“Unless he’s the size of a porn star.” Emma picked up the remote and hit play. “Then you should take him to The Taco Bar. Maybe sneak him into the back and confirm that he sent you a picture of his dick. If he did, there’s nothing wrong with a little physical passion.”
“If that’s
his response, I’ll ignore the message and move on.” Lucy set the computer on the coffee table. She turned her attention to the T.V. “I can’t slip into the back of Jared and Finn’s place to find out what my date is hiding in his boxers.”
I had my chance for that. And I stopped with a kiss.
From her brother’s best friend. A billionaire playboy. A man who thought that looking for “magic” on a first date was asking for the impossible. A man who kissed like he knew how to deliver passion.
But it was just a kiss, and it didn’t come with a guarantee of great sex.
Because I didn’t strip off his pants.
Yet.
And I won’t. I can’t. I’m going out with Mr. Arm Porn.
Philip Ryder sounded like her dream date. He’d cut to the heart of her hopes and dreams with one paragraph on a dating website. He hadn’t used full sentences. But still, it was exactly what she wanted to hear.
From Jared.
She reached for the popcorn bowl and stuffed a half-popped kernel in her mouth. Philip Ryder needed to send her a message. Now. Before she lost her mind over her brother’s best friend.
“Wake up.”
Lucy opened her eyes. The Gilmore Girls were still on the T.V., but she’d lost interest hours ago. Lifting her head off the plush throw pillow, she glanced around their living room. Nicole had passed out in the armchair. But Emma was hunched over her laptop, her legs folded underneath her.
Emma looked up from the screen. “He wrote back. And there’s a picture.”
“Of what?”
“I didn’t open it.” Emma held out the computer. “That’s personal. I don’t want to interfere.”
“That’s where you draw the line?” Lucy stretched her arms overhead as she sat up. Then she took the computer from her self-appointed matchmaker and clicked on the message.
Dear Daring Lucy,
I’ll match you risk for risk.
Risk one: sending this picture. You want to know something about me? I work hard and I love it. Some weeks, I live at my desk. But I play hard too.
Risk two: asking you to send me a picture in return. I want to know more about your ‘passions’ too.
Sweet Dreams,
Mr. Workaholic
“Well?” Emma demanded.
“I haven’t opened the attachment. Just the message,” Lucy said. “He’s matching me risk for risk.”
“I like him.” Emma stood. She picked up the remote and turned off the T.V. “Give him a chance, Lucy. You should have dinner with this one. He already sounds more promising than the last dozen dudes you went out with to escape the sucky fact your fiancé left.”
“That’s not why—”
“Yes, it is,” Emma said easily. “You wanted to prove that you could move on. And you did that with a dozen jerks and losers. Now it’s time to get serious about someone you might actually like or stop wasting your time.”
Is that what she’d been doing? Running from her heartbreak? Trying to prove to herself that she could claim the future she wanted? The one that had slipped through her fingers like the sand from Palm Beach’s shore.