone. Her future depended on it.

“We need ground rules.”

The slow grin that creased his face was pure evil. Okay, so stating the whole need for ground rules pretty much confirmed that he affected her, but she soldiered through for sake of self-preservation. She was only human after all.

He crossed his arms. “Rules, huh?”

Typical. He’d had always been a rule breaker, skipping school, sneaking into the movies… Occasionally he’d hotwire the alarm in his family’s Upper West Side home, bust out, and grab a cab over to Brooklyn to climb up her fire escape and hang out with her way past midnight.

“Yes, rules…because we are not falling into bed together.”
There I said it.
Large Elephant, you may now leave the room.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “We aren’t?”

She opened her mouth to debate the point, shut it, and then tried again. “Rule number one: no more flirting. And for the record, the whole lowering your pants trick totally constitutes flirting.”

“You’re the one staring at my ass, talking about falling back into bed together.”

“I was not staring at your—” She drew in a long breath and fought back a sudden urge to run for safety. But she’d made the bet, and now she was going to have to deal with it.

“If you want a peek, all you have to do is ask.”

Her fists formed into tight balls at her sides. “I was not staring at your ass and I was definitely not talking about falling into bed together.”

“You were, but it’s okay. Next time, we can skip the talking and just do it.”

Ignoring him, she jabbed two fingers into the space between them. “Rule number two: no kissing.”

“You mean like this?” He bent to kiss the sweet spot just behind her right ear, the one that made her fold like a greeting card. Her hands flew up to push him away but when they met his chest, that sculpted hard chest, her hands stopped working.

“No, I do not mean…” Halfway through her sentence, she convinced her arms to move and she pushed him away. After a long, slow breath, she started again. “No exceptions. Rules are rules and kissing is kissing, and just because you know how to do it doesn’t mean I’m going to fall, because I am not falling—”

He leaned into her personal space. “That’s part of your problem, you know. Rules may be rules, but kissing
isn’t
just kissing. Every woman is different.”

She arched a dark brow in his direction. “You ought to know.”

Rather than derail him, her taunt seemed to inspire him. “I know that a smart man kisses each woman in just the right way. Some women need long, slow, tender kisses. Some want a man to tug on her lips, teasing, biting softly. Then there’s you—”

Head low, she raised both palms into the air and stepped away from him. “Enough already. You heard the rules.”

“Rules are no problem for me because I usually ignore them.” As he moved oh-so-slowly back into her personal zone, her double-dealing heart did a cartwheel in her chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, angel, I’m not a play-it-by-the-rules guy.” He twisted a curl between his fingers, the movement sweet and intimate. “Or maybe you’ve forgotten…

No. When it came to Charlie, she couldn’t forget. Hell, this morning was proof positive. Even after her self-imposed six-month Charlie-hiatus, their chemistry threatened to burn through her rules like a blowtorch. She pressed her palms against his chest and gave him a quick, not-so-gentle shove. “Will you get dressed, please? Sooner, rather than later.”

“Later sounds better to me.”

“If you’re going to show me your game, I need you fully-clothed.”

He gave her that patented look and said, “Angel, you already know my best game moves do
not
require clothing.”

She let go an impatient sigh. “Dating game moves, big guy, not sex-in-the-hallway moves.” They fell back into the routine so easily, the bantering, the nicknames, it was hard to believe it had been months since she last saw him.

“You’ve got something against sex in the hallway?” He eyed the walls like he was picking which one he’d take her against. Her traitorous stomach fluttered at the thought.

No. No fluttering stomachs. Damn it.

Focus, Jane. Focus
.

She cleared her throat. “Just take me somewhere you’d take a date. We’ll discuss your ideal woman, and I can assess where we need work, okay?” She waved him away. “Now hurry up and get your groove on.”

He stood there, half-naked and smiling. “You make it sound so dirty.” He turned to walk down the hallway, tugging at the pajama bottoms. “Can’t a guy at least get a shower?”

“Hey, keep it covered, buddy.”

“Nothing you haven’t enjoyed before.
Multiple times
.”

Outside the bathroom, he turned and gave her a wicked smile before removing his pants. “I’ll make it quick. Not like usual. Put these in the laundry for me, will you?”

Her eyes narrowed on the pajama pants as they sailed through the air to land in a pile at her feet. Karma in blue-striped flannel. This was exactly why she never gambled. But now that she’d made the last bet she’d ever make, she needed to face facts.

Matching Charlie Goodman was going to be even trickier than she thought.