The Real Deal

“There’s just something ridiculously sexy about a man wearing a big fancy wristwatch.”

I resume my path to the subway, staring longingly at the cabs, Lyfts, and Ubers zipping by. I want to hail a taxi or order up a car stat, but I remind myself that all this damn walking with my makeup and paint is akin to a CrossFit workout. Those people who toss tires in parking lots in suburbia? Pssh. I’ll show them. Try trudging through Manhattan with a bag full of body paint and hordes of harried New Yorkers to battle your way through. I’m the baddest badass in all of Fitnesslandia. I don’t need a stinking gym membership.

“And now I’ll be the man wearing the big fancy wristwatch in the ads. I’m so excited about this.” Xavier lets out a small scream of his own, then reins it in. “My group is about to board. Listen, you have to know I was so looking forward to playing your new boyfriend in front of Aunt Jeanie, Cousin Katie, and—who’s the other one who fancies herself a matchmaker?”

“My sister, Xavier. My sister, Tess.”

“Right. Her. I was looking forward to pretending to be your man. It would have been a true and challenging test for me.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

“You know what I mean, love.”

“I do, and now I just have to find someone else,” I say, letting some of my frustration trickle into my voice.

The thing is, I can’t just suck this up and go dateless to the Hamilton Family Reunion, which comes complete with a day at the amusement park, a Hula-Hooping contest, lawn bowling, and Lord only knows what additional activities my parents have planned. Probably rock climbing, rope swinging, necklace beading, strawberry picking, and T-shirt tie-dyeing.

I’d rather take a cruise in the Arctic with ten thousand time-share salesmen than go solo to this extravaganza. My sister is already chomping at the bit to set me up.

“Are you seeing someone?” she asked in an email last week. “If not, I can ask Mark to be your scavenger hunt partner at the reunion. He’s fabulous, and guess what? He’s added tri-tip steak to the menu. It tastes absolutely amazing with pesto sauce. You must try it. Mark can tell you all about how the pesto is made.”

Mark runs the local sandwich shop in my hometown. He’s nice, and exceedingly boring.

“I’m not going to leave you in the lurch,” Xavier says as the tinny speaker crackles once more in the background, alerting everyone in the terminal—and possibly the entire five-mile radius of Kennedy Airport, judging from the decibels—that Boarding Group B needs to get its collective ass on the plane.

“Did you put out a casting call for me?” I joke as I near the subway entrance. This is the toughest obstacle course portion of today’s Manhattan CrossFit workout—successfully navigating the steps at the Christopher Street entrance. But I’ve mastered it. Just try to swing a dumbbell over your head as well as I can Frogger it down these steps, CrossFitters.

“No. Better. A good friend of mine can do it. He’s available, and interested. He works next door. He tends bar.”

“Code for ‘he acts’?”

“Aren’t we all acting all the time?”

Except for me. I might run with the same crowd as actors and models, but I don’t pretend to be someone else. Instead, I paint them so they can become someone else—a leopard, a goddess, a swan, a woman in gold, a playing card, a nest with a baby bird in it. My hands are slicked with peach-orange and midnight-black from the cheetah I painted this afternoon on a fit, toned track star for a magazine spread advertising sneakers.

“Yes, he’s an actor, and wait till you hear his voice,” Xavier tells me amid the hustle and bustle of the boarding. “You might want to mate with it. I know I do, but lucky for you, he’s straight, so he won’t have to act as much as I would. You’ll have to pay, though.”

I don’t bat an eye.

What choice do I have at this point? I need a date for the reunion like a bowl of cereal needs milk. Besides, a guy with a sexy voice could work as my reunion date if he can make it believable that we’re a thing. Though, honestly, what I really need is a big vial of Stop Trying to Set Me Up with Men Who Are Wrong for Me formula to waft under the noses of the wannabe matchmakers in my family. Which is pretty much every single person in my family. But the apothecary I usually go to is fresh out of any potions to calm the overactive matchmakers in the Hamilton clan. Hence, my quest for a man who can be my buffer. If Mr. Phone Sex Operator is that guy, bring him on. “Name and number, please.”

“His name is Theo.” He rattles off his phone number, and I repeat it back instantly, since I’m good with remembering numbers. “But I’ll text you his info in five minutes just so you have it. I won’t leave you hanging. Hanging is for Christmas tree ornaments and other assorted unmentionable items, not lovely girls with flawless skin.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “You have perfect skin, too, since you’re just as religious as I am about your lotions and potions. Have fun in London. Wow them at Timeless. Make them love you like a teenager loves her iPhone.”

“When I’m through, it’ll be more like how a teen worships selfies.”

“I have no doubt.”

I end the call and heave the sigh I’ve been holding in. I’m beyond happy for him. Truly, I am. But we’re all a little selfish, aren’t we? And the selfish part of me wishes my friend were still playing the part of my date.

But really, my greatest wish is to not show up at my parents’ home without a plus-one. The women will smell blood. They’ll swarm me. I’m the fresh meat for the matchmaking grill. I’m one of the last single women left standing, and this single woman needs to stay standing.

I’m happy being single, and that seems to surprise my family. They’re not traditional or even old-fashioned. They’re just old-school. They’re “small-town” and love it, and they want me to love that lifestyle, too.

Xavier would have been perfect as a temporary boyfriend. A true gentleman, he’s the darling of parents, and mine would figure once and for all that I hadn’t landed a dud. I can only hope his friend will be as good. I hoof it down the steps, and then I sprint ahead of a slinky gal in a pink halter top, swipe my subway card, push through the turnstile, and make it to the platform in two minutes flat, and without once knocking a single other person with my bag.

I peer down the tunnel to see if the train is coming, when my phone buzzes from my pocket.

I’m expecting Xavier to deliver a phone number.

But it’s not a phone number that I get. It’s a link, and a note:




Once I click and read, a strange little thrill zips through me. I don’t think I want a gentleman anymore. No, I don’t want a nice guy to take home to the parents at all.

I want this one.





Chapter Two

Theo

“Please don’t laugh.”

Whenever someone says those three words, you’re almost guaranteed to chuckle. Chances are the person is going to tell a ridiculous tale that makes him or her seem like a complete fool. You’ll want to guffaw.

But I’ve mastered the art of giving people what they want, and the lady at the bar wants my straight face.

“I won’t laugh, I promise,” I tell the woman with red glasses and shoulder-length, TV-anchor-style black hair. Lori is dining solo today. She dines solo most days. She considers me a confidant.

“This is going to be a weird request,” she warns.

I highly doubt her request will be weird to me. “I can handle it.”

She takes a deep breath, then exhales. “Can you make sure—like, absolutely positive—that the nachos won’t be steamed?”

Who the hell steams nachos? “You have my word the nachos you just ordered won’t be steamed. And the gin and tonic won’t be toasted either.” My face is deadly serious, because I do know how to act.

She clasps her hand to her chest. “Thank God, Theo. Because that happened to me the other night. It was awful.”