The Rules of Friends with Benefits Lauren Blakely (short novels to read .txt) 📖

has been specific—those eyes, that smile, that Crosby-ness.

Our connection.

But rippling out from that is a more general consideration.

I want that connection.

I want that connection plus all the things I suspect Crosby and I could be if we weren’t friends first, and if Eric wouldn’t have a cow, and if we lived less than a plane ride away.

A matchmaker seems ideal. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

“Yes!” Stone slaps his hand on the bar. Either that was a generous pour of gin in his drink, or he’s on a post-performance high, or both. But the mood is contagious.

We scoot our stools together and google “matchmakers in Vegas” on my phone.

He’s right—there are a number of them. So we find the top one.

“Samantha Valentine?” I say skeptically. “No way is that her real last name.”

“No quibbling, Nadia,” Stone chides me, and clicks on the contact link. “Jump off that cliff before your better sense talks you out of it.”

“That is the worst encouragement I’ve ever heard.”

But under his watchful stare, I type out an email to Ms. Valentine, premier matchmaker in Las Vegas, and ask if she’ll meet with me to discuss her services.

Samantha smiles warmly at me as her assistant ushers me into her classy, unassuming office off the Strip.

Though younger than Meryl Streep, the matchmaker extraordinaire gives off a Devil Wears Prada vibe that says she gets stuff done.

She appraises me from stem to stern—inoffensively—before I sit, and then she listens attentively as I tell her what I want in a man.

Because that’s not awkward at all.

“So . . . funny is great,” I say. “I do like to laugh. But mostly, I want someone with a big heart.”

“Interesting,” she says, like no one has ever given that criteria before. She studies me over the top of her glasses then makes a note on her tablet. “What about income? Property? Investments?”

“I don’t really care about that.” I shrug off the question. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “But don’t you want him to be making a certain amount of money?”

“Not really.” I hadn’t really thought about it at all. “I mean, a college degree is important because I’d like someone who values education. But as for employment, I’m not that picky. I think I would just like somebody who’s kind and caring.”

She flashes a smile. “Wonderful. A woman such as yourself—twenty-four, running a football team, the toast of the town—it should be no trouble at all to find a man for you.”

Famous last words.

The first date I meet at Momofuku in The Cosmopolitan. He’s good-looking, a hedge fund owner, and we opt for the brussels sprouts and a bottle of red wine. We chat about the federal reserve and mutual funds, and just as my brain is about to liquify from boredom, he turns to me and says, “It’s been great meeting you, Nadia. But I’m going to pass on a second date.”

Taken aback, I say, “Okay . . .”

On the tip of my tongue is “Thank God for that,” but I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Even though he’s already hurt mine.

But he’s not done.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says, laying his folded napkin across his plate. “I simply prefer to have the biggest wallet in the room.”

I blink, taking a moment to assimilate that he really said that aloud. Then I smile sweetly and rise from my chair. “Well, then. Best of luck finding someone with a teeny wallet to match your teeny heart.”

A few weeks later, I have dinner with a land developer.

He tells me about some of the projects he’s working on.

He says he knew Steve Wynn.

He talks about watching the Stardust being taken down with a wrecking ball.

“My God,” he rhapsodizes. “It was so satisfying. It’s everything I long for as a land developer.”

This is by far the most interesting thing he’s said but for all the wrong reasons.

“Destruction, you mean?”

“No. Opportunity. When I see a wrecking ball hit a building, all I think is it’s going to be mine next. And in its place, I’m going to build it bigger and better than before.”

Hmm . . . should I mention his obvious skyscraper envy, or go all out and suggest he’s compensating for something?

But he saves me the trouble.

“By the way, this is going to be our only date,” he says before we’ve even left the table. “I don’t really have any interest in seeing you as long as your title remains CEO.”

I don’t bother to mention that CEO isn’t my title.

That would be “owner.”

The next month it’s a personal injury attorney, one of those guys who has billboards everywhere.

1-800-I’ll Win Big for You. That kind of billboard.

I’m beginning to think Samantha Valentine has something personal against me.

We go out to a steakhouse next to Caesars, and he orders the most expensive thing on the menu, which makes me think of Crosby and our lunch together. The memory is literally the most enjoyable part of this meal.

Mr. 1-800 changes things up from my last dates by saying he’d love to see me again, which makes one of us. Especially when he adds, “But I just want you to know that I’m always going to wear the pants in the relationship.”

I glance down at my cute red pencil skirt with white polka dots and sigh loudly as I look back up and meet his eyes. “That’s too bad, because you really don’t deserve to see these legs or this adorable skirt except when they’re walking away from you.”

And that is my new most enjoyable part of the meal.

When I walk into the office the next day wearing a new pair of black Louboutins, Matthew, my CEO, arches an eyebrow. “Dare I say, your last date was rubbish?”

I set down my bag and face him, hands on my hips. “I can’t tell if you’re being snarky or if it’s just your accent.”

“I can’t help it. I’m British.”

“So . . . a bit of both, then?” He