“He still hasn’t called. I think planning the wedding and how we’ll spend his money is a little premature,” Lucy said dryly.
“Have you checked your email?” Emma asked, turning in the front passenger seat to look back at her. “Voicemail?”
“A message from a potential client, and another from my dentist reminding me I’m due for a cleaning. I checked in the bathroom halfway through the visit.” The phone had been dancing in her bag throughout the visit. A buzz here. Another there. She withdrew it from the bag and glanced at the screen. Her eyes widened. “Jared didn’t call, but Philip Ryder sent me a Fated for Love message. I just received the alert.”
“Open it!” Emma demanded.
Lucy’s fingers tapped on the cell phone screen. “I’m trying. The stupid app wants my password again.” An “invalid password” message flashed on the screen. She held out the phone to her princess sister Anna in the front seat. “Here. You do it. You started this.”
Emma snatched the phone and started pecking at the screen.
Lucy’s fingers toyed with the end of the wig’s long braid. Just because she was excited to read the message . . .
“Oh no,” she whispered. “I want Philip. Not Jared.”
“Same person,” Nicole said sagely. “You want the fun, playful suitor.”
“True.” Lucy looked to Emma. “Did you get in yet?”
“Here. You read it.” Princess Anna handed the phone over the center console and into the Toyota’s cramped backseat. “He sent another picture too.”
See you tonight, princess.
Your,
Workaholic Suitor
Her brow furrowed, but she clicked on the attached image. She recognized the setting. A high-back, brown leather chair filled the back of the shot, but a glass-top desk dominated the picture. She’d seen this one before—at the Mitchell Fund’s Florida headquarters. Every other office held a generic wooden desk, including Finn’s, but Jared had selected a sleek, modern look for his workspace.
Compared to his home study, this image lacked clutter, handcuffs, and his abs. Instead, Mr. Ab Selfie had selected a messenger to hold a sign. A stuffed, white unicorn with a rainbow mane and silver horn sat on the desk. Given its size, roughly the same as a Labrador puppy, there wasn’t much room for anything else. The paper hanging from his neck like a bib read:
You’re invited to dinner.
8pm.
Here.
Lucy pressed her fingers to her lips. But a giggle slipped out, followed by another.
“What did he say?” Emma demanded, contorting her torso until she was leaning over the center console. “Tell us or we’re stopping at The Taco Bar and drinking margaritas until you break.”
“We can’t,” Nicole protested. “We’re in costume. Anna, Elsa, and Mulan can’t walk into a bar.”
“We’ll go to the back and drink with Minny,” Emma said.
Lucy lowered both hands to her lap. “We’re going home.” She stole another glance at the playful picture.
This is what I was looking for. This is what I’ve been trying to find on all of those disaster dates.
She wanted a man who could make her laugh. She hadn’t realized, or she would have written a dramatically different online dating profile.
Looking for a man who makes me smile after a long day. A man who likes sex on the beach more than long walks . . .
Grinning, Lucy met Emma’s impatient gaze. “We’re going home so I can prepare.” Another giggle slipped out. “Tonight, I have a date with a unicorn.”
Chapter 19
“Mr. Mitchell.” The receptionist’s voice boomed through the outdated office intercom system. The receiver sat on Jared’s desk, but he didn’t touch the box. The Mitchell Fund’s New York City office used a phone-based system that made a helluva lot more sense than the one Coulter had installed in West Palm.