“I hate it when you’re right.”
“That’s why I play Belle.” Emma paused in the archway leading to the hall and the stairs. “She’s the smart princess. Your girl fell for the first guy she met at a ball and lost her shoe.”
“Depends on which version you read. In some stories, Cinderella knew the prince first. As a man, not just a gorgeous, single and very powerful member of the royal family.”
“And she still lost her shoe. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just try to toss them away for the right guy.” Emma pointed at the computer. “Open that picture and respond tonight.”
“You’re not my fairy godmother, Em.”
Emma laughed as she headed for the stairs. “I’m so much more than that. I’m your matchmaker.”
“Great,” Lucy muttered as her friend’s footsteps faded. She didn’t need a matchmaker. She had profiles on three different dating sites. Well, four now thanks to Emma. She sighed and turned back to the screen. In a few hours, she needed to be dressed to play her part again for another little girl’s dream party. She should follow her friend up the stairs and head to bed . . .
Or I could end this right now. One picture of his face and I’ll learn why his profile highlighted his arms.
She clicked on the picture. The image filled a portion of the scene. Her eyes widened, and she cocked her head to drink in the full wow factor. She’d expected a man’s face. But this shot didn’t tell her the color of his eyes.
Philip Ryder, the self-described workaholic, had sent her a picture of his desk. Judging from the angle, the phone—or whatever he’d used to capture this insight into his world—was sitting on the far edge. He hadn’t bothered to angle the camera. A stack of papers filled one side of the picture and continued above the top of the image. On the right, she spotted a pen. The generic, black ballpoint didn’t offer a clue as to where he worked. But unless this was his home office, Philip Ryder had taken a big risk by posing for this picture.
A man’s hands rested on the desk’s edge between the stack of papers on the left and what looked like a paperweight on the right. Muscular forearms filled most of the shot. But his abs covered the background like mouth-watering wallpaper. No shirt. Just a sculpted six-pack on full display. If he’d worn pants, the camera had cut them off.
She should close the message and send a quick thanks, but no thanks note. She had rules about ab pics.
But this one is just for me. I asked for a picture that showed something about him.
“He’s still at work.” Lucy glanced at the digital clock on the cable box. One in the morning on a Saturday night and this man was at work.
Shirtless.
She studied the image for more clues. She couldn’t see much of the room beyond his muscles. Papers covered the desk’s surface. And that paperweight . . . oh wow, that was not a paperweight.
A pair of metal handcuffs rested beside his pen, one cuff stacked on top of the other. But I play hard too. He’d written that in his message. And he wasn’t talking about surfing on the weekends. Philip Ryder, the poster man for arm porn, possessed lickable abs. And he liked his toys.
I want to play with him.
Her imagination kicked into overdrive. She pictured that body, those arms coupled with Jared’s face. She saw his playful smile as he dangled the handcuffs in front of her. She completed the wicked fantasy with her clothes piled in the corner as she held out her wrists. His desk, his bed, up against the wall—the location didn’t matter. Her body begged for this mystery workaholic to take her. Heat pooled between her legs. Her brain, drugged by this picture, sent a misguided signal to her breasts: High alert! We’re about to get down and dirty.
She imagined his lips touching her, offering a hard, demanding kiss as he secured her hands. She’d never tried handcuffs. Not even with the man she’d planned to marry. But she wanted to cast her inhibition aside. She would lose herself in this imaginary kiss that felt . . . familiar.
As if she’d seen those arms somewhere. Or touched those abs before.
In The Taco Bar’s supply closet. When Jared pressed his lips to mine.
But Jared’s face didn’t belong in her fantasy. She refused to spend the next month, or even the next week, reliving Jared’s kiss. He would disappear back to New York and move on with another one of his arm-candy girlfriends. Sure, he had claimed that she wasn’t another one of his affairs. But she couldn’t trust his words. She’d know him for years. He’d always placed work first—like Philip Ryder, the workaholic.
Still, Philip put himself out there. He was looking for a relationship. Why else would he waste his precious work hours creating a Fated for Love profile?
To get laid like the rest of the jerks she’d dated.
Lucy picked up the computer and headed for her office. If she let her cynicism win, if she stopped taking chances and going on dates, she’d never find the man who could deliver the future she wanted. Watching the Gilmore Girls with her single girlfriends wouldn’t lead to marriage.
She headed for the office space across the hall. Setting her laptop on the loveseat, she pulled out her phone and propped it up on the desk using a silver, plastic crown left over from one of the parties. Her fingers toyed with edge of her pink tank top. She dressed for her girl’s night in head-to-toe Victoria’s Secret, from her white lace demi-bra to her Pink branded yoga pants and sleeveless tank. But she knew that if she took this picture and sent it to a virtual stranger that she ran the risk the image wouldn’t stay secret for long.
Take a chance. He might be worth it.
She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it on the loveseat beside the laptop. Then she folded the band on her yoga pants down revealing her abs. She didn’t have a six-pack. Not even close. But the crunches she attempted once in awhile left behind a hint of definition. She rested her left palm against the desk and reached for her phone with her free hand.
Click. Click. Click.