Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

Myrna is the crankiest old woman I’ve ever met, but for some reason, I love being around her. Her daughter and son-in-law drop in no more than three times a year, and the rest of the days she’s left with paid caretakers like Sofia, who are kind but are still no substitute for family.

Basically, Myrna’s exactly what I’m terrified my future is going to look like—old and alone with no one who gives a damn except the people who collect a paycheck from me. At least her dog is loyal. If I weren’t still one hundred percent selfish and could actually keep a goldfish alive, maybe I’d get one. Nah. Too much commitment.

Annnd we’ve just crossed into the depressing-as-shit portion of the afternoon.

My phone vibrates with a text as I jam my key into the lock on my apartment door. I freeze, excitement humming through me. I can’t believe I’ve gotten sucked into this weird texting relationship with a man I’ve never met. But I can’t stop.

I mean, I would have stopped, but then my investigative (okay, call them stalkerish) skills got the best of me, and I found his picture.

Wearing fatigues, a wifebeater, and combat boots, Logan Brantley looks like one of those pictures women post on Pinterest boards but know they’ll never meet in real life unless it’s possibly on the stage of some Magic Mike strip show. Except Logan is the real deal.

But we don’t sext. We don’t send naked pics. And there’s no dirty talk. We’ve actually become friends in the last couple of weeks, and his texts fill some kind of need in my life I didn’t know I had.

Manhattan’s Queen of One-Night Stands, my self-proclaimed title, has suddenly fallen into a friendship with a guy who lives hundreds of miles away. And the more we text, the more I realize that maybe the men of New York I’ve been one-nighting aren’t the most masculine specimens around.

Basically, every time I go on a date, I end up texting Logan the same question, but with multiple variations. Would a real man . . . and I’d fill in the blank.

Wear a rose-and-gray cashmere scarf?

Pair a bow tie with pressed jeans?

Order an elderflower martini?

I think it’s safe to say that Logan Brantley’s opinion of the men of Manhattan, at least the ones I’ve gone out with lately, is sinking faster than the Titanic.

I pull out my phone, anticipation zinging through me. That anticipation dies a quick death when the name on the screen isn’t Logan’s. Instead it’s the guy I met on the sidewalk outside my office while waiting for my car service to pull up. No cashmere scarf, bow tie, or pressed jeans. So maybe he’s a better bet?

I swipe and read the text.



BRANDON SIDEWALK: How about we grab a drink at 8? My friend’s new bar is opening tomorrow, and he’s having a preview tonight.



My fingers are poised over the keyboard to say no. All I want right now is an amazing orgasm, and I already know I’m not going to get it from Brandon of the Sidewalk. I have a sense for these things.

But . . . maybe I could get my martini fix there. I am a sucker for the extra dirty.



BANNER: Where?

BRANDON SIDEWALK: 8th and 43rd. The bar is called Olivesque.



I pull up Google and do some quick searching. There are a few articles about Olivesque’s impending opening and lots of good things to say about it. Apparently Brandon Sidewalk has some fancy friends, because it’s predicted that Olivesque will be impossible to get into for at least three or four months after it opens.

As a born-and-bred New Yorker with a taste for the exclusive, I can’t say no.

I’m only going for the martini, I tell myself.



BANNER: I’ll meet you there at 8.

BRANDON SIDEWALK: Great! Looking forward to it.





Chapter 2


Banner


I’m thankful the smell of smoke doesn’t cling to my clothes as I let myself into my apartment. Oh, and that I escaped from overly friendly Brandon without letting him shove his hand up my skirt. I didn’t see that coming. I figured he’d be overly polite, but instead he was pretty much a dick. Par for the Manhattan course, I suppose.

With the buzz of good vodka thrumming along with indignation through my veins, I pull out my phone.



BANNER: Would a real man try to feel up a woman in a bar when it’s clear she’s not interested and tells him to keep his hands to himself? Asking for a friend.



I make a beeline for my bathroom and turn on the shower and the tub. First, I need to wash the film of grossness off me, and then I’m going to soak for an hour and take care of business. And by business, I mean I’m going to get that killer orgasm I’ve been dying for all day.

I’m already over halfway through my shower routine when my phone vibrates on the counter. If it’s Brandon Sidewalk asking me to go out again, my reply will be epic.

I rinse the conditioner out of my hair and end my shower early. I tell myself it’s only because I’m worried that the tub will run over if I don’t check on the water level.

Riiight. It has nothing to do with the text waiting on my phone, and me hoping it’s Logan. Nothing.

Hopping out, I don’t bother toweling dry before I grab my phone off the counter.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Who do I need to kill?



Should that alpha-caveman response send shivers through all the best parts of me? No, because we’re just friends. But that doesn’t change the fact that my nipples are hard and goose bumps rise along my arms.



BANNER: I’ll check with my friend.

LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: Cut the shit, BANNER. No real man touches a woman when she says no.

BANNER: A real man would have her begging him instead, right? I know you would.



I freeze a second after I hit SEND.

Crap. I officially crossed the line.

I hold my breath as I wait for a response. There are things I think about saying to Logan, especially when I picture him naked while I’m lying in bed, but I’ve been so good by not saying them to him over the phone. I told myself I wouldn’t do this with him. I’d keep him in the safe zone so I didn’t screw everything up and lose whatever it is we have between us.

But I did it anyway because I suck.

I release my breath and carefully and deliberately lay my phone back on the counter and walk naked and dripping to my kitchen to pull a bottle of vodka out of the freezer. I dump two fingers into a glass and toss in a couple of ice cubes before calmly making my way back to the bathroom and my steaming tub.

What if he doesn’t answer?

What if he never texts me back again?

Then I’ll drink more vodka and mourn the loss of this ridiculous connection to a man I’ve never met.

What’s my fascination with him, anyway? The answers come in rapid-fire succession.

He’s blunt and to the point, and never bullshits me when I ask him a question. He’s nothing like the men of Manhattan who I date. He’s safe and from a completely different world seven hundred miles away, and I figured there was no way I could screw this up by sleeping with him.

Isn’t that enlightening?

The tail end of a vibration trails off as I walk back into my bathroom, and my heartbeat immediately kicks up.

I snatch my phone off the counter.



LOGAN REAL MAN BRANTLEY: If she’s not begging, he’s doing something wrong. Ladies always come first. I want a name.