Lucky for me, I don’t have time to stop and chat. Not that I’d want to. I’ve been actively avoiding him all day, locking myself in the library. Again, Cornelia cannot win. On principle. I’m chasing life onmyterms. He’s presumably still on a mission to reclaim his family’s roots, one Ellswood landmark at a time. So, no room for distractions.
Letting the door drift closed behind me, I toss the flowers on the mantel, angling them just so, and plop into the chair.
“Breathe, Ebony.” I inhale, deeply, then click the Virtucon notification link, waiting for the app to load.
My picture flashes onto the screen, right next to a black square labeledLeslieBrownein the corner.
I’ve never actually met the person I’m about to meet with. Up until now, all I’ve done is create a “starter profile.” Today’s the day that Leslie, I guess, will help me navigate online dating apps and revamp my profile. She’ll suggest the best photos, figure out my preferences and dealbreakers, and they’ve got professional matchmakers on standby. Easy-peasy.
Except, as my attention flits between the black square and the time glaring at me from the top-right corner of my screen, I wonder if she’s really late. The camera’s off; the mic’s muted. She could be sitting there, silently watching, analyzing my every move like a two-way mirror situation.
Why do I suddenly feel…paranoid?
Be normal.
I force a tight smile, just in case Leslie can somehow tune into the movie reel of Linc glitching in my head.
Stop thinking about MJ 2.0.and his forearms right now.
Of course, Julian sends anotherI haven’t given uptext now. “Not today, sir.” I quickly swipe it away, smiling at my reflection on the screen.
Thankfully, the mic clicks on, followed by the camera after a couple of seconds. I’m not certain whom I was expecting by that name, but it absolutely wasn’t a gorgeous white guy in a gray tweed snap-front newsie hat wearing anI got six anda possibleT-shirt. I mean, yeah, he’s wearing a wedding ring, but mygawwwd!
“Sorry about that. A meeting with another client ran over just a bit. But, uh, hello. How are you?”Jesus, the smolder.
“Hi!” I smile way too hard, my voice shooting up to glass-break pitch, and naturally, the rest of the meeting goes just as smoothly.
He broods. I blink. Somewhere in between, he gently informs me that my profile “needs some work.” Which,understatement. After hearing about all the effort that goes into a successful first impression, I can’t help but think, yup, that’s about right.
Leslie, my very own dating concierge, has challenged me to take some “casual, bright photos.” Nothing too staged. Meanwhile, he’ll work his magic on my profile, adding my dealbreakers. No addictions, no narcissistic, ambition-less incel types, no men with questionable hygiene (or cologne abuse), no cheapskates, no love bombers. And, of course, no Livingstons.Luxe Ladies-watching cheaters are justimpliedon the list.
It’s a little lengthy, but let’s be real: a woman knows exactly what she doesn’t want.
As for what Idowant…
Not as simple.
“For sure, I need someone committed, consistent…and cute doesn’t hurt.” A self-conscious laugh squeaks out of me.
“Don’t be ashamed,” Leslie reassures me. “That’s a great place to start.”
Really digging deep, I add, “Maybe someone handy—not handsy. At least, not right off the bat. He’s got to have life goals, strong values…” I trail off, and he nods repeatedly, urging the rest out of me. “He’s thoughtful, can actually laugh at a bad joke, dances on beat, knows how to play Spades—I don’t know.”
Leslie barks out a laugh. “Jotting that down and underlining it three times. How about physically?”
“It’s been a while, but kisses me tenderly until my toes curl, using his magic fingers to make me—”
“Uh, sorry, I meant his physical description.”
My face bursts into flames. “Oh.” I cringe, giggling. “In that case, I’d love it if he was tall, athletic, with deep brown skin. Ooh, gray eyes? Well, that would be nice, but I’m not making it a dealbreaker…yet.”
“Okay, great. For now,” Leslie says, his fingers moving rapid-fire over the keys, “based on all that good stuff—and the gray-eyed Spades champ with the magic fingers, of course—I’ll work with our executive matchmakers to schedule you for one of our private mixers and send you on a couple blind dates—”
I miss the rest of his sentence when the library door creaks, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of two fundamental truths. I never fully closed the door, and I have no idea how long Lincoln Bridges has been standing in the doorway.
Oh, God.
The way his eyes flicker to my screen tells me he’s heard enough.
