“I don’t date girls without a thigh gap,” he said as if most men considered this a requirement. Like a college degree—which wasn’t on her resume—or the ability to whip up a homemade meal.
“But I figured the people at the mouse’s camp already checked you,” he continued.
Lucy glanced down at the beer protruding from his drink. She wanted to pluck the upside down bottle from the margarita glass and crack it over his head. In his pre-date emails, Hugh—or Hugh’s literate and personable friend—had claimed he was looking to settle down. She suspected the only place her date wished to settle was between her legs. If she met his physical requirements. She hadn’t thought to check the space between her thighs while dressing for her date.
What about you, Hugh? While we’re talking requirements, how long is your penis?
Not that a man’s equipment was a make or break relationship requirement. Still, she suspected this asshat measured himself.
She pressed the heels of her hands against the table’s wooden edge. She wanted the complete picture—a great guy, a happy marriage, and a baby one day. But, finding that prince? Like searching for a needle hidden behind a unicorn in a haystack.
And Hugh wasn’t her man. Not even close. No, this guy was the dried unicorn poop clinging to the hay.
“Excuse me.” Still smiling, she pushed back from the table. She stood, turned, and then headed for the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. She pulled out her phone as she walked and dialed for help. Right now, she didn’t need a white knight to rush to her rescue. She needed a princess.
Her cell rang twice, and then a familiar voice asked her to leave a message. Lucy ended the call. She prepared to type a quick text as she slipped past a hurried server and into the kitchen. She glanced up from the screen and offered the bustling kitchen a smile.
One of the line cooks, Minny—short for Manuel—looked up. “What the—” The tall, slim chef went from pissed off to beaming in the blink of an eye. “Lucy-loo, are you running away again?”
“Guilty as charged,” she called.
The other cooks kept their focus on the food in front of them. The kitchen felt as if it was on high alert, as if a critic had stopped by south Florida’s most popular Tex-Mex restaurant. She turned, planning to head for a quiet corner out of the way, and spotted him.
No, no, no!
She did not just walk away from her disaster date and straight into her brother’s boss. Forget about finding the needle in the hay, she’d just run into the unicorn. Jared Mitchell, her brother’s best friend turned fearless business leader—or according to Jared, his partner—was south Florida’s most sought after bachelor. Wealthy, charming, sexy in a hand-me-your-panties way—he was a bonafide unicorn. Men like him were a mirage, a piece of the fictional lure that kept women dating and hoping and then dating some more, trying to find that elusive prince charming.
But if he’s so perfect, why hasn’t he settled down? Or dated one woman for more than a week?
His blue eyes alone weren’t enough to draw women to him, one after another according to the local paper’s society pages. But his intense, playful gaze coupled with a roguish smile? What woman wouldn’t want to date him? A chance to see his dimples up close before running her hands over his broad shoulders.
Forget reading the society page, I could start writing for them.
About her brother’s best friend.
The unicorn.
“Jared, what are you doing here?” she demanded. She held her ground. He wouldn’t ensnare her with those baby blues.
“Eating a taco?” Jared’s low voice held a hint of humor.
“I thought you were in New York for the summer,” she said. Not hiding in my Bad Date Sanctuary.
He shrugged. “We’re trying to close the deal with the DeVilla sugar company this fiscal quarter, so I came home.”
He lowered the crunchy corn shell, and a piece of shredded lettuce fell onto the napkin draped over his lap. Her gaze followed the rogue vegetable. Beneath the napkin, he wore jeans. Probably designer, but still blue jeans, not one of his fancy suits or a pair of khaki golf shorts. And beneath the jeans, she suspected that he completed her fantasy of the perfect man, perfectly equipped . . .
Stop right there. I’m not looking for a walking, talking bedroom fantasy, she thought. Or a one-night stand with a man she’d known since grade school. And if her brother found out?
She looked up at his familiar face. Blue eyes, strong jaw, wavy brown hair. Jared belonged on a movie set or dining with a socialite in a five-star restaurant—one of his five-star, fine-dining places—not the hot, bustling kitchen of a good but cheap place popular with the under-thirty crowd. Plus, he’d celebrated his milestone birthday last spring. He’d hit the big three-o.
The thirty-year-old billionaire set his half-eaten taco on his plate and wiped his hands. Big, powerful hands that would take a swing at Thigh-Gap Hugh if she asked. He would probably claim that he was stepping in for Finn, her flesh-and-blood brother, when he landed the first punch. Because Jared thought of her as a sister.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” he said. “But please, pull up a chair and tell me why you’re eating in my kitchen three nights a week.”
She shot a reproachful look at Minny. But the sous chef only shrugged, his gaze still fixed on his culinary creation. She turned back to Jared. “My brother only lets me go on dates at your restaurants.”
“Finn’s a smart man. Also, this is his place too. He owns half of the restaurant portfolio.” Jared gestured to the other side of the table. “Join me. I’ll pour you a sample of this new top-shelf tequila. I just opened it. Haven’t even tried it yet.”