Breaking the Bachelor (Entangled Lovestruck) (Smart Cupid) (11 page)

In the living room, Charlie tossed himself onto the couch and flipped through a magazine, a clear effort to hide his amusement. Too late. She’d already seen the grin slide across his face.

“If you aren’t going to hide, at least try to look innocent. If that’s possible.”

“I don’t remember you requesting innocence last night.”

Jane wanted to throw something at him, a pillow, her keys…anything, but she was standing in the middle of her center hall, nothing within throwing distance, so she balled her hands into fists and shot him a glare that said, “Bite me”.

And the man had the audacity to smile. “Bet you couldn’t sleep, bet you stayed up all night thinking about me…kissing you into a frenzy…up against the wall…making you crazy.”

Heat rushed through her body. Yeah, she’d pretty much been up all night.

She plastered on what she hoped was a normal working-from-home expression and threw open the front door. “Hi, M.A.”

Marianne walked in, unfastening her toggle coat, anxiety clouding her eyes. “What took you so long? I was getting worried. I know you have a lot on your plate right now with the bet and Charlie’s last date and possible changes to the dating application, but—”

Charlie raised his hand in a sorry-to-interrupt-but-I’m-sitting-right-here greeting. Marianne stopped mid-sentence, standing in the middle of the entry, speechless, looking back and forth between them. “Hello.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the situation, a little too at ease for a man in a late-night meeting with his matchmaker.

“Marianne, Charlie. Charlie, Marianne.” She offered a quick introduction before turning her attention to damage control. “He stopped by to offer feedback on his second date and was just leaving.”

Marianne pivoted toward the man in question and Charlie leaned back on the loveseat, hands linked behind his head. Definitely not leaving.

“Isn’t that right, Charlie?” she said, her gaze drawing an invisible path from her couch to the door.

“Isn’t what right, Jane?” he asked, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

She pressed her mouth into a thin line. “You were just—”

“Leaving. Right.” He looked over at her, not moving.

Jane drummed her fingers against the open door and waited, her emotions building to a whirlwind, until she refused to wait one more second, walked over, and shoved his feet off the coffee table. His enjoyment of the situation was written all over his ridiculously charming face, apparent in every flex of muscle as he got up and walked to the door, his movements smooth and unhurried. “Good to meet you, Marianne.”

“So good to meet you, Charlie.” As he walked by, her friend gave her the thumbs up. The traitor!

Finally at the door, Charlie leaned in and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Meet me downstairs in five minutes. The cab’s waiting.”

Jane bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from screaming. What must Marianne think? Besides, the fact that she was statistically incapable of staying away from Charlie. She watched him stroll toward the elevator, hands deep in the pockets of his do-me-now denims. So casual and cool. Even after she’d tossed him out the other night. But something wasn’t adding up. What did he really want in a woman—other than a heavy hit of dopamine and hot sex at the Fluff ’N Fold? And when had he turned so particular? Offbeat blondes who love dogs and hockey and wings didn’t sound like they’d fit in on Central Park West. Honestly, what kind of woman was he looking for? Hells bells, did she know him at all?

Behind her, Marianne cleared her throat. “Did I just hear Charlie Goodman say, ‘meet me downstairs, the cab is waiting?’” She rested her hands on her hips. “You need to spill, Cupid. Details, right now.”

…

Ten minutes later, as Charlie watched Jane walk toward the taxi, two words jumped to mind: Whoa, baby. Even dressed in jeans and a wool coat, her lust-inducing curves and sultry swaying hips whispered, “Take me into the back and let’s do this.”

Suddenly, he had a little less room in his 501s, but what could he do? Sex appeal like hers was addictive, potentially dangerous to a man not paying attention, either a gift—or a genuine curse.

In his case, he’d call it a little bit of both. Nick was right, and like it or not, he admired Jane’s independent streak and her direct, get-it-done attitude. Sure, falling into bed together had made everything complicated, but she was still the girl who let him hang out on her fire escape and helped him with his homework, who told him the best make-out spots in Brooklyn and taught him how to skip stones on the East River. Everyday stuff. She was still Janey. Suddenly, her crazy bet seemed less like trouble and more like an opportunity.

Hell, every time he laid his eyes or his lips or his hands on her lately, she felt less and less like his ex and more and more like his goddamned present, and his future, his…forever.

He’d misfired by proving his point about chemistry, the whole seduction plan. He should’ve known better, but no man wanted to be considered as safe as a Dodge Caravan. Especially not him. He loved how he made her feel, the way her body reacted to his, the way she needed the feel of him, needed his kiss. He loved that he made her laugh, that they shared history, opinions, friendship.

Damn.

He loved her.

Every maddening, crazy, imperfect part of her. He didn’t want some Chardonnay-sipping, classical-music-playing blonde without a list. He wanted Jane, cocktail napkin and all.

And maybe he wasn’t comfortable telling her how he felt, but he could show her.

Tonight, he planned to get her in touch with the girl she used to be and show her not everything she needed was written on her Ultimate Man List. Tonight was his last chance, and he planned to blow her list of criteria out of the water.

Tonight he was on Brooklyn Standard Time.

A smile lit up his face as she closed the last of the distance between them. He opened the door of the cab. “Buckle up, angel, because tonight, I intend to show you exactly what I want.”

…

Minutes later, they were across town, the cab zigzagging away from the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge. Charlie turned toward his date. Romance was on his agenda, but the object of his affection looked like she wanted to exorcise part of him—like his manhood.

“Brooklyn?” She stared back at him, clearly baffled. “You’re telling me Brooklyn is the key to your true love?”

“I’ve always loved Brooklyn.” Charlie shrugged off her question. He’d known taking her to the old neighborhood, forcing her to face the part of herself she tried to deny, might bend her out of shape, but he also knew she was a sucker for old memories. “You know what they say.”

“About Brooklyn or matchmaking?” She planted her boots in the snow, clearly unwilling to take even one emotionally precarious step toward the bridge.

Hands buried deep in the pockets on his jeans, he ambled not-so-innocently in her direction. “You can take the girl out of Brooklyn…”

She held up both palms as he approached. “Charlie, give me a break. Tonight is not about me. Tonight is supposed to be about your true love.”

“But you can’t take the Brooklyn out of the girl.” He finished the adage, pulled the ubiquitous black beret over her ears, and kissed her on the tip of her ice-cold nose.

She pushed the beret back in place. “It’s freezing.”

Charlie unzipped his leather jacket and held his arms wide. “Not to a real New Yorker.”

“It’s practically midnight. Do you know how cold it’s going to be on that bridge?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Sounds like we’re walking over.”

“Like I have a choice.” With a sigh, she released a cloud of resignation into the night air. She pulled out her phone and typed, Brooklyn, into his criteria matrix. “I’m working my ass off to find you the right woman—”

“And it’s a great ass.”

She shot him a look and slipped the red knitted scarf from her neck. “And instead of taking me seriously, you’re dragging me across a suspension bridge in the dead of winter.”

“I know.”

“I could just let you freeze to death.” She slid the scarf over his shoulders and wrapped it around his neck, once, then twice, before she tucked the ends against his chest and re-zipped the black leather jacket. “But then I’d definitely lose the bet.”

“You would.” He raised the shearling collar of her coat to protect her against the chill. The black wool framed her face and she looked so cold and so pretty, he found himself grinning.

Grinning.

On the Brooklyn bridge in February.

She wrinkled her nose. “If you weren’t such a valuable asset to Smart Cupid…”

“Hey, lady, watch your language.”

She rolled her eyes and tilted her head toward the bridge. “Okay, then, let’s go.”

Charlie slid his hands from her shoulders and gathered her close into the circle of his arms. “This is what I want—with my ideal woman. Quiet, romantic moments.”

“Quiet, romantic moments.” She typed the information into the phone.

Snow collected in the dark waves of her hair peeking out from under her hat. She looked ridiculously pretty, typing furiously, so much so that the sight of her, standing with him on the bridge, renewed his desire to remind her of the daring, take-no-prisoners Brooklyn girl she used to be, before she became obsessed with criteria lists and formulas, with categorizing love and controlling passion.

Maybe she’d fall a little.

Maybe he’d keep falling. Even if the words escaped him.

Even if he tried like hell to keep from losing his footing.

If he did, he’d deal with the consequences later. Much later. After he’d buried himself deep inside her and made her whimper with enough desperate, aching pleasure to change her criteria list to include only five words. Raging hot sex with Charlie. After that, who knew?

“Come on, it’s freezing,” she said, slipping from his arms to stride toward the bridge.

Watching as she walked away, a seductive silhouette against the starry sky, his mind drifted again, back to a long-ago summer night in Brooklyn. Years after he’d caught his first glimpse of her standing on the cracked sidewalk, staring, as he climbed out of a yellow cab.

Long after that.

The night she taught him about chemistry.

Nick had asked him to walk his sister home from work that night because he couldn’t get there—some trouble with their dad, which was constant at the time. Charlie could still see her, standing in the doorway of the shop, wearing a red V-necked T-shirt with
Salvatore’s Pizza
emblazoned across her chest, a pair of cutoffs showcasing the curves of her already-gorgeous thighs. On the way home, he’d kissed her for the first time. Up against an old brownstone, he’d savored the feel of her body melting against him, the sweetness of the Diet Coke on her lips, the balmy air of Indian summer. That night, she’d returned his kiss with promise. Three days later, her father had left and Jane had shuttered up her heart. He’d chalked it up to the situation, didn’t press because they’d both been young and he’d valued her friendship so much that he wouldn’t chance losing it.

Last year, when she’d showed up in the Caymans, Charlie had swallowed his pride and taken a real, grown-up shot at it, hopeful, right up until a pink, palm-tree emblazoned napkin reached up from beneath a liquor bottle to slap him in the face.

Funny, he’d wanted to seduce Cupid with old memories, but right now, those memories were like the bouncer outside his bar on Saturday nights, kicking him to the curb—dangerous.

A hard-packed snowball struck him square in the chest and he looked up to see Jane smiling, hands on her hips, head cocked to one side. “You forgot. I’ve got perfect aim.”

“You’re going to pay for that.”

He charged forward as she ran away, the sound of her mischievous laughter exploding into the quiet night. A second snowball whizzed by his right shoulder. He pitched one at her back and rushed toward her. Handfuls of powdery snow landed at his feet as she fled.

Laughing, he fought his way through the snowball-created storm, grabbed a hold of her waist, and swung her body in a circle around him. Jane flung her head back in laughter and the warmth of her breath created frosty circles in the air between them. The laughter ebbed away slowly, turning quiet, until the only sound on the bridge was the sound of their breathing keeping time with the beating of their hearts.

Carefully, he settled her onto the wooden planks of the pedestrian walkway and took in the sight of her, framed by the Gothic structure standing tall above the East River, outlined by the twinkling lights of faraway Manhattan. The skyline failed to compare to the most beautiful thing on the bridge. Cheeks pink with cold, she ran her tongue over the curves of her mouth. He wanted to kiss away the snowflakes clinging to her lips.

“Nice view,” he said, without bothering to look away from her face.

Emotion lit the amber depths of her eyes as she registered his gaze. She snuggled closer and turned to look past the bridge’s steel arches toward the city in the distance, at Lady Liberty raising her torch to light the way to a safe harbor, a safe haven. Charlie pulled her closer.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, looking back at him.

“
You’re
beautiful.” Impulse took over and his lips brushed hers in a tender kiss, tasting the chill of the snowflakes as they melted away.

For a moment, Jane stood in the circle of his arms, quiet, so uncharacteristically quiet. But then, she moved away, tossed a smile over her shoulder and walked across the bridge, closer to Brooklyn, closer to home.

And that’s when he heard the sound.

The backfiring of his own heart.

…

Okay, score one for Charlie
, Jane thought, stepping off the bridge into the postindustrial neighborhood Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, a place the locals called DUMBO. The area ranked as one of her favorite places in the world.