Almost Matched (Almost Bad Boys) Page 2

  This time he smiles widely and winks at me. My heart does a little flip, and I almost spew the water out. He has a gorgeous smile. I bet he’s one of those guys that women are obsessed with. And I’m sure he knows it. Okay, it’s time to discuss business before my own mind spins out of control. For all I know he’s married—wait, no wedding ring—or has a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Although he doesn’t strike me as gay. For heaven’s sake, enough of that, Natalie. What the hell is happening to me?

  Another sip of water; another small victory setting the glass down on the table. I open the folder that I left on the conference table yesterday for this meeting. The conversation immediately switches to the task at hand. We discuss a few possible options for the ads, the schedule, and finally the pricing. Strong Connections had run the ads once before but with a different radio station. KZIX is quite new but it has already gained huge popularity, especially among the audience that is Strong Connections’ target customer: young executives who prefer our tailored approach to an online dating sites or a bar scene.

  After about an hour, we have a pretty good idea about the advertising structure. Melinda promises to get me the final contract the next morning. A few handshakes later Ali and I walk the three KZIX people to the door. Colin gestures for Melinda and Sabrina to exit, while holding the door for them. Leaving, they still chat and laugh with Ali. Colin watches me as if waiting for something. What now? Can this morning get any weirder?

  But seriously, he totally watches me. And that little, sexy smile is back. What am I supposed to say to a guy who accidentally just saw me half-naked? So I decide to clamp my mouth shut and avoid his stare. Yes, very immature of me, but embarrassment has its rights.

  “It was really nice to meet you,” he says very quietly so only I can hear.

  “Uhm… same here.” Hot, prickly crimson returns to my face.

  After they leave, I rush Ali to her office, close the doors so Ellen won’t overhear us, and tell her about my little incident. She laughs so hard, she actually cries, smearing her mascara into a perfect raccoon eye imitation.

  “It’s not funny,” I protest, but there is no talking to her. So I give in and burst out laughing too.

  “Now I get it.” She wipes her eyes with Kleenex.

  “What?”

  “Why he gaped at you the whole time. The poor fellow couldn’t concentrate on anything but your cleavage. I bet we’re getting an amazing deal with the station.” She grins.

  “Whatever helps, right?” I shrug with pretended triviality and wink at her. “But he didn’t appear to be embarrassed, so don’t call him the poor fellow. I have a feeling he immensely enjoyed the entire situation.”

  “What man in his right mind wouldn’t?”

  “Oh, I could name a few. Ray The Asshole for sure. Oh, remember Marc?” I raise my eyebrows at her, daring her to recall someone I went out with a few months earlier.

  “Marc? The investment banker? The New York transplant, right? He was a rude ass.” Ali carefully applies bright-red lipstick, presses her lips together, and examines the effect in her little mirror. She looks great in red lipstick; something I’m unable to pull off despite my naturally light-red hair and green eyes. She has hair as black as coal, tan-like flawless skin, and gorgeous, inviting smile. Ali is also a big girl, but her undeniable sex appeal guarantees she never spends a night alone, unless she chooses to do so. Men are drawn to Ali like a moth to a flame.

  “Yep, that one. Have I ever told you why I ditched him?” I make a sour face, remembering.

  “He was an asswipe. Told me I should lose some weight.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you mean there was more?”

  “I could parade around Marc, naked, and that would do squat for him. He just didn’t care for me, or maybe he didn’t care for any woman. He had to seriously rub himself for a while to stay hard. Like every few minutes. So there you have it—not every guy enjoys my boobs on display.”

  “I never understood why you dated Marc in the first place.” Ali shakes her head, looking at me.

  “I didn’t.” I shrug. “It wasn’t dating. We went out four times and had sex twice. I cringe just thinking about both times.”

  Ali giggles. “Just like my nerd last night. But, at least, he was cute and nice; so nervous, polite even.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “Nah. I told you—it was a waste of time. I’m not into coaching. And he kept apologizing half of the night. I’m tired and horny, and that’s a bad combination.” She sighs and leans back in her chair.

  I laugh. “About that. Go home, girl. Take a nap, watch some mind-numbing TV, have a date with your vibrator. I owe you for this morning.”

  “Oh, please, Nat.” Ali dismisses me with an impatient gesture.

  “I’m feeling guilty. And you’re not making it any better by staying here on your day off.”

  She cocks her head to the side and smiles.

  “What?” I ask.

  Ali stands up. “Natalie, we are business partners. And we are friends. Let’s keep it this way. We have each other’s back, and there is no guilt. You’ve saved my ass plenty of times. Besides, you’re never late. This was just one of those crazy mornings that can happen to anyone.”

  “Yeah, yeah. If your speech is over then scoot, sister.”

  “Brian Hudson texted me this morning. Actually, he’s been texting all day.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, looking at her phone screen. She types with her thumbs at an unbelievable speed.

  “Are you sexting?” I grin at her. “Jena says the concept of a sex buddy is sadly underrated.”

  “She’s got that right.” Ali stops typing and looks at me. “Brian is the best sex buddy a girl could dream of—no strings attached whatsoever. It’s easy to hook up with him. And easy to hook off.” She shrugs one shoulder.

  “Hook off?” Is that new cool-kid jargon?”

  “It’s my jargon.”

  “I’m so borrowing it. Okay, go hook up with your fuck buddy. I have to go over some customer profiles.” I get up with a smile and walk to the door.

  “Nat, darling. You need a fuck buddy. Trust me. It’s good for the soul.”

  TWO

  “Soon we’ll be sliding down the razor-blade of life.”

  Tom Lehrer

  A few days later I leave the office and go to the gym. After my workout I’m back on the freeway. The traffic is murderous. Everyone in Seattle seems to be on I-5, heading north. The evening is still warm, but not uncomfortably so that I would need to run the air-conditioning in the car. Instead, I have all my windows down and the sunroof open. Maybe not the best option while sitting among all those running engines. I honestly can’t care about the fumes now. I’m exceptionally tired today after the whole day in the office, and my headache is back.

  “Hey! Natalie!” I hear someone call from the car to my left.

  I turn. Two things happen at once: my heartbeat increases to a dangerous level, and my brain sounds the S.O.S. message. I’m far from indecisive most of the time, but now I cannot, for the life of me, decide what to do.

  So, I sit, my eyes stupidly wide, staring at the absolutely gorgeous, insanely sexy male specimen that grins at me from the car in the lane next to mine. The traffic freezes, so the cars aren’t moving at the moment. He looks at me from behind some designer sunglasses, waiting for a sign of recognition from me.

  It’s him! The man I encountered last week while I was clad only in a mini skirt, shoes, and a bra that left little to the imagination.

  Did I mention the S.O.S signaling from my brain? Screw the brain. I like what my heart is saying so much better. And why am I worried about Colin’s intentions? If he didn’t want to get my attention, he wouldn’t. But he did. He deliberately called out to me, waving and smiling.

  “Hey, Colin!” I give a cautious wave back. “Wow, what a coincidence.” Yep, that’s me—the queen of obvious. I never try to be sophisticated or ostentatious. One thing I’d learned in my twenty-five years is to
be myself and not try too hard to please anyone. Forget the pressures of the outside world is pretty much my mantra.

  “So good to see you, Natalie.” He definitely sounds sincere. No hidden undertones, no suggestive meanings. Just the good, old nice to see you.

  I like that. Actually, I like it a bit too much. So much that there is an unmistakable warm feeling in my stomach, spreading upward to my chest and down… well, way down there. What the hell is that about? I should be embarrassed, remembering our first—very unfortunate—encounter. But no! My vagina decides it is perfectly normal to act ready. Stupid vagina. There really should be a saying, that—like men, thinking with their penises—some girls think with their pussies. I would qualify. I would get a platinum level membership. Well, the three of my closest girlfriends would too, so that would be a hoot of a club.

  “Crazy traffic, isn’t it?” I’m stalling, trying to see how Colin will continue this conversation. The cars are about to start moving, and so we will just wave goodbye.

  “I know. It might even make sense to take the next exit and wait it out somewhere. There must be some nice bar or a restaurant around.”

  Whoa. Is he trying to get me to join him? I won’t go for it. Cute or not, I don’t even know him. “I hear ya.” That’s a safe enough answer.

  Colin is wearing a very-white, very-crisp dress shirt, with sleeves rolled up over his elbows. His tie is draped over the navy-blue jacket that hangs on the back of the passenger seat. Several buttons of his shirt are undone, and when he twists his upper body away from the steering wheel and toward me, he graces me with a glimpse of his smooth chest. No hair, just the way I like it. And is that a tattoo, swirling up from somewhere around his nipple and toward his shoulder? It’s hard to tell with his shirt just barely allowing a peek of his upper torso.

  Suddenly, I want to see what that tattoo is depicting. No, scratch that. It’s my vagina who wants to know. And she wants to do some naughty things to that tattoo. How freakin’ embarrassing. Ali is right—I need a fuck buddy to keep my fantasies at bay.

  I look away, trying to get myself under control with two deep breaths. And then I realize that my own shirt is unbuttoned way too low. Hello girls! My boobies are curiously sticking their heads up, trying to see what vagina is so breathlessly talking about.

  My hand goes automatically to my chest, trying to put the buttons back into their holes, but I stop half-way through, thinking this would seem overly-bashful enough to actually give me the real reason to blush.

  Ah, screw that. “Where are you heading?” I ask, my tone conversational.

  “Back home. Worked out, but my gym tee was too sweaty too wear, so I settled on putting my work shirt back on.” He gestures to his white shirt.

  I wonder if he changed from gym shorts into his suit pants. But I can’t see below his chest.

  “Oh, I was at the gym too. Where do you go?”

  “Emerald Bay.”

  Emerald Bay is a two-story gym with multiple locations throughout metropolitan Seattle. It’s the most expensive gym in the city. Many of the Strong Connections customers are members. I’d gotten a free week pass a few months ago from one of them, so I know how fine that gym is.

  “Which location?” I ask, genuinely interested. I’d gone to the downtown Seattle one—there were two spas, a restaurant, a dermatologist office (a.k.a. Botox parlor), a juice bar, and a few other amenities. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a high-profile escort service available as well.

  “I have a multi-location membership, since I never know where I’ll end up after work. We have meetings all over town. But tonight I went to the one at Lincoln Square in Bellevue.” He dazzles me with that picture-perfect smile: white teeth and all. “Not far from your office, actually.”

  “Huh. So that’s where you are heading from?” The top of my head itches badly, and I keep scratching it. I hope he doesn’t notice or he may start wondering if I have poor personal hygiene. Which is definitely not the case.

  “Yes. I was supposed to get a drink with a buddy of mine after the gym. But his girlfriend had some kind of an emergency, so he couldn’t make it.” Colin takes his sunglasses off. His eyes are as blue as the sky above us. A cliché, I know. But they really are. He’s like some freakin’ young god, all perfect and sexy.

  I lick my lips and look ahead at the traffic in front of my car. The red stoplights on the white SUV before me blink out, and the vehicle lazily rolls forward. I glance back at Colin. There is already a large gap between his car and the vehicle in front of him. He’s clearly waiting for me to… do what?

  “The cars are moving!” I exclaim. Again, the queen of the obvious has spoken. Ugh. Smooth, really smooth, Natalie.

  “Hey, Natalie!” He reaches across his passenger seat toward the window. There is a business card in his hand.

  I take it from him and look at it, letting my foot slide off the brake pedal. I already have one from our first meeting, but I’m not about to point that out. The card has his name, title, two phone numbers, email address, and the KZIX radio station website address printed under the station’s logo.

  “Can you call me soon? The second number is my cell phone.” Suddenly, he looks boyish. His car rolls forward. He keeps looking at me with those gorgeous azure eyes framed in thick, black eyelashes.

  How can I say ‘no’ to this? It would be insane to let such a fine male slip away with no trace. Ali’s words come to mind: You need a fuck buddy. Trust me. It’s good for the soul. Huh. Why not? That’s her way of not expecting too much, which, in return, should guarantee not getting hurt, right?

  THREE

  “I’m not your type. My breasts are real.”

  Janeane Garofalo

  My best friend, Caroline Ford, suffers from a nasty case of self-deprecation. Caroline is my age, five-foot-seven, with a perfectly shaped classic bob in wheat-blond, mile-long legs, and a flat chest.

  The flat chest is Caroline’s biggest worry in the female sex appeal department. Today she seems to have an especially hard time with it.

  “So, I had a consultation with a plastic surgeon, and I think I might do it,” she says, trying to bite off a tiny piece of cuticle around her left pinky.

  “You’re insane,” I declare.

  “Oh, come on, Nat. Look at me.” She points ostentatiously to her non-existent breasts. “Remember last time we went shopping? The woman in the lingerie department couldn’t fit me in their smallest bra size. So what did she suggest?”

  “That maybe you could just stick with the sport bras,” I answer, unmoved.

  “Yeah, fuck that. I have more sports bras than she had on her shelves. And it’s not working. Do you know how embarrassing it is when a guy undresses you, all hard and ready, and he finds a freakin’ sports bra under your clothes? With nothing in it?”

  I’m afraid Caroline will start foaming at the mouth. Sometimes she can get seriously worked up. I can understand her frustration, but come on—getting fake boobs is not a good option. She asks me why it isn’t, and—honestly—I can’t come up with a credible answer. But it just doesn’t seem right to have your chest stuffed with some man-made material.

  “What if they leak?” I decide a health-aware approach. Caroline is very particular about her diet, doesn’t drink much, had never smoked or, God forbid, done any drugs. She would totally qualify as a “granola girl” if it wasn’t for me, Ali, and our other friend—Jena Simon. Together, we make sure Caroline doesn’t go overboard with the manic living healthy style.

  Caroline makes a dismissive sound—something like ‘pffftt’—and tops it with a ‘seriously?’ face. “Are we living in the eighties? No, they normally don’t leak. But even if they did for some weird reason, I’m choosing saline over silicon. Saline won’t harm anyone.”

  “Still. Caroline, don’t be stupid. You don’t want fake boobs,” I protest.

  She crosses her arms hotly over her chest (no pun intended) and gives me a patronizing look. “Actually, Natalie, yes. I do want th
em. I want to have cleavage. I want to wear a bikini and have the guys salivate over my tits. I want to look and feel sexy.”

  Oh, boy. There is no talking to her. No way can I convince her on my own. I take my cell phone out and text both Ali and Jena. We need an emergency intervention meeting.

  “I’m gonna get some juice. Do you want some?” Caroline walks to her tiny kitchen.

  “No thanks. Do you have a Coke? Diet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? You actually buy soda, you health-conscious freak?” I laugh.

  “I only buy it for you and the other two crazies,” she shouts from the kitchen. She means Ali and Jena.

  I hear her opening the freezer and scooping ice cubes from the tray and into the glasses.

  Ali texts back, “U can’t b serious!”

  I text that actually yes, Caroline is dead serious, and I want Ali and Jena here to convince my best friend that she doesn’t need Pamela Anderson’s boobs to be—or feel—beautiful. All three of us are on the text together, but Jena hasn’t responded.

  As on cue, Ali asks, “Where is Jena?”

  “I’m here.” Jena’s text finally comes through. “Give me an hour. I’m in the bathroom, getting ready for my hottie.”

  Huh? Jena is about to get laid. Bitch. I inwardly roll my eyes.

  Ali calls my cell phone, laughing, “Jena scores again!” she shouts. Her voice is distorted somehow, as if she’s eating.

  “Hardy har har. Get your ass over here. Caroline is having a serious boob-induced breakdown.”

  “On my way.”

  “What are you eating?”

  “A cranberry scone from Garnelli’s,” she says around a mouthful of food. I’ll bring some. Got a whole box here.”

  Garnelli’s bakery is the best in town. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but as you step over the threshold, you feel as if you’re transported to the Italian countryside. Walls are covered in frescos depicting Tuscan landscapes: lush vineyards, tall cypress trees, and groves of olive trees, white-walled houses, and monasteries.