Chapter Two

"So you start Monday?" Ivy looks at me across the table, a glass of Pinot Noir in her hands. Ivy Jensen is one of my two best friends. She works in the tech sector and is in the middle of a huge comeback project with her boyfriend, Heath. He's the coder, though she's damn good at it, too. Ivy is also excellent at running a business and raising funds.

We're sitting in a bar in an upscale hotel in the middle of the Upper East Side. Not my usual neighborhood, but we attended a party thrown by Ivy's mentor earlier this evening, the fabulous CeCe Foust, and a debrief had been required. Hence this swanky bar and overpriced drinks.

I live in what passes for an "apartment" in Greenwich Village. It's more of a room with an even tinier room attached, so they can say there's a full bathroom. I wouldn't use the word full in association with my place, but it's home and I mostly work.

"Yes, she starts the mystery job on Monday." Harper Ross is my other bestie. We've known each other since first grade when we both attended PS 111 and were placed in Miss Nixon's class. She was a newbie, and to say chaos ruled would understate the situation. Harper had taken my hand that first day on the playground, and we had Hunger Gamesed our way to the end of the school year and have been together ever since. We've gone through my parents' divorce, her dad's death, countless boyfriends, and career setbacks together.

So there's a reason she's upset I won't tell her why I'm suddenly back in the reality dating trenches. She's protective. Harper is that friend who steps in front of you when danger feels close. She's also a control freak. I think they go hand in hand.

"You know why," Ivy says, her eyes widening like they've been over this a couple hundred times. And they probably have.

I've read that it takes a person about eight times to grasp a new concept. When that concept is releasing control over things that could happen to people Harper loves, the number goes up significantly.

"Is this about that NDA?" Ivy's boyfriend Heath is with us, though he'd offered to stay home and play video games with his best friend so we could have a girls night.

Mostly because CeCe scares him and calls him "Ivy's Side Piece," even though they're living together and firmly committed and stuff. CeCe's not great with names, and she doesn't always understand slang. Like in any way. But she does love to use it. She calls me "Tiny Blonde One." Harper is "Ivy's Friend Who Could Use Some Blush," so I think Heath got off easy.

"I thought we all agreed we weren't giving Ani a hard time." The reason why Heath had no easy way out of the fancy party we'd all gone to sat beside him. Darnell Green rounds out our group. He's a coder by day and speculative fiction writer by all the times he's not coding or making sarcastic remarks. He's excellent at those.

He also loves a good train wreck, and he'd shoved his best friend right under a bus when Ivy offered to let him come if he could get Heath to go.

And what a beautiful train wreck it had been. We'd had some delicious food and expensive booze as we'd watched a couple of Broadway stars figure out they were both screwing the same director. CeCe had announced she wouldn't be backing a local politician because he was an ass. He was in the room when she said it over the loudspeaker she was experimenting with. He had not been happy, and that was when the man CeCe calls Lawyer had been introduced.

All in all, it was a chef's kiss of an evening.

And all I can think about is the fact that I have to deal with thirteen overly dramatic wannabe reality TV stars come Monday morning. I'm coming in at such a low level that I don't even have to be on set until filming starts. It's embarrassing, and I have to tell myself that I'm sacrificing for the sisterhood. It's worth it if I can save someone from a sexual predator.

Hmm. If I were CeCe Foust, I would call Joseph Helms Sexual Predator and nothing else.

Which wouldn't be fair because he could be innocent.

Maybe.

"We've lost her," Ivy says with a sigh. "Probably because the last thing she needs is another lecture from Harper on how she shouldn't sacrifice her career for whoever Harper's decided is the villain of the piece this time."

"I know who the villain is," Harper declares, pointing to Ivy over her Hendrick's martini up with a twist. "Jessica Wallace."

I roll my eyes. "She's not a freaking villain. Why is my mentor a villain but CeCe is okay?"

Harper's dark bob shakes. "I never said CeCe wasn't a villain. She's like the supervillain of our world, but she's kind of our villain. Watching her with the moms is cool. Even when Ivy's mom is lecturing her on karma and how she treats people, and then Heath's grandma talks about what God's going to say to her when she gets to heaven."

"CeCe does not plan on dying, so she's going to avoid all that," Ivy says like that's a normal thing. "And Jessica's pretty cool."

"I just think it's weird to think of the Joseph Helms directing a reality show." Heath shakes his head and exchanges a look with his best friend.

Darnell nods as though they've discussed the situation before. "A Far Planet is one of the greatest science fiction films ever made. I'll admit I wasn't into all those films he made about how angry white dudes are, but that one was excellent."

The angry white dude films are the award-winning ones, and yes, that says something about my industry.

Heath sits back, his hand on the beer in front of him. He's what I like to call generic cute boy. He would have ruled the CW airways back in the day. But I've come to learn that's merely his looks. Heath's surprisingly perceptive about more than just his code work. He's good at analyzing a situation and the people in it.

I realize a second before he speaks that he's probably the most dangerous person at the table.

"You know I've heard a rumor that Pinnacle is developing a film based on Red Haze," he muses.

It isn't a rumor. It hasn't been announced yet, but I happen to know that they already have scripts for three movies based on the world's best-selling video game, and they're putting about a billion dollars into building the franchise. "Huh, that sounds like something Pinnacle would do. I won't be asked to work on that one and I'm cool with it. I like working with small-budget films. More freedom to tell a good story."

Ivy's head comes up, a spark in her eyes.

She's curious, and I pray she lets it go. Ivy's the one who backs me on the whole NDA thing. She's signed many nondisclosure agreements herself. Harper works in construction. They aren't big on keeping secrets. People in Harper's industry tend to want everything out in the open, but Ivy understands.

She also loves to be a smarty pants who figures out a puzzle.

"Didn't Helms's Oscar film come from Pinnacle?" Ivy asks, and Heath nods her way. "And he's directed big blockbusters."

"But then he had to go to rehab," Harper points out. "I think that's why he's working on the reality show. I think it was all he could get because no one will insure him."

Insurance is a big thing in my industry. Oh, we don't like to talk about it because we want to seem all artistic and bohemian—let the art lead the way—but we mostly let the money lead the way, and protecting those big bucks is a whole vibe. Harper's right. I happen to know that Jessica had to work some magic to get Helms insured for this show.

She can't get it for the big movie unless he proves himself.

"But if he did want to make a comeback, it would go a long way to prove he's clean and sober," Ivy continues. "They wouldn't use a big budget project. They would need something smaller."

Harper's mouth drops open, and she looks my way. "You're babysitting."

I let my head fall to the table. "NDA."

"You are totally babysitting," Harper says with a bit of triumph in her tone.

Not that she figured it out. That had been a combo of Heath and Ivy. And I'm not babysitting, exactly. That job will be left to his sober companion and all his assistants.

"Guys, leave her alone." Darnell is the only one who defends me. "Our little mirror ball needs some space. If she signed an NDA, there was a good reason for it."

Seriously? Wear an overly sequined mini dress one time and they never let you hear the end of it. I sit back up. Tonight my mini dress is sequin free, though it does have some bling on the hem. "Thank you, Darnell. Obviously I will be honoring the NDA I signed."

Even Ivy groans at that. "You know we won't tell. NDAs are a dime a dozen. No one doesn't talk."

I'm kind of a rules follower. Most of the time. I believe society has some good rules and some bad ones. Not committing undeserved murders falls into the good rules. Dress codes are for Victorian pearl clutchers, so I don't pay a lot of attention to those. However, when one signs a document stating plainly they will not talk about a particular situation or they will get the holy hell sued out of them, I tend to believe the document. As I do not have a man or woman I call Lawyer on staff, my lips are sealed.

Besides, I don't think it's fair to talk. Rumors like this can ruin careers, and I need to think of this man as innocent until proven guilty.

"I can't, guys, and I need you to accept that," I say. It's not late, but we're one of two tables of drinkers, and there's only one person sitting at the bar. A light rain has started, pebbling against the windows and turning the street outside into a soft splash of neon from the lights around us.

The prettiest man I've ever seen is sitting there, staring down at his phone. The bartender slides a cup in front of him. Coffee. He looks up, and a smile comes across his face.

My jaw kind of drops because it's one of those moments when time seems to stand still and music plays in the background. It's the moment when the heroine looks across the crowded room and sees Prince Charming for the first time, and the world seems like a better place than it had been before.

Or I'm really horny and he's gorgeous.

"Wow." Ivy is staring his way, too. "That is a stunning man. I don't think I've ever seen a dude take Anika's breath away."

"My breath is in my lungs, thank you." I'm not gaping at the dude or anything. He's obviously out of my league, but I appreciate a lovely work of art. I can't tell how tall he is, but he has dark hair and a jawline that would make Superman envy him. He's maybe thirty-five, though clean living could age him up a bit. He's wearing slacks and a button-down, as though trying to blend in with the afterwork crowd.

That man couldn't blend to save his life.

Harper sits up, a grin lighting her face. "Are we wingmen?"

Dear lord. That's the last thing I need. The poor man is probably in town for a conference or something and he's trying to wind down. He doesn't seem to have a companion, but maybe his wife or girlfriend or husband is somewhere else and he's waiting on them. "No. I just…I mean, look at him."

"I am," Ivy assures me. "Hence me being willing to back you up."

"Or you could remember your boyfriend is sitting right here," Heath says with a frown on his face.

Ivy turns her boyfriend's way and puts a hand over his. "Sorry, babe. You know you are the only pretty man I need in my life, but you have to admit he's kind of hot."

Heath's lips curl up. "He is striking, if you like the male-model type."

I shake my head because he's wrong. This man is gorgeous, but there's character in there, too. Like he's seen some things, but he handled them all. The way he's smiling at the bartender makes me think he's kind. She says something and his expression changes. He leans in, really listening to her, and then there's compassion in the way he takes her hand. I can't hear what he's saying, but I imagine it's words of support because the bartender is suddenly smiling and thanking him. "He's not a model."

"Bet he is," Harper says, challenge in her voice. "I bet he's in town for a shoot. Or he's meeting his older, wealthy lover right here in this hotel."

"Or he's in town on business and getting ready to head home to his wife and kids," I shoot back.

Ivy shakes her head. "I don't see a ring on that finger."

"Hey, how about we head over to that diner two blocks over?" Darnell downs the rest of his beer. "Those appetizer things CeCe served were good, but I need man-sized food."

I don't want to leave because the view here is so nice. Still, I'm hungry, and if I sit here I'll likely stare at the man long enough to make him uncomfortable.

It's not like I planned our wedding and two point five highly gifted children in those few seconds.

I need a boyfriend. It's been a while for me, and the last guy couldn't handle my slight eccentricities. "Sure."

Darnell slides out of the booth. "I'll go hit the bathroom, and then we can go. I can already taste that burger."

Actually, now that he mentioned it, I can, too. I'm kind of hungry and will likely be eating nothing but craft services for the next six weeks. On a show like this the crew films eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. A late-night burger with friends sounds good.

If they don't keep pushing me to talk.

"I think you should go introduce yourself to him." Ivy slides her arms into her jacket.

"Ivy's right. He's sitting alone in a bar," Harper points out.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Heath finishes up his beer.

Ivy shrugs. "He's sitting in a bar on a Saturday night looking like that, and he doesn't have earbuds in. He looks like he's…looking."

"I think the earbuds thing is a girl hack," Harper replies. "He's definitely lonely. Ani, you should offer to buy him a drink."

"I'm not going to bother the man." Just because he's a guy doesn't mean he's looking for a sexual partner for the night.

I'm not the kind of girl who picks up a guy for sex.

Though now I wonder why not? I'm single. I'm apparently in desperate need of stress relief, and I don't do things like go to the gym. I'm more of a read a romance novel girl. The dirtier the better, and I do not apologize.

However, the latest book I read about a badass chick who gets railed hard—and lovingly—by her three werewolf fated mates has done nothing to alleviate my need for physical affection.

My taste in literature is one of the things the last guy had been opposed to. He'd told me that women who read romance novels are obviously lacking something in their lives. And then I told him I didn't read mysteries because I didn't lack murder in my life and that he was made of misogyny, and we broke up.

The stunning man across the bar wouldn't ever have to deal with my reading choices, nor would he ever have to know that there are some candies I eat like a polite squirrel. He'll never have to know that I don't like prime numbers. They're scary, and I don't want the volume to be left on one of them. Six or eight are perfectly fine volume numbers. If I had any courage at all, I would walk up to him and ask him if he wants to hang with me for a couple of hours, take out my frustrations on his hot bod, and then we would both have a good memory.

But I'm not going to do that because deep down I do believe those romance novels. I want a connection with someone before I hop into bed. Not a forever connection. I like to think I have a healthy relationship with sex, but I do like some real conversation first. I like to think the person I'm going to bed with is nice.

"Hey, if it helps at all, my grandmother says she's got a couple of matches for you," Heath offers.

I feel myself blush. Lydia Marino is Heath's grandmother and one of the last great matchmakers in New York City. She's been connecting people for over fifty years, and she's got a whole system in place. When Ivy and Heath had gotten together to build an AI matchmaking program, they'd used a lot of Lydia's work to train the system. And Lydia had asked Harper and I to fill out her forms. For fun, she'd said.

It hadn't been a lot of fun. It had been weird and made me realize I have a lot of baggage. And some quirks.

It's been weeks and nothing, so I thought Lydia had been telling me the truth and she just wanted to get to know us better. The fact that she's been trying to match me up scares the crap out of me. "Oh, I have to work. No time to date. It's all work all the time for the next couple of months."

Harper snorts and pokes my arm like we're twelve again. "Lydia found you a boyfriend."

I shake my head. I do not need this. I have sworn off all dating apps and going out with men my mom meets at church. Nope. I'm good on my own. Book boyfriends are all I need. Fictional men never ask me what my favorite bible verse is or if I want to split the check because I'm not as hot as I was in my profile.

Fictional men truly are superior, and that's why I'm playing this smart. I'm not going to introduce myself to Hottie McHotterson, who probably will turn out to be a serial killer, with my luck.

I've never dated a serial killer, but it feels on brand for me. I did date a guy who tried to rob a bodega with a water pistol. I heard he did well in rehab.

"Thank her for me, but this job is going to take all my time for the foreseeable future," I explain as politely as possible because while I might not want Lydia's matchmaking services, I do like her lasagna, and at least once a month she invites us all to lunch.

"I'm sure you'll have some time off." Harper knows how hard work is going to be for me, but she's got a look of mischief in her eyes I rarely see these days.

She's enjoying teasing me, and I find I can't quite shut it down, but I can make a point. "You know you filled out those forms, too."

"Yeah, but I was totally honest, so she's never finding a dude for me," Harper shoots back.

"I wouldn't bet against Lydia," Ivy offers, checking her purse before looking up. Her eyes go wide. "I thought Darnell was going to the bathroom."

That's the moment I realize Darnell has, in fact, not gone to the bathroom. No. He's standing at the bar, a wide smile on his face as he points back to our table. He's talking to the object of my gloriously brief mind affair, who smiles and shrugs as if saying, sure why not.

We have a tagalong.

I am going to kill Darnell.