Читать книгу Hot and Bothered - Serena Bell - Страница 10

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“NO MORE HEDGE-FUND MANAGERS.”

Haven leaned over Elisa Henderson’s broad desk and smacked its surface for emphasis. She had to find a blank space between all the photos Elisa kept of the couples she’d match-made over the years. Brides in white, husbands and wives romping across tropical beaches on their honeymoons and even a few couples mooning over swaddled-up newborns and fat-cheeked infants. Haven had plenty of satisfied clients, but even she had to admit that you couldn’t beat Elisa’s job for visible results.

Her dating coach frowned at her. “You’ve already said no more lawyers, no more surgeons and no one who’s involved in any way in film. You stipulated up front you wanted a successful, independent, professional man who dresses well. That right there makes the field pretty narrow. You can’t keep eliminating whole categories of men. Next you’ll be saying no chest hair.”

The thought had crossed Haven’s mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She did like things smooth, metaphorically and literally.

She had a quick flash of Mark Webster’s decidedly un-smooth face. Probably only because she’d spent so much time staring at it, trying to picture how it would look clean shaven. The last time he’d been photographed without stubble, he’d been considerably younger.

“Haven.”

“Sorry, just thinking about work.”

“Can we agree? No more eliminating whole categories of men?”

“No one in finance,” Haven amended.

“That’s even worse. That’s half the professional, well-dressed men in the city.”

“And no musicians,” Haven said, thinking of Mark again. He was not going to be an easy project. He hated the idea of the tour. Money was forcing his hand, and that never made for a good situation.

“I’d already eliminated musicians. They don’t tend to be well dressed, at least not according to your vision of what well dressed entails.”

For Haven, that involved a suit, or at least pressed slacks and a dress shirt hanging on broad shoulders. An expensive leather belt around a narrow waist. It was possible she was salivating slightly at the thought. She’d been sex deprived too long for her own good.

Haven had hired Elisa after Elisa had pulled a surprise two-match victory out of a tricky dating–boot camp weekend. Both Haven and Elisa had briefly looked like fools as their shared client, Celine Carr, tromped all over a Caribbean island sucking face with a paparazzo, while her two handlers chased after her and failed to catch up. But just when it had seemed that nothing good could come out of the weekend, Elisa had realized that Celine and her paparazzo, Steve Flynn, were head over heels for each other, and she’d managed to make a splash of it on national television. On top of that, she’d found true love herself with a former friend-turned-lover on the trip.

Haven had been so impressed that she’d signed up for Elisa’s Love Match package, which included both advice and actual matches. Elisa didn’t always make matches. Sometimes she just poked and prodded from behind the scenes. But Haven felt as though she’d exhausted enough possibilities on the island of Manhattan that she’d better seek new blood. She wanted access to Elisa’s top secret, intensely coveted, expensive database.

Elisa tucked her auburn hair behind her ears. “I think you might need to adjust your criteria.”

“What’s wrong with my criteria?”

“You say you want all these things—educated, polished, well dressed, well spoken, a good earner—but then you go out with the guys I pick and say they’re leaving you cold. What if you opened up the field a little? Tried someone a little different?” Elisa tapped a few keys and brushed the trackpad, then turned the laptop around so Haven could see. “Check this guy out. Teaches rock climbing, former Navy.” Elisa ticked off his claims to fame. “Does have a fondness for wool socks and hiking boots, so as you might imagine he’s kinda outdoorsy—”

“Stop.” Haven held up her hand and noticed that she’d somehow chipped one Screaming Pink fingernail. She had the color in her drawer at work—she’d patch it when she got back to the office. “Outdoorsy? Seriously? Look. At. Me.”

Elisa did as Haven asked, an appraisal as coldly clinical as a doctor’s exam. Not at all the way Mark’s gaze had felt yesterday. His scrutiny had melted over her skin like warm butter. She thought of saying something about that, but she suspected Elisa would take altogether too much glee in it. She might even cite it as proof that Haven was barking up the wrong dating tree. But Haven wasn’t. She knew what mattered, and for better or for worse, image was a big part of it. It was what she’d made her career on. It was who she was. And she needed a guy who could appreciate its importance.

“Like seeks like,” Haven told Elisa.

She could picture him. At least six feet. Dark hair, close-cropped but not so short she couldn’t run her fingers through it. Dark eyes. Tailored clothes. Athletic. Professional—maybe a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Or, she wasn’t that picky—he could be a small business owner, too. Just—successful. Refined. At ease with social events and people.

“Okay, I admit, you’re not terribly outdoorsy. But I don’t think like always seeks like. Look at me and Brett.”

“But you are alike. Education, background, socioeconomics, level of polish.”

Haven hadn’t worried about any of that in her last serious relationship. Poet Porter Weir had worn consignment-shop artist’s garb to go with his longish hair and his intense, life is nasty, brutish and short gaze.

Haven had met him at a poetry reading she’d attended when her mother and sisters were visiting New York.

Haven had somehow been born into the wrong household of brilliant, passionate, neo-hippy women. As a child, Haven had loved her family but never quite felt as though she fit in with their crafty projects and eco-adventures and thinky ideas. She was like a Limited Edition Fashion Barbie among handcrafted fabric dolls made by a fair-trade cooperative in Lima, Peru.

On this particular New York trip, she had done her best to make her family feel comfortable—taking them to out-of-the-way galleries, artists’ studios and literary events. She’d felt like a fish out of water, much as she had as a child, when her mother had introduced her sisters and then added, with a wry twist to her mouth, “And this is my princess, Haven.” Maybe in some families, “princess” would have been a compliment, but Haven had known from the time she was very little that in her case it wasn’t. She was decidedly outside the freewheeling, new-age family her mother had dreamed of.

At the poetry reading, Porter Weir had walked past all her sisters in their fun, colorful peasant clothing, their soft, flowing hair and natural faces. He’d made straight for her, in her of-the-moment New York fashion and her pinned-up hair and perfect makeup. He asked her what she thought of his poetry, how it made her feel. And it had been such a long time since anyone had asked her how anything made her feel that she’d found herself answering.

He’d wanted her. And in the early days of the relationship he had made her feel not only beautiful, but also smart, interesting and creative. Still, she could never shake the fear that if he looked too closely, he’d discover that she was far more princess than poetess.

And that was more or less what had transpired. He’d dug deep and been deeply disappointed.

Haven had never told Elisa what had happened between her and Porter. She’d mentioned him, of course, because he was her most recent serious relationship. But she’d said only that they’d been too different.

“The point is,” Haven concluded, “I don’t do outdoorsy.”

Elisa nodded, admitting defeat, then hit a button on her computer and made the former Navy guy disappear. “It was just a thought.”

“Next.” Haven had to get back to her own work soon, but Elisa’s office always felt like a refuge. If Haven had had time for therapy, she would have wanted it to feel like this. Cozy and friendly and with a splash of humor.

Elisa laughed. “Okay. Try this.” She displayed another man on the screen. “He’s the vice-president of marketing for a well-known jewelry maker. Think expensive Christmas gifts.”

Haven was already a beat ahead of Elisa, hoping for diamond studs. “Wardrobe?”

“He’s wearing a rumpled jacket in this picture.”

Haven leaned in. Dark hair, dark eyes. The jacket was indeed rumpled, but that was only one small strike against him. Maybe it had been raining the day the photo was taken.

“He likes to ‘dine out,’ ‘socialize with friends,’ and ‘go to the movies.’”

“Why haven’t you shown me this guy before?” Haven demanded.

“Honestly? Because this profile bores me to tears.”

“Maybe he’s just not that good at—”

Elisa scrunched up her face, and they both started laughing.

“Right,” said Haven. “He’s in marketing. He should be able to write a profile of himself that makes him sound worth meeting. But honestly? I’m in PR and I could never write those profiles. If I made them too cute, I always felt like I was fake, and if I made them honest, they sounded boring.”

“That’s why you have me to do it for you,” Elisa said. “So it’s up to you. Do you want to give this guy a chance?”

“He sounds perfect.”

“Okay, let’s go for it. I’ll set something up for this weekend. And I’ll gently suggest that he wear something a little more—pressed—than what he’s got on in this photo.”

“That sort of spoils it, if you have to tell him, right?”

“Well,” said Elisa with a mischievous grin, “if it gets him laid, maybe he’ll learn from it.”

“Who said anything about anyone getting laid?”

Elisa looked up from the laptop screen. “How long, exactly, are you planning for your current dry spell to last?”

“Why break something two years in the making?” Haven winced.

“As someone who has recently broken a two-plus-year dry spell, I have to recommend it. The breaking, not the spell.”

“Do you think it was the breaking that was so good? Or the man you broke it with?”

“Probably the man.” Elisa smiled dreamily.

Haven wondered if being happily matched was a boon or a liability for a dating coach. On one hand, if Elisa could do so well for herself, it said something for her emotional intelligence. On the other, Haven suspected most single women would be more likely to confide in a dating coach who didn’t seem quite so smugly settled.

Elisa snapped out of her reverie. “The point is, you don’t have to find the perfect man to break the losing streak.”

“Sex is a lot of work. If I’m going to do it, it’d better be good.”

Elisa narrowed her eyes. “Sex is a lot of work? Are you doing it right?”

“Pumice stones and moisturizers and Brazilians and lingerie shopping and the good sheets and candles and—”

“It’s not an Olympic event, Hav,” Elisa interrupted. “You’re allowed to just do it. Like on the living room couch, drunk, and with the full complement of God-given body hair.”

Haven knew from personal experience that while guys might claim not to need things groomed and romantic and perfect, over time they would come to crave the fantasy version. Once the early, oblivious bliss wore off, Elisa would find that out, too.

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Haven said.

Elisa crossed her arms. “Are we talking about ‘right’? Or are we talking about ‘looking good’?’”

“When it comes to men, there’s no difference.”

Elisa gave her a hard look. “I’m a dating coach. There’s a difference.”

“I’m an image consultant. There’s not.”

Elisa laughed. “Agree to disagree.” She shut the laptop and came around the desk as Haven stood. “You’re a hoot, girl.”

Elisa put her arm around Haven, and Haven rested her head on Elisa’s shoulder, glad Elisa thought it was funny. But she hadn’t been joking. When it came to men, image was everything.

* * *

MARK STEPPED INTO Mad Mo’s and was assaulted by screens and vintage neon signs, piped music and raised voices. Even years of having his ears blown out on a stage and in blues clubs hadn’t made him immune to the overstimulation. He had to pause in the doorway to get his bearings.

Mad Mo’s had been around since the 1940s, and it was the antithesis of the place where he’d had lunch with Haven yesterday. At Charme, everything was calculated and calculating, from the color scheme to the people who chose to put themselves on display there. Here—well, it had all happened through year after year of accidents. Someone had once given Mo a neon beer sign and then he had become a known collector of them. The art on the walls was a mélange of photos of Mo’s family, crayon pictures kids had drawn and postcards from every corner of the world. And the food was— It was just food, the fries spilling over the top of the burgers, pickle wedges stuffed wherever they’d fit. Haven Hoyt would have a heart attack if she saw this scene. She’d want to call up whichever of her friends was responsible for giving restaurants image makeovers and have them here before close of business.

Earlier that day Haven had sent him a color-coded spreadsheet that laid out his fate at a series of fund-raisers, openings, soirees and cocktail parties. Nothing in her schedule—not even the two-hour appointment at the high-end barber or the afternoon of shopping at the department store—had struck as much fear in his heart as the text Jimmy had sent him a couple of hours ago, telling Mark to meet him and Pete Sovereign at Mo’s.

Mark had called Haven for help and together they’d worded an apology. She was sorry she couldn’t accompany him to Mo’s but she had to attend an event. She told him she had faith in him; he should just deliver the apology and get out, fast.

While he’d needed the help in getting the words right, he was grateful she wasn’t with him. It would have felt too much like having a babysitter. Better to face up to Pete and do his best.

And so he was here. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, trudging toward what felt like his doom. Love you, Dad. Doing this for you.

He lifted his gaze and found Jimmy in the crowd, beanpole tall and narrow faced. His former manager waved him toward the wide bar that formed a U on one side of the restaurant. Pete was leaning on the bar, his blond bangs hanging in his eyes, as insufferably cocky-looking as he’d been the last time Mark had seen him. Mark was a poor judge of male beauty, but he’d never gotten Pete’s appeal to women. He looked—to Mark—like an overgrown kid. Countless promoters and image consultants had championed Pete’s boyishness back in the day, claiming he was popular precisely because teenaged girls didn’t really want men. They weren’t ready for them yet. Body and facial hair still secretly scared them. They wanted the illusion of innocence. Hence the appeal of the barely-past-boyhood pop group.

Mark crossed to the bar and Jimmy clapped him on the shoulder, as if they were friends. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Years ago, Mark had believed that Jimmy liked him. Jimmy was a straight shooter, and Mark had been, too. In an industry that was full of hot air, that was a rare commodity. This last week, though, had made it clear how little Jimmy thought of the man Mark had become—and how unnecessary he considered him to the tour.

It would be humbling, if there were anything in him left to be humbled.

Behind Jimmy, Pete shifted but didn’t step forward to greet him. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Mark. And as much as Mark hated him, he couldn’t blame him.

Moment of truth. He had to lower himself enough to apologize to the piece of dung leaning on the shiny teak bar. Otherwise, all the image rehabbing in the world wasn’t going to make this tour happen.

Pete’s arrogant half smile made Mark think of Lyn. Her beauty, her passion and her promises, the romantic ones and the professional ones. Pete had taken away not just those promises, but something deeper, something Mark had never been able to get back.

The noise in Mad Mo’s formed a cushion around Mark, making everything feel faintly unreal. It still seemed possible to turn and leave, without consequences. His father and the medical bills were far away.

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. Pete’s smile grew bigger and more smug, the smile of a man who knew his opponent was between a rock and a hard place. Mark wondered how much of this Pete had orchestrated. Did he even give a shit whether or not Mark apologized? Did he just want to see Mark squirm? Had sending Mark to Haven been Pete’s idea? He could imagine Pete howling with laughter at the notion of Mark undergoing an image rehab.

Jimmy gestured loosely toward Pete. “So, um—”

Mark’s mouth refused to open. It was wrong, just dead wrong, that he should be the one apologizing.

Pete Sovereign boosted himself off the bar, giving Mark the full force of his superior grin and thrusting his hand out. “Nice of you to come all this way to beg.”

For a moment, Mark could feel the world stretch and shift—déjà vu. He could feel the moments that had just passed and the moments that were creeping up on them. He remembered how Pete’s nose had given way to his knuckles ten years ago, and he imagined—no lived—with unapologetic clarity, the way Pete’s cheekbone would crack under the force of the even more heartfelt blow Mark was about to deliver.

What stopped him from throwing the punch, oddly enough, was not thinking of his father. It was thinking of Haven Hoyt and the way she’d looked at him in Charme, her eyebrows slightly drawn together as if she were trying to figure him out. As if he were worth figuring out. And even when he’d called her about this meeting, Haven had not said anything about watching his temper or not getting in a fight. She had, in fact, told him he would be capable of handling it maturely.

He heard himself sigh, and he saw Pete’s eyes widen. He leaned as close to Pete Sovereign as he could bear to, steeling himself against the guy’s cologne, and said, “It will be a long, cold wait in hell for you if you think that’s going to happen, douche bag.”

Then he turned and walked out of Mad Mo’s, the din fading behind him as the door swung shut and the cacophony of Manhattan’s streets filled his ears.