Come As You Are

Let’s see. I don’t know her name, her occupation, her family background, where she lives, or any of the usual details. But I do know some key traits already. “She’s smart, independent, clever, and likes my jokes.”

Also, she’s great in bed—or against the wall, as the case may be—and feels spectacular in my arms. But I keep those key attributes to myself.

“Sounds like a keeper.”

“Plus, she hasn’t proposed to me yet.”

“There’s still time tonight for her to get down on one knee. And on that note, I need to get to the year-end open house at my daughter’s first-grade classroom. My husband is making me attend. The torture. Dear God, the torture of an open house.”

“Have fun with Steve, and be sure to take Taylor out for frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity when you’re done.”

“Her? How about someone taking me out for enduring an open house?”

We say goodbye, and I head in the direction of The Dollhouse. When I looked up the description online, I immediately thought, Aha, it’s perfect for her.

On the way downtown, I check my reflection in the subway window. When I exit in Tribeca and carve a path through the trendy streets, I peer into shop windows to make sure my glasses aren’t sliding down my nose. Jennica was right to note my distractedness—I am nervous, and that’s unusual, especially considering I don’t break a sweat when I deliver a keynote speech, negotiate with business partners, or go out on dates.

But this date feels different. It’s like we’ve done things entirely backward. Like we’re assembling a jigsaw puzzle from the middle out. But we both seem to like it this way. She likes the intrigue as much as I do, and that makes me want to know her even more, learn what makes her tick, what excites her. But more than that, I want her to keep wanting to see me, the guy she called Duke, not the dude everyone wants a piece of.

Then I’d know if it was real. Then I’d know it was about me, and not about anything else I might bring to the table. I almost wish I could keep up the ruse.

Because it’s not merely that I’m tired of the random women, the catfishers, the gold-diggers, and the money-hunters. I can handle a woman hitting on me at a conference, a bar, or the gym because she’s figured out I could be a meal ticket. I can shake that off and move on. Other things are harder to let go. I know what it’s like to give my heart to someone thinking she wants it, but then learn she only wants all the zeros attached to my name.

That was Annie.

She was a math nerd too, and we went to college together. I had the biggest crush on Annie, with her big blue eyes and equally blue hair, and her badass coder attitude. She didn’t give me the time of day romantically, but friend-wise, absolutely. I was the guy she leaned on, the one she told her man woes to. Yeah, I was that guy, and then I finally found the guts to ask her out.

But her answer was clear—I was friend-zoned forever. “But we’re so much better off as friends, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I’d said because some of her was better than nothing.

We stayed buddies, keeping in touch even though we moved to separate coasts after graduation. A few years ago, she returned to New York and asked, ever-so-sweetly, if she could have a do-over on the “let’s just be friends” bit.

Hell to the yes. I hadn’t forgotten why I’d liked Annie. She was cool and smart.

We went out for several months, and it felt like sweet victory. Revenge of the nerds, indeed. Finally, the girl I’d wanted, wanted me too. And boy, did she ever. The praise flowed in. How good it was to finally be with me. The sex was plentiful, like she couldn’t get enough. Plus, she liked to sleep naked. Can you say kryptonite for a guy?

The closer we grew, the more often she floated the idea of moving in, maybe getting engaged.

I wasn’t opposed to bumping things to the next level, but my radar went off when she became not only overly interested in me, but keenly curious about my bank accounts. Where do you park all the money? Who manages it? What sort of investments do you have?

“The kind that requires a prenup.”

Yes, I told her that.

Because I’m not stupid.

“I can’t believe you’d want a prenup,” she said, like I was the jerk.

“Annie, we’re not even engaged.”

“But you’re well and truly saying you’d want a prenup?”

“Um, yeah.”

“I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

I certainly didn’t after that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why I’d been laddered up to the Let’s Be More Than Friends category. The more she pressed, the more evident it became. I hadn’t been promoted from the friend zone. I was skyrocketed into the green belt, and she watered the Flynn plant with compliments and nudity. A hungry ficus tree, I guzzled it up.

I suppose in the end I’m simply grateful that she showed her cards before I fell any deeper for her.

That’s why I wish Angel and I could keep up the masquerade. Because it’s honest. It’s freeing. I don’t have to worry about getting hurt. I don’t have time for another heartbreak. I have a company to run and employees to provide for.

I do, however, have time for a fantastic night out or two or three, and that’s exactly what I want.

As I glance up at the numbers above the storefronts, a window full of old-fashioned toys comes into view. There’s a spinning top, a hobby horse, and some wooden blocks that spell the name of the establishment. The Dollhouse.

It’s one of those places that doesn’t need to rely on a flashing neon sign or scads of scantily dressed ladies out front to lure anyone in. It’s like a speakeasy. You need the secret language to enter, and the code is knowing this isn’t a storefront for old-fashioned toys.

Smiling, I push open the door and head into a bar. One wall is lined with shelves holding rooms from dollhouses—sitting areas decorated with pint-size couches, sleeping dens with beds that would hold a teaspoon and pillows no bigger than a fingernail. At the bar, the napkin holders are actual upside-down doll-size tables, that would, I think, fit inside one of those little homes.

Patrons sip drinks from teacups in shades of pastel blue and pink.

It’s so retro, it’s beyond retro. It’s like a fiesta of quirkiness, and as I look around, I hope I’ll recognize the woman from the party instantly. But then, I’m not sure how I won’t recognize her. I ran my fingers up her legs, slid them between her thighs, felt her tremble, kissed her lips.

I’ll know her.

The hostess strolls over and asks me if I’m meeting someone. I survey the tables and the bar, hunting for caramel hair, green eyes, pink lips. There’s a sign by the taps that says: Lollipops for good boys and girls.

My gaze drifts past the sign, and a smile tugs at my lips.

Damn, I’ve got it bad already.

“Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds a little dreamy, a little dopey when my eyes land on a woman wearing a polka-dot skirt. I zero in on her hair, a warm shade of brown.

The woman whose underwear is in my pocket.

The woman whose scent has been in my head for the last twenty-four hours.

It’s like a blind date fantasy come true.

She’s even prettier now that I can look at all of her.

The problem is, she doesn’t smile when she sees me.

12

Flynn

If I were offered ten emotions and asked to point to the one for her expression, it wouldn’t be excited, angry, annoyed, or thanking-her-lucky-stars-that-I’m-a-handsome-devil.