Grandma snorts. “Perhaps you don’t have enough of his type here.”
I give her a classic I know look. “Yes, I’m aware that my parties don’t entirely cater to his tastes. That’s something to consider for the future.”
“That market will be a tough nut for you to crack, dear.” She flashes me a cherubic smile. “Pun intended.”
“You can’t ever resist the low-hanging fruit.”
“I cannot,” she says with a snicker.
“One more thing. TJ did tell me that Hazel won’t want any intros. She prefers to check the crowd out on her own.”
Coco taps the screen, making a note. “As a lady often wants to do.”
“And I’m all about ladies’ choice,” I say. That’s the point of these parties.
“Hazel’s preferences have already been noted,” she assures me. “Also, she’s bringing a friend. Her invitation came with a plus one of her own choosing.”
I lift a brow. “Of the female variety?”
“But of course.”
“The more the merrier.”
We finish our review, and when my grandmother shuts her tablet, she swings her gaze to the doors. “And in forty-five minutes, a fresh batch of the young and beautiful in Manhattan will filter into the hottest underground party in the city.”
“They aren’t all young. Or pretty,” I say, since I don’t curate based on looks or age. I hand-select a wide range of guests ready for love. “Though, my parties do attract the beautiful and youthful. So sue me.”
Decked out in crisp slacks, and a sapphire designer blouse, my always stylish grandmother drops her voice to a whisper. “But does that mean I have to leave? You wouldn’t want anyone to know, gasp, someone from my generation is here?”
“Please. They’ll all think you’re my sister.”
She tuts. “You’re a terrible liar, Easton. You always have been. I never believed that your sister was the one who gave my precious Siamese cat a mohawk.”
“That was Rory in her hairdresser phase. Not me.” I will deny that until my dying day.
“A grandmother knows.” She points to my mouth. “Your lips twitch right there at the corner when you fib.”
“Not true,” I say, fighting like hell against the twitch.
“But truly, no one will notice me,” she says, with a light shrug. “Once a woman is over forty, she becomes invisible, and I’m a few days over that number.”
“You couldn’t be invisible to a soul,” I tell her. “And maybe we’ll find your Mister Right tonight.”
She waggles her phone. “Mister Right will be on Tinder if he even exists.”
Did she just utter the name of my enemy? “Tinder? That’s sacrilege.”
“Time is ticking for dames like me. Plus, my standards for Mister Right are . . . hmmm . . . a Viagra prescription and . . .” Her gaze drifts to the scalloped ceiling. “Actually, that’s about it. Just the little blue pill, and I’m good to go.”
“You don’t even want someone who can drive at night?”
“Silly boy. I have my own driver.”
“And he’s your getaway driver too if you don’t feel comfortable when you’re out on a date, right?” Maybe I’m being a tad big brother with my grandmother, but I’m okay with that.
“Of course. And if he isn’t around, I’ll use that app you installed last week.”
“The one that pages me so I can call you with a fake emergency.” Coco hits one button and boom—I get an alert. Now, that is a handy app.
“Right. As soon as you hear ‘Like a Virgin,’ you give me a ring,” she says with a cheeky grin.
I exaggerate a sigh. “That’s what I get for letting you pick the ringtone.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to hear it. But when you do, we’ll pretend Priscilla has a broken nail.”
“Cat emergency. Got it,” I say.
“And now, onto other matters.” She points to the door. “May the great season of romance in Manhattan begin, Mister Modern-day Gatsby.”
It’s no accident I wore the literary-inspired costume to Spencer’s party the other week. That’s how I like to think of myself.
Whether or not he’s a likable character, I simply do not care. I only need to be likable enough to woo Manhattan’s singles, the ones hungry and willing to pay a hefty entry fee to attend my exclusive events. This city ought to throw me a party as the most successful matchmaker in all of Manhattan.
The how we met stories that feature my parties will soon outnumber all the “let me tell you about everything that went wrong on my last dates” tales that women share.
I want better for female-kind.
Whether Gatsby or I are likable hardly matters. I’m not on the market. But so many people are, and I can give them a chance at true happiness.
So why the fuck wouldn’t I?
As the clocks strikes eight, I nod to Coco, who hangs back by the piano.
She smiles, mouthing off you go.
The music swells with a little “Gershwin meets rap” mix befitting the mood. Channeling my inner Clooney in my tailored charcoal suit and crisp black shirt, I stride to the double doors. Swinging them open, I let in the first stream of intelligent people, outgoing people, nervous people, and, most of all, amorous people.