Matched for Me Page 3

  After Lars and Wendy are gone, I rub my eyes. I have never snapped at my boss and best friend before. I would not hold it against him if he fires me when he comes back today.

  When I open my eyes, LuLu is staring at me like I’ve just told Lars to go jump off a bridge.

  I have to get out of here, now, because looking at her sweet mouth hanging open is making me think of all the filthy things I want those lips to do to me.

  Shit, this is not who I am. I’m a professional.

  “Professional what?” LuLu asks.

  And then I realize I’ve said that last part out loud. “I mean, I have a lot on my plate, so, what is it you need me to do?”

  Her smile fades, but only a little. “Oh. Uhm, well, could you secure the main ballroom at the convention center for February 14th? And I’m going to need chairs and tables, enough for 200 people. I need a florist to do some fun, eye catching centerpieces. No carnations, thank you. Catering. High end, but not too stuffy. Beer and wine, but no liquor. In my experience, people get too fighty when there’s liquor...”

  I nod curtly and back away. “Convention center. Ballroom. No carnations. Cool food, no booze. Fighty. I’m on it. Text me anything else you want on that list; I’m going to go ahead and get started.”

  Heading out of the kitchen, I make a beeline to my office. I lock the door behind me, but not because I need to focus on making calls around the city.

  I slump into my favorite wingback chair, unzip my trousers and pull out my rock-hard dick.

  I slouch down in the soft chair and grip my throbbing member. I close my eyes and all I see is LuLu’s cleavage, her tanned, soft mounds beckoning me to come closer. My shaft is angry. It wants her, not my hand. It’s throbbing to know her slick, warm pussy. I’m already leaking for her and so are my taste buds.

  I think about her shiny hair falling in a dark sleek frame around her sweet, stunning face. I picture my fingers running through it. I picture it haloing around her face as she lies back on my pillow. I can almost feel my hands holding tight to those ample hips while I bury my shaft all the way into her. Does she moan? Whimper? Scream? Would she squirm underneath me or pin me to the bed and ride me like a cowgirl?

  There’s not a single one of those possibilities that I don’t like.

  Every single possibility puts me closer to gushing all over myself.

  The tipping point is the thought of hunting down the source of that cinnamon candy essence and gorging on every sticky, sweet, spicy morsel.

  I grit my teeth as I use a towel to catch the mess of cum that bursts from me.

  Jerking off was supposed to get her out of my system, at least for one day.

  Instead all I feel is restless and frustrated that I’ve wasted seed that could be filling her up, with me tight and warm inside her, kissing those lips, tasting and exploring her baby-soft skin.

  Shit.

  I am so, totally, completely screwed.

  5

  LuLu

  That was so fast, I’m out of breath just thinking about it.

  Now I understand why Lars trusts Fletcher with his life. It’s been less than a week since he agreed to help me with the Single Mingle, and we are way ahead of schedule. Which is great, because it’s going to take every waking hour to personally meet and vet every single person who buys a ticket for this event.

  I’m officing for the day at my new favorite coffee shop. I had to put some distance between myself and my brother and Lars, especially now that Wendy is back at school during the day.

  Before I even finish posting the advertisements online for the big Valentine’s Day singles event, I’m receiving a flurry of email receipts for deposits on the venue, caterer, wine and beer vendors, deejay and a decorator. I hadn’t even thought about music, but of course Fletcher had.

  I feel like he’s reading my mind. Or anticipating my needs. The idea of a man like that being able to read my thoughts makes me blush.

  It’s a good thing none of us are true psychic mind readers. I don’t want Fletcher knowing the terrible things I’ve been fantasizing about.

  Terrible and delicious and filthy. Just sitting here staring at his email address on my laptop screen is causing my lower lips to throb. I’m so fucking horny it’s ridiculous.

  I have to tear my eyes away from the laptop. This is doing me no good. I sip my coffee cup while I accidentally stare at a couple who are canoodling in one of the big chairs in the corner. Sharing little pecks on the cheek and laughing about who knows what. It’s so sweet it makes my teeth hurt.

  And my chest aches with longing for one man, who’s nearly twice my age.

  An email alert wakes me up again. This one is directly from Fletcher and not just another receipt: “I thought you’d want music, too. Hope it’s OK I took the initiative. When you decide on the kind of music and more specific instructions for the rest of the vendors, let me know. I can handle all the phone calls for you. It’s no trouble at all. Thanks for asking for my help. Have a good day.”

  I sit back in my chair and exhale. I wish he was here, saying these things to my face.

  That email was the largest collection of words Fletcher has ever said to me on any one subject. And it all made sense. It was even pleasant. Kind of nice. Kind of…flirty? Was it flirty? I don’t know, it’s been so long since I was on a date.

  I feel bad that I picked up and left the house today without telling him. I just had to get out. Even in a house that big, I can hear Lars being bored. After the third time my brother barged into my makeshift office in the pool house to ask if I wanted to play foosball, I had to get up and leave.

  Lars. Poor guy is going stir crazy after being put on temporary mental health leave for three months after the Slate shooting. He wasn’t even the one to pull the trigger, but the higher-ups had decided he’d gotten too close to the case because of Wendy. They’re not wrong. He may be a huge butthead sometimes, but he does know how to treat Wendy, and she does make him happier than I’ve ever seen him.

  I go ahead and post the ads that I made for social media, and then I open up my client database to see if I have any singles who live in the area to whom I can send an invite. That will shorten the list of one-on-one meetings I have to conduct.

  As I’m sorting through these, I see a surprising addition. I have a new client who has paid in full for an entire year of my services and has already filled out a complete questionnaire.

  The name on the client profile? Fletcher Chase.

  Huh.

  I guess he’s not as interested in me as Wendy seems to think.

  It makes sense. Lars and Wendy have been spreading their lovey-dovey mojo pretty heavily everywhere they go. It’s kind of infectious. He wants me to help him find a wife. He is 40, after all.

  I can just imagine Fletcher’s presence at a singles event. Good lord. Women will be lined up at the lock and key station to fight over him. He’ll intimidate every dude at the speed dating station.

  I study his profile and debate whether to somehow discourage him from going. I would kick myself if he found himself matched with another woman.

  But we are in too deep now. I’ve already borrowed him from Lars to help me with the event. Presumably he would be there on the day to help out anyway.

  But if he’s really in the market for a date that isn’t me, who am I to stop it?

  “What’s wrong with you, LuLu? Pull yourself together,” I mutter to myself out loud. I don’t need a man to be happy.

  Especially a man who’s so shy and reserved he doesn’t know how to talk to me. How can a man like that be expected to hold up his end of a conversation?

  I examine his email message again. He is, on paper, a really good communicator.

  He might be monosyllabic in person, but I understand that has a lot to do with his past, about things that happened to him in the service.

  Then, unexpectedly, another email pops. This time, from Chad. The warning hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I had blocked him after Chr
istmas. Then he’d sent a “Happy New Year, gorgeous, can’t wait to see you” message to my LinkedIn profile.

  I’d deleted that message but hadn’t blocked him on there yet.

  This new message is a bit pushier than the others, and I don’t like it.

  It reads, “Hi. You didn’t reply to any of my other messages so I wasn’t sure if you got them. Is everything OK? You haven’t been very active on your Facebook page. Business still good? Let me know what you’ve been up to. I’d love to catch up. Austin misses that beautiful smile.”

  I glare at my screen and then slap my laptop shut.

  I take a long sip of coffee.

  I should tell someone.

  I should tell Lars. And Fletcher. In fact, I think I will. Everything about this is inappropriate and uncomfortable.

  Chad is a former client who was never actually a client.

  He had applied for my services, and when I went to meet him and get a feel for him, it turns out all he wanted was to get a feel of me. He didn’t try anything, physically, but our meeting was held under false pretenses. He had thought it was cute to seek me out for a date and pretend it was business.

  I did not think it was cute. I had promptly ended the meeting. Since then, every so often I receive an unwanted text, direct message or tweet, even though I ignore him, ask him to stop contacting me or continue to turn down his requests to see me.

  I open my laptop back up and hit reply.

  “Please refrain from sending me personal messages. I run a professional enterprise and I cannot get involved with clients.” I hit send and then decided to send a message to Fletcher.

  I look at the inbox, and then panic.

  There’s a tiny return arrow next to Fletcher’s name, indicating that I’ve already replied to him. But that can’t be, I replied to… oh, wait.

  Oh. Shit.

  The message I just typed and meant to send to Creepy Chad, I accidentally sent to Fletcher.

  I was so out of sorts that I sent the message to the wrong person. I click on it to re-read what I wrote.

  Two seconds later, a reply arrives from Fletcher that breaks my heart into a dozen pieces: “Apologies. I’ll try to be more professional. I didn’t mean to offend you by submitting a profile for the event on my own behalf. That was wildly inappropriate, you’re absolutely right. Please delete it immediately.”

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  I copy and paste the message that was supposed to go to Chad and actually send it to Chad this time.

  And then I reply to Fletcher, making sure I’ve got the right recipient.

  I type: “I am so sorry, and I’m so embarrassed. That email I sent you was meant for someone else. A former client has been bothering me. You have been nothing but professional and I don’t mind you submitting a profile for the Feb. 14 event of course! Thank you for all your help on this; you’re the best.”

  I also call his phone, but he doesn’t answer. What have I done?

  I try to focus and get back to work, but I can’t stop kicking myself. I refresh my email but there is no reply from Fletcher.

  I text him; also no reply.

  That’s it. I’m done for the day. I’ll never be able to pull myself together if I don’t talk to Fletcher right now.

  6

  Fletcher

  I re-read LuLu’s email over and over again.

  “Someone’s been bothering me.”

  Then, I re-read the accidental email she’d sent before that.

  It sets off all the alarm bells for me. I’m suddenly on a mission to kick some ass.

  If I wasn’t in deep with my feelings for LuLu before, this deepens everything to a whole other level.

  My rational brain tells me it could be as simple as a persistent guy who could not take no for an answer. But the part of my brain that has kept me and Lars alive for this long tells me there’s only one way to treat this: LuLu has a stalker.

  Either way, the dude needs to be set straight.

  And I’m going to be the one to do it, one way or another.

  There is no way I’m going to allow my LuLu to be bothered again by this guy or any other guy.

  “My LuLu?” I ask myself aloud as I drive like a lunatic toward the coffee shop I know she frequents. Yes. Mine. No question.

  I wish now I hadn’t sent that apology. I have no intention of keeping my relationship with her professional. It’s all personal, all the way.

  When I arrive at the coffee shop, Cortex, I see her through the window, gathering her things.

  She doesn’t see me approach, so when she hoists her computer bag and turns toward the door, I accidentally scare her out of her wits.

  “Fletcher! What did you do, pop out of the roof tiles?”

  I shake my head.

  She gives me that slight bemused smile again that captured my heart when she’d first arrived before Christmas, in the grand foyer. The smile that brushes aside all the bullshit, all the painful memories, that weighs on me.

  “It’s OK,” she says. “I was actually coming to look for you to apologize in person. When you didn’t respond I thought it was best to clear everything up face to face.”

  I’m touched that she thinks highly enough of me that she intended to seek me out in person.

  “No need. I got your reply. I didn’t respond because I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

  LuLu blinks at me. I think the look I’m getting right now is guarded relief and still more bemusement.

  “That’s so sweet and understanding of you, Fletcher.”

  I shake my head. “Not sweet. I just get really mad when weird guys are bothering my…people.”

  Her smile falters. “Yes. People. Of course. You’ve always had my brother’s back. It stands to reason you would have mine as well. I appreciate you.”

  She must not have read my dating profile.

  If she had read it, she would know exactly what’s going on in my head and know that I intend for us to be more than friends or colleagues. So why can’t I say all this out loud to her, right now, when she’s right in front of me?

  “Wh-what do you need me to do? Have a talk with the guy?”

  She shrugs and sighs. “I wouldn’t even know where to find him to talk to him. He lives in Austin, but he travels a lot for work. I mean, I guess, as a police officer, Lars could reach out and warn him to stop bothering me? I don’t know, I think it would make Lars even crazier than he is right now.”

  I laugh. “Might give the guy something to focus on besides waiting for Wendy to come home every day.”

  She beams when she sees me laugh. Her eyes light on my lips, and they linger for a moment. She licks hers, and I’m overcome with the need to touch her. Pull her into me. Taste her. Run my fingers along the line of her sexy collarbone on display in that cheeky halter top she’s wearing. Inhale the source of the perfume behind her ear and demand to know what it is, so I can keep a bottle of it with me when she’s not around.

  Good god. She’s perfect.

  “Lars probably needs to stay away from bad guys for a while. Especially bad guys who aren’t much of a threat. He could snap and do more damage than is necessary,” I say. It’s a nice cover, I think. My real motive is to prevent Lars from cock-blocking me.

  I want her, and I want her to want me.

  And if someone is bothering her, I want to handle it myself. I want her to know that I’ll do anything to protect her.

  She takes a step closer. Those deep brown irises rake over my face and land on my lips again. Have mercy.

  “You’re probably right. We can handle this ourselves. We make a good team, you and me.”

  I nod, speechless.

  Then she smiles even brighter and opens her arms to me.

  “Hug it out, friend?”

  I wrap LuLu up in a bear hug. I try not to be a creep and use this moment to cop a feel. But my nose is now so close to her bare shoulder that I could kiss it with no effort at all. Instead I limit myself to innocently stro
king her sleek hair that’s spread over her back, and I turn my head slightly to silently but deeply inhale the scent of her skin at the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. My lungs fill with that lavender laundry soap from France that she likes, and that signature spicy, sugary scent that reminds me of Valentine candies.

  I have to use all my strength to keep my hands from wandering down her back, to touch that little waist and enjoy the round curve of her ass. I’m looking down at it over her shoulder. Just the sight of that tush is springing my cock into a full salute inside my pants.

  I hear her lightly gasp. She can feel my rod now, no doubt about it.

  We let go of the embrace and she steps back. She looks up at me, and then away, nervously. A flush of pink creeps up her neck, lighting up her ears and cheeks. She clears her throat.

  “Well, I’ll forward you all the emails and spoof emails and aliases I have on that guy and copy and paste all the text messages I screen grabbed before I blocked him. I’ll give you everything I have, and hopefully we’ll come to a satisfying end on this.”

  I’m gazing at her lips, and for a second, all I register is her saying “give you everything I have” and “satisfying.”

  I’m so goddamn hungry for her it’s throwing me off my game. I collect my damn self and say. “Yes, I’ll take good care of you, LuLu.”

  “Uhm,” she says with a questioning look.

  “I mean the situation. I’ll take care of the situation.”

  7

  Fletcher

  A flying butcher knife sinks into the bark of the oak tree just behind my head.

  “I might’ve deserved that,” I say.

  “Dude. What is with you? First you snap at me and Wendy, and the past couple of weeks your skulking is even more…skulky. Is that a word?”

  I yank the knife out and examine it. “I don’t know; maybe I’m stressed. I haven’t had any real sneaky assignments from you in a while. I’m sort of climbing the walls, I guess.”