Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) (2 page)

Chapter Two

@Goodman Never open your door before nine am. #
earlyamwakeupcall #bartenderhell

“No comment.”

Charlie pressed end call on his third interview request of the morning. In truth, plenty of R-rated comments had flown to the tip of his tongue, but it was too early to resort to profanity. Even if profanity was justified.

He tossed the phone onto the leather recliner next to the bed, rolled over, and pressed his face into the warm pillowcase. He needed a break. Since Jane’s early morning television bet hit social media, he’d been fielding call after call about his love life, and every one of them made him want to remain single, possibly for all eternity.

The phone chimed again. He eyed another unrecognized number, reached for the cell and powered it down. Christ, it was barely eight thirty. He shoved his head under the pillow. All he wanted to do was get some sleep, and forget about the way he’d felt watching Janey on
The Today Show
. But the morning’s hell simply refused to go away.

“Charlie? Charlie, open the door, it’s me.”

He dragged his head out from under the pillow, his body suddenly on red-alert. There was only one person in New York with the kind of nerve required to knock at his door this early. His ex-friend, ex-lover, ex-whatever.

Ex-Janey.

“I know you’re in there, Charlie.”

He groaned into the mattress, hating the fact that his name on her lips still drove him absolutely crazy. He hadn’t seen her in six months, but what red-blooded man wouldn’t respond to that Jameson-laced voice this early in the morning? Especially when he could still hear it whispering sexy little demands into his ear. Could still remember her gold-flecked eyes warming as he rained kisses across her skin, kissing every inch of her until she begged him to make love to her. Not that he was imagining that scenario right now. That scenario led straight back to Hell.

No, all he wanted right now was to go back to sleep and forget all about how her bet had put his marital status on the chopping block.

“Charlie, open up.”

Relentless. The woman was relentless. He covered his head with the pillow again, but she refused to go away, pounding on the door like a crazed trick-or-treater out to score a Twix bar.

“Charlie Goodman, open the damn door!”

He muttered his protest into the mattress. If he let the pummeling continue, a petition by his neighbors to kill him—or worse, kick him out of the building—seemed inevitable. He landed a right hook into the mattress and considered his choice. Death, or eviction from an uptown co-op. Tough call in Manhattan. The threat of eviction ultimately forced him to toss aside the pillow and climb out of bed. He dragged on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, a safeguard against the chill in the early morning air. Somebody needed to teach the woman some manners. He trudged down the hall, tearing at his bedhead with both hands. Late nights at the bar meant he was not an early riser, a fact she damned well knew. She knocked again.

“Holy Mother of all matchmakers, I’m coming!”

He swung open the door and there she was, inches away, fist half-cocked, skin flushed a pretty pink, smiling up at him like an angel.

For a moment—yes, a sad and very naïve moment—he thought maybe she’d come to apologize, to reconcile and admit she’d made a mistake. The single voicemail she’d actually bothered to leave had said only, “We need to talk.” But she wasn’t looking apologetic this morning. He caught the glint in her bourbon-colored eyes, the set of her jaw. He knew that expression too well. So the angel had an agenda.
Figured
.

Still, she looked good after all this time, standing there in his hallway, her lips curved, her short, dark hair mussed and curling around her ears. Her form-fitting jeans and low-cut shirt beneath her open coat were a one-two punch, designed to bring a man straight to his knees, and God help him, he was seconds away from hitting the ground. He narrowed his bleary eyes. Maybe she was a dream and if he went back to bed, she’d disappear. He made a move to shut the door and she stopped it with her foot.

“Peace offering.” She held up a red and white checkered bag, which he knew would be filled with the world’s most perfect bagels.

As if bagels erased the past six months. He ignored the bag. “How did you get past the doorman?”

“You mean Benny?”

“Yes. The doorman. Benny.”

Another grin slid across her face, this one as easy as melted butter. Yup, he knew that look, too. He bet his poor doorman hadn’t stood a chance. “I may have also brought him a dozen bagels from Hot and Crusty, which may or may not be his favorite bagel place.”

He leaned a weary shoulder against the frame. “Good to hear Doorman Benny can be bribed with a few bagels and a tub of cream cheese.”

“Pecan honey cream cheese.” She tucked a curl behind her ear, all innocent and sweet. “Are you going to let me in?”

“That depends.” He scrubbed at his unshaven face with his hands. Did she really think she could bust in and steamroll him with breakfast? “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” When she didn’t answer, he reframed the question. “Jane, what the hell do you want?”

She smiled and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “What makes you think I want something?”

He ticked off a list of reasons on his fingertips. “Let’s see. That smile, that look, the fact that the last time I set eyes on you was six months ago, the fact that you’ve avoided me ever since. And, oh yeah, the fact that you called thirteen times this morning. Even left a message.”

“You refused my calls, so I decided to stop by and up the ante.” Her hip jutted to one side in that uncompromising way of hers. “Guess I’m not a straight-to-voicemail kind of girl.”

Oh, and what about all the times she’d avoided his calls? Nah, he wouldn’t go there. Better to find out exactly what she wanted and be done with it. Dredging up the past wouldn’t change anything.

“Tell me what you’re doing here, Jane, and give it to me straight. We both know you don’t flirt without an agenda.” She wet her lips to object, but he held up his palm. “Don’t even try to pretend those bagels aren’t flirting.”

“Can’t a girl stop by for breakfast?” She peeked around the doorframe, and her neckline dipped enough to give him a glimpse of what he had missed. “Unless you’re not alone?”

“I’m alone. But I’m only letting you in if you drop the act.” His eyes fell to the deep V of her shirt and he weighed his options. Grab the bagels and shut the door, or let her in and hear her out. He took the bag and waved her curves inside
.

Her sweet vanilla scent filled the air as she strolled past him like she owned the damned place. As usual, it sent his brain into a tailspin. His thoughts detoured to the street games they’d played as kids, before returning to the more risqué games they’d played as adults.

He kicked the door closed and followed her into his Man Kitchen—concrete floors, stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, but not a lot of actual food or supplies. She dropped her parka on the table before working her way through his mostly-empty cabinets, collecting the stuff to make coffee.

Normally, he got coffee at the corner store, but he still kept some on hand for Janey. Before The Cocktail Napkin Incident, they’d hung out all the time. Poker nights, pasta nights, martini Tuesdays. She’d bought him that damn coffee maker with its automatic timer and programmed it for him so when he finally woke after his long-ass shifts, he’d have a hot pot of French vanilla or mocha or whatever frou-frou flavored roast she’d insisted he try. Shit, he’d even grown fond of that holiday spiced java.

Some old habits needed a sledgehammer.

“You look good,” she said, all casual and easy, like it was just another morning,

Now, there was a curve ball. Playing the whole for-old-time’s-sake card.

“Yeah, well, you always liked the unshaven look.”

“A lot of women do. Like the unshaven look.” She bit her bottom lip. “A lot of perfectly nice, perfectly dateable women.”

No points for subtlety
, he thought, folding his arms across his chest, waiting for her to cop to
The Today Show
disaster. No doubt she expected to wrap him around her little finger like she had when they were kids. No crisis too big, no detail too small. He’d always been there, too, but not anymore. Not after the cocktail napkin.

“The situation is kind of funny, actually,” she said, opening a can of dark roast with the kind of focus normally reserved for splitting atoms. “I, um, I need a little favor.”

As expected. Right on schedule.

“You need a favor, huh?” He leaned back against the counter, ready to listen before he told her to go to hell. “This oughta be good.”

“It’s just one little favor.” She took two mugs from the cabinet. “See, I was kind of maneuvered into a little wager with a competitor…”

“Really? A bet?”

“…and I bet I could find true love for any New Yorker in five days.”

He opened the bag of freshly baked bagels and stuck his nose inside, buying himself a minute to compose his thoughts. “That’s a helluva wager, Jane.”

And not at all typical. Her father was a compulsive gambler, always chasing a score or a skirt. It had torn her family apart. He knew Janey steered clear of that particular vice. Hell, the whole platform for her matchmaking service was based on science, the idea that you didn’t have to gamble on love.

“It gets worse, because the terms of the bet get… a little…personal.”

His gaze flicked to her, but her attention remained glued to the half-filled can of coffee. For as long as he’d known her, Janey had always been a straight shooter. Now, she wouldn’t even look at him.

“You see,” she began. “We incorporated a new matrix into our dating app—”

He tossed the Hot and Crusty bag across the kitchen and it landed on the counter in front of her with a thud. She turned to look at him.
Message received.

No more games.
“What does this new dating app have to do with me?”

She bit down on her bottom lip. “According to the terms of the bet, I have to match you.”

“Match me, huh?” Finally, her cards were on the counter. “And was that your idea? Or Kathie Lee’s?”

“You son-of-a—” She looked back at him, all wide, tawny eyes and soft, chestnut curls, and it took most of his control not to throw her down on the granite. For old time’s sake.

“Watch the language, angel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew about the bet?” She turned her back to him and tossed four over-sized tablespoons of coffee into the filter. “Might’ve saved me some trouble.”

“Trouble? You love trouble. Besides, watching you try to work me was fun. But whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”

He’d broken a few rules in his life. Jumped the rotary in the subway when he was a kid. Skipped class at Columbia. Even rode his motorcycle on the Long Island Expressway without a helmet. But there were some rules he refused to break. Letting his ex match him with another woman? Nope. Never. Not in a million years.

“Call it off.”

But she was already shaking her head. “I can’t call it off. I’m not a welsher. And it’s too late, anyway. If I don’t match you, I’ll lose my company. Smart Cupid could never recover if I walked away.” She shoved the filter in place. “The bet’s all over the news, the internet… The show even wants to do daily progress updates.”

“Progress updates?”

“On your love status.”

He groaned. This was worse than he thought. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious, and even if I could call it off, which I can’t, the whole thing got picked up by
NY Singles
, too, so it’s already all over town.” She jabbed violently at the red brew button and the machine clicked on.

Hence the reporters hounding him.

“Wow, you really fucked up this time, Janey.” Her mouth opened with another of her patented objections, but he shot her a look that warned her to back off. “I don’t date. Not since the woman I considered a friend and made love to for six wild, incredibly memorable nights dumped me via a cocktail napkin.”

She closed her mouth and gave him a short nod. “Right.”

He leaned his hip against the granite counter. “Hard to believe, but when a man finds a Dear Charlie note shoved under a bottle of Makers Mark, it sort of kills the whole dating thing.”

“The whole thing?” she asked.

“Kills it.” He made a quick ninja move and folded his arms over his chest, wondering if she’d throw him a bone, or an apology. A quick,
I’m sorry. I fucked up
. Anything to ease the hurt that filled his chest every time he thought about the way she’d tossed him and their lifetime of friendship aside—literally like a bar napkin.

But all he heard was the sound of percolating coffee, until…

“I can’t lose, Charlie.” Her hand fell to his forearm, but he stepped out of her reach. “I know you’re angry, and after the…well…the breakup, and a few other not-so-great moves, I probably don’t deserve your help, but we’ve known each other a long time, been friends a long time, and—”

“Right. Friends.” The word ripped through him. Talk about a sucker-punch to his heart—not to mention his ego.

“Yes. I got conned into the situation, but I can’t lose this bet. I can’t lose the chance to prove that love can be a logical, rational choice, not just some passionate mistake that ends up with somebody left behind like an afterthought. Like my mom.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t take that. I mean, she loved my dad like he was the only man in town, crazy, passionate, stupid love, but he still left us, right? He left because playing cards—or betting the ponies—”

She looked away, only half talking to him, half to herself. “And now I’ve made this bet that risks everything, all my scientific theories, my reputation… And it’s not just about me. What about my employees, my clients? The publicity will make or break my company. If I have to publicly admit defeat…” She tugged hard on her right ear, the childhood-tell of a gambler’s daughter, about to lay all her cards on the table. “I can’t lose. I won’t.”