But the more I linger on the past, the more I’ll lose sight of the future.
So as the band plays, I’m half here, half not. I take mental notes on whether I’d want this band to play at one of my venues.
But I don’t break out a voice note.
If any of these fuckers busted me, then dared me to go find a woman to woo, I wouldn’t actually want to kiss anybody else.
Go figure.
13
A Dating God
The CEO of Victoire walks me to the elevators. A tall, statuesque Black woman, Angeline is as elegant as the watches she peddles. “It’ll be good to be in business with you, Mister Ford.”
“And you as well, Miss Damon,” I say, pleased we sealed the sponsorship deal.
She stabs the elevator button with a purple fingernail. “And maybe I can work up the nerve to take you up on your offer of an invite someday.”
I laugh. “You? Nerve? I saw you negotiate like an expert. You’re all nerve, Miss Damon.”
She laughs too. “My nerve is reserved for the boardroom. I can be pure swagger in there. Out there?” She waves a strong arm toward the windows of her Park Avenue office building. “It’s a jungle, and men don’t always want a tiger.”
I scoff. “Men. They don’t often know what’s good for them.”
She nods sagely. “Isn’t that the truth?”
“But seriously, if you’re looking for romance, you should come to a party. As I said before, you have an open invitation. And I know some great guys for you.”
Already I can picture introducing her to a book editor, a venture capitalist, an athlete, and I tell her as much. “They’re all game for love,” I add.
Angeline shudders. Lifting her phone from her pants pocket, she clutches the device to her chest. “This is my lifeline. The in-person stuff? I’m just going to watch from the sidelines for now.”
But online dating comes with its own challenges, not to mention risks. I’m talking about trouble a lot worse than eggplant shots you didn’t ask for. Angeline is a wise woman, though, and knows the score. She doesn’t need a lecture from a guy. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my thirty-six years on Earth, it’s that mansplaining is never needed.
The elevator arrives. “The Carpe Diem doors are always open for you, Miss Damon. And if there’s ever a man you have in mind,” I say, then lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “just let me know. I’ll grease any wheels to make an intro.”
She laughs. “You’re a regular Cupid.”
“The Greek god. Not the cute baby in a diaper.”
She stares at me sharply. “A dating god, of course.”
“I’ll take that.” I say goodbye then whisk down several stories, through the lobby, and out to Lexington Avenue on my way to meet Bellamy at the chocolate shop. The deal-making winds are at my back, thanks to putting Victoire safely in my pocket.
I send a text to Rory.
* * *
Your favorite brother: I have been elevated from rock star status to god. AKA, I sealed the deal with Victoire.
* * *
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: Ooh! Get me that super-fancy watch. I can sell it on Craigslist and pay my rent for a year.
* * *
Your favorite brother: Please. That’s two years’ rent.
* * *
Mom and Dad’s favorite child: I WILL MEET YOU ON THE CORNER OF ANYWHERE AND ANYWHERE FOR THE DROP.
* * *
P.S. Congrats. Take me to dinner tonight. I like Vietnamese.
* * *
Your favorite brother: Done.
* * *
I tuck the phone away, but I don’t bother to try to wipe the satisfied grin from my face.
The last year has been a great one for Carpe Diem. Plus, I can snag dates when I want. I can’t complain about my lifestyle, avoiding serious romance for me, but bringing it to others.
That’s where Bellamy comes in.
An appearance on her podcast could be a boon to business. So I’ll be a very good boy today.
As I walk, I pop in my earbuds, and hum along to the Cannons tune on a new playlist TJ sent out to the crew.
A few blocks later, I’m fifteen minutes early for Bellamy so I can peruse the shelves at Lulu’s Chocolates for gifts for Mom and Grandma. Maybe even Rory too. I turn into the teal blue shop, ready to inhale the scent of chocolate and get the lay of the land when—
“I like anything with caramel.”
Turning my head in the direction of that pretty voice, I quickly adjust to the surprise.
I’ve been beaten at my own planning game. Bellamy’s earlier than I am. She’s already claimed a spot in the corner of the chocolate shop, her purse and notebook resting on a white wooden table. She kicks one foot back and forth, silver flats on her feet. Faded jeans hug her long, lean legs, and some kind of soft, pale pink fabric has the good fortune to snuggle up against her breasts. A few buttons are undone, revealing a white lace cami beneath the blouse. Her chestnut hair curls over her shoulders, and her brown eyes are just . . . whoa.