Brothers of Paradise Series

“I read up on you before this. I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, and bats expertly elongated eyelashes, “but I’m too honest. I have to confess.”

God help me. “And what did you find?”

She leans in across the table. “Well, I knew you were impressive before, but the search confirmed it. Started your own firm at just twenty-seven, quickly became one of the biggest names in Manhattan. You won the Hugh D. Lehn award. Your father is a developer, too, right?”

“Yes.” I scan the restaurant for the waiter. I need to pay this bill and end this.

“Is that why you got into the business?”

“I didn’t-”

“Because that’s why I love fashion. My mother was a famous model, you know. Very beautiful. People say I look like her, but I don’t see it.” Chelsea smiles. It looks sickly sweet. “Do you think I do? My mom is Cindy White.”

The name barely rings a bell. “I’m sure the resemblance is striking.”

Her smile falters, but only slightly. “Let me just tell you how excited I was when you asked me out for dinner.”

She had looked vaguely bored when I’d offered. What had brought about this change? The google search of my net worth and history?

“I’m glad you accepted.”

Chelsea shoots me another practiced smile and starts to complain about something so inane that I do my best to tune it out, my features impassive. She’s taken pictures of the place, of the food, and of our drinks. At least she didn’t try to take a picture with me.

I glance down at my watch. It’s half-past nine. Faye is out on her date as well. Her blind date. It’s far too easy to imagine her sitting on a barstool, her eyes teasing as she challenges the poor guy she’s been paired with.

What kind of men does she like? In my mind, the guy she’s smiling at shifts from muscly jock to a tall investment banker. Neither feels right. Faye’s too… she’s too much for that. For single-minded men who can’t keep up with her intelligence.

Or they’re hitting if off and she’s blushing for him, like she did for me when I asked her about the date. The low lights of the bar setting off her olive-toned skin perfectly.

Chelsea is still droning on. Just a few months ago she would have been exactly the kind of date I’d enjoy wining, dining, and bedding. A companion for events. She’d know what was expected and anticipated; it was a comfortable sort of arrangement, always unspoken. Enjoyable conversation, if not particularly deep. Both parties aware it’s casual.

Now, the thought of spending another hour pretending to be interested in the newest Birkin bag feels like torture, not to mention spending an entire evening with her at the Founders’ ball. No, she’s not a prospective candidate at all.

It’s not hard to picture Faye opposite me instead, tonight at Salt. She’d say something outrageous, and I’d get to surprise her right back by not reacting like she’d expect at all.

I finally get eye contact with a waiter. Chelsea smirks at me when I settle the bill, going out of her way to point out to the waiter that the vegan option she ordered wasn’t quite to her satisfaction.

She threads her arm through mine as we walk back to our street. Clearly, dating someone I lived next to had been a mistake. I should have known, but I’d done it anyway, driven by the pressure to find someone for the ball-not to mention my little sister’s wedding in a few short weeks.

“You’re very fit,” she says, running her hand up my arm. I resist the urge to draw away from her and look down at where her eyes are flirtatiously narrowing at me. “I didn’t know architects were this buff. You don’t do any of that construction work yourself, do you?”

“Not generally, no. But I stay active.” I have the gym, every morning, not to mention the long hours spent sailing. Hauling ropes isn’t for the weak. “Here’s where I have to leave you, Chelsea.”

Her face drops, but she quickly composes it into something that looks like a smirk. It’s clear she’s used to using her charms and having them work. “You’re not going home?”

“I have to go to the office.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“I do love that you work so much,” she says, but the attempt is half-hearted. “Thanks for tonight, Henry.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes ultimately hold nothing but calculation. I’m one of many, and we both know it’s not a genuine connection. “While I’m sure we both had a good evening, I’m not going to call you, and I don’t think you’ll call me either.”

Her face drops entirely. “Wow. I… all right. That’s rude.”

“No, it’s honest.”Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

She shakes her head. “Fine. Do you know how many men want to go out with me?”

“Many, I’m sure.” But I am definitely not one of them. “Good night, Chelsea. Take care.”

She shoots me a look that’s more offended than hurt and heads inside.

I take a deep breath for the first time in a couple of hours and start walking toward the office. I know I’m not going to be able to sleep for hours, and my fingers are itching to try out some changes to the opera house. This entire evening reminded me why I hate New York’s dating scene. No doubt she’d be dating ten guys at the same time and had expected me to do the same.

Everything is complicated-absolutely everything-when the only thing I want is simplicity.

My mind drifts to Faye and her date again, like a dog with a bone. Is she like Chelsea too, playing the field? I can’t imagine that. But I can imagine her infatuated, her cheeks flushing beautifully again. She might still be on her date. If it’s going well, he could be kissing her right now.

I dial her number.

I know I shouldn’t call. I have no legitimate reason to do so. She’s organized my calendar to perfection, and everything I need for the weekend is done.

Faye answers on the second signal. “Mr. Marchand? Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Did your reservation work out?”

“Yes, it did.”

A faint pause. “So, what’s the matter?”

“Did you book the airport transportation for my Chicago trip?”

“I did, yes.”

“I didn’t receive the details.”

“No, I was planning on going over it on Monday, during our meeting.” Another pause. “Do you need them earlier?”

“Yes, I need the details right away,” I say, hand clenched at my side. I know I’m acting like an asshole.

“I’ll forward them to your email right away.”

“Good.” I force my hand to relax. I want to keep her talking. “Hopefully it won’t interrupt your evening too much.”