The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(26)

“They liked you.” His voice softens like he’s settling into a conversation where I’m not arguing with him about vehicle repairs. Like this is something we do often, sit on the phone while he’s on his lunch and while I’m sitting in my office not answering emails. His words send another rush of warmth through me as if this is some new boyfriend and I just met his friends for the first time, as if their liking me mattered.

Which it does not matter. He is a client.

Then why does the thought of matching him make you queasy? my sex fiend asks, a curious smirk on her face.

I shake my head. Too many drinks last night. That’s what it is.

“Do you forgive me for skipping the museum?” I laugh at the question.

“I was looking forward to the new modern art exhibit.” That’s kind of a lie.

“I’ll take you next time.” I pause, but there must still be liquor in my system, or maybe this man works his own kind of intoxifying magic, because the words tumble from my lips.

“I lied.”

“What?”

“I lied. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I actually find art museums quite boring.” His laugh comes from his belly, something I noticed last night when he held me close to him in the crowded bar. He has three kinds of laughs from what I saw. The first is a chuckle he paired with a head shake when I said something he disagreed with or he thought I was being silly. The second is the fake one he used on the server when she got a bit too close and brushed her hand on his arm. And a third—a big belly laugh accompanied by the happiness which shone from his eyes and a huge, genuine smile. All three brought out the dimple in his left cheek.

Jesus, now I’m dissecting the man’s laughs?

“Then why were we going there?” I sigh, not really wanting to answer this. It feels like a weird industry thing, like a dirty secret making me less authentic or manipulative.

“My job is to find the true feelings and actions of the people I’m setting up,” I say, giving him time to process.

“Got that. What does it have to do with an art museum?”

“So, you bring a man to an art museum, and there are a few ways he’ll act. One, he’s excited. There are two subreactions to this. One, he’ll mansplain every piece, even if you know more about it. That’s a flag for me. The other subreaction is he’ll be excited and enjoy the experience alongside you. That’s a good mark. Perfect to match with another lover of the arts. The next is he’ll clearly be hesitant. The subreactions for this are, A. He makes it verbally clear he’s not enjoying it but goes along with it. That’s kind of like a yellow flag and can be neutral or bad, depending on how the rest of the night goes. Or B. It’s clear art museums aren’t his thing, but he goes for it with a smile because it’s the polite thing to do. Usually a green flag.” He laughs. It’s the chuckle.

“You’ve really thought about this art museum thing, haven’t you?”

“It’s my job. To be fair, your application said,” I shuffle through papers to find the application I now know his sister filled out, “ahem, you enjoy fine art and museums.” Again, he laughs, this time the belly laugh.

“I’m gonna kill Tara.”

“It’s fine. I will say you’re the first case that’s gotten to a date without actually filling out the application. Usually, it’s a mom or a grandmother, and we filter those out pretty easily. You were a surprise.” He mumbles something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like, “so were you,” but his next words distract me.

“So, what’s option three?”

“Option three?”

“You bring a man to a museum; what’s option three?” I pause, unsure if I should answer.

“Option three is new. It’s when the man decides there’s no way in hell he’s going to a museum and takes me to a bar trivia night with his friends.” My voice is low when I answer, and I’m silent for long moments while I wait for his reply.

“What’s the verdict on that?” And for some unknown reason, I answer without running the words through the filter I normally use when talking with clients. When talking with anyone, really.

“Undecided.” His laugh flows through the line and through my veins, filling it with the warmth he always seems to bring. My ears feel hot as I flit my eyes to Gabrielle and see she has a small smile on her lips as she watches me.

“Alright, well, when you decide, you let me know.” A voice is heard in the background, then a muffle comes through the line like he’s moving his phone against his shirt. “Hey, sweetheart, I gotta go, okay? Talk to you soon.”

“Okay, Luke,” I say, but I stay on the line after he ends the call, the silent cell held to my ear like I might learn what the hell is going on, why this man is affecting me and turning me upside down.

“Okay, spill.” The voice comes from Gabrielle, standing in front of my desk, pen in her hair and an eyebrow raised. Staring at her for long seconds, I don’t speak while I weigh my options, weigh wanting to remain professional to my employee and really wanting a friend to gab with. Finally, my decision made, I lower my phone and look her in the eye.

“What are you doing tonight?”





Hours later, Gabrielle is sitting in sweats on my couch while we watch one of those gushy Hallmark movies they play around every holiday to convince women they need a man in their life. This time it’s a cupid retelling, where some sassy New Yorker falls in love with, you guessed it, Cupid. Perfect for Valentine’s Day.