My Darling Jane: Chapter 3

I knew the moment I walked in that it was slim pickings at Carson’s, but Mitch was nice and seemed mildly interested in Cupid’s Arrow, but after him, it went downhill fast.

William, the motorcycle guy who was in town on vacation, declined my card. He said he was happily married, which I appreciated.

Now, I’m trapped in a conversation with Bryan, a real estate agent with a groomed goatee.

I initially thought there was a hint of charm there. I was wrong.

For the past torturous five minutes, it’s been all about his gym regimen. Bi’s, tri’s, chest, and now, the grand finale, his abs. “Want to see ’em?” he asks, and I’m mentally drafting an SOS message.

My finger is practically glued to the business card I gave him, inching it back millimeter by millimeter. But as he looks up, I freeze. “No, that’s—”

Too late. He lifts his shirt. “Washboard. Not a six-pack. An eight-pack. See that?”

All I see is a forest of dark, wiry hair masquerading as abs. “Want to touch ’em?” he offers, with what I assume is his idea of a seductive grin.

“No.” I finally reclaim my card and scoot off the stool. “Okay, well, it was great to meet you but—”

His hand grips my wrist. “Where’re you going? I thought you wanted me to have that card, baby. With your number.” His eyes have that glazed look of drunken interest, and I mentally kick myself for not making my professional intentions clearer.

I remove his hand from my arm. “Like I said. Nice meeting you, but I’ve got to go—”

“Without me?” He stands, and I can’t help but notice he’s significantly shorter than me. Most guys are, and it usually works as a natural deterrent. But not with Bryan. Unfazed, he slings an arm around my shoulders, trying to reel me in.

Just great. Trapped by a pint-size real estate agent.

Before I can push him off, a deep voice behind me says, “Let the lady go.”

A man puts his big hands on Bryan’s shoulders.

I turn and look up.

This new guy is like the statue of David. Big, beautiful, broad perfection.

Standing tall with a commanding presence, he has blond hair that falls in waves to his shoulders and frames his face, accentuating a sun-kissed complexion that speaks of days in the fresh air.

He’s the kind of man that turns heads.

Whatever. It’s only Jasper. I stick my tongue out at him.

Bryan lets go of me, but I’m too annoyed at the sight of the star quarterback to be relieved.

“Uh, sure,” Bryan says, blinking. “I’m, uh, Bryan. I’m a huge fan of yours.”

“Hey, Bryan, would you mind giving us a moment?” Jasper’s voice is smooth. “Jane and I go way back, we’re good friends, and I’d like to catch up with her.”

Good friends? That’s a stretch.

Bryan stumbles back to his stool with awe and disappointment on his face. “Oh, uh, sure, man. Great to see you. Too bad about the playoffs this year. Maybe this season will be better.”

Jasper’s eyes narrow at him. “It will be.”

I wince. Everyone knows we lost in the playoffs because Jasper threw three interceptions at the Seattle game.

Jasper seems to gather himself, then turns to me, flashing his infuriating grin that says, “I’m everybody’s favorite.” His gaze drifts over me, pausing on the wings strapped to my back. “Hello, angel. Did you fall from heaven just for me tonight?”

“Ugh,” I mutter. “Lucky me. It’s Jasper to the rescue.”

He does a mock head bow. “At your service. You okay?”

I want to keep up my usual icy front, but frustratingly, part of me is relieved he’s here. It’s nice to see a familiar face.

“I’m fine. I didn’t need your help, though. I could have handled him.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I can take care of myself,” I retort, thinking of all the years I’ve managed just fine, especially with Londyn.

He holds up his hands, stepping back. “Okay, okay. Sorry,” he says. “It just looked like he had his hands on you and you weren’t into it.”

Remorse hits. He was trying to help, and I’m snapping at him. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. Thanks for noticing.”

He drags a stool over and plops down next to me. His blue eyes skate over my toga as a small chuckle comes from him. “I guess you’re mixing business with pleasure tonight?”

I rub my temple. “Not much pleasure, to be honest. I’m not even drinking, but maybe I should have had at least one. My head is starting to hurt.”

“Ah. I see.” The bartender drops off a beer for him, and he takes a sip, the strong muscles of his throat moving as he swallows. “They say the best cure for a headache is good company.”

“Then I should probably find some, shouldn’t I?”

He smiles, never missing a beat. “You’re in luck. I happen to come with excellent references.”

“Do those references include modesty? Because it seems like you forgot to pack that.”

“Modesty doesn’t win football games. But I can tone it down for you. Say, over dinner?”

I scoff. Boy! He’s really on a roll. “I prefer my meals without a side of ego. Thanks, though.”

“Ah, come on, Jane. Admit it, you love our banter. We make sparks fly. We light up the sky, angel.”

I smirk. “No, we don’t.”

“Lie detected. So, how’s the world of matchmaking treating you? Found any soulmates lately?”

A long breath leaves my lips as I think about my lack of success today. “Oh, you know, just the usual, turning hopeless romantics into slightly more hopeful romantics.”

He shrugs, showcasing his broad shoulders, currently encased in a Pythons shirt. “Sounds like a noble cause. You ever consider matching yourself, or are you just the puppet master?”

I lean in conspiratorially. “I prefer ‘mastermind.’ And I don’t mix work with personal disasters.”

“‘Disasters’? I get the subtext. You think I’m a disaster. Wow. You’re such a grump. I prefer to call them ‘adventures.’” He waves his hand through the air in the shape of a rainbow.

“Well, in that case,” I murmur, thinking of Tomas, “my life would be bestseller material.”

“I’d buy a copy. But only if I get a mention in the acknowledgments. As the best night you ever had.”

I snort. “You’d be in the footnotes, Jasper. Tiny, tiny print. Like your penis.”

A low whistle comes from him as his eyes capture mine, holding the stare for several moments. He’s always been big on eye contact, and it makes me squirm. “Ouch, again with the sting. Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you’re being mean.”

“Hmm, I must have missed the part where you poured your heart out.”

“It’s subtle, angel. You need to read between the lines.”

“Don’t call me ‘angel,’ and I’m a pro at reading fine print. Comes with the matchmaking territory.”

“In that case, how about you read my intentions? They involve us having dinner.”

“Oh, Jasper. It’s not going to work. Your charm bounces off me like rubber.”

“I might just surprise you. I can bounce really well.”

“You already surprise me, Jasper. Every time you speak.”

He tosses his head back and laughs, the sound drawing attention from the patrons. “Damn. You’re tough. I guess this means I should leave you alone and let you work the crowd.”

He makes to get off the stool, and I touch his arm. A sizzle of heat dances down my skin, but I push it away almost absently, a learned reaction I’ve acquired over the years when it comes to the opposite sex.

“Wait,” I say, an idea striking me. I grab one of my business cards from the bar. “Actually, I’m promoting my business, so you might as well have one too.”

He reads the card, his lips moving slightly.

I’ve always found mouthing (while reading) annoying. I wait for this habit to make him less attractive.

But no such luck. His nose is strong and chiseled, with a slight bump at the bridge, while his cheekbones are high, casting shadows across his strong jawline. And his blue eyes are the color of a summer sky, with creases in the corners that show he laughs a lot. The best part? I’ve always loved his lashes, long and thick and extra curly.

Not that I’d ever tell him that.

“Funny that someone as prickly as you wants to play matchmaker,” he says.

“I’m only prickly with certain people,” I shoot back.

He brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, boyish charm in full swing. “I’d be a great client. I’m single.”

“Looking for love?” I ask, skepticism clear in my tone.

“Always. Or a good time.”

Typical Jasper.

Everything’s a joke to him.

But . . .

When I first started the business, I did consider asking Graham, a former professional football player, to help bring in some high-profile clients. In the end I didn’t because I didn’t want to involve my family, not when my sister had already done so much for me.

I want to do this on my own. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone again. Ever.

But this is different. Here we are in the same bar, and Jasper is offering. It would be great to have a professional athlete on my roster. His fans would see he’s a member, and maybe he’d bring in people. Like more men. He has a huge fan base.

Just as I’m considering the potential of adding him—if he’s serious—a girl in black leather shorts and a red V-neck shirt sashays over to him. “Oh my god, Jasper Jannich is here! I’m so glad I came tonight! You are so hot, even better in person.”

He grins sheepishly. “Ah, thank you.”

She eases in closer to him, putting herself between us. I don’t think she even glanced at me. “Can I have your autograph? And a photo? Please.”

He obliges, all charm, as she showers him with compliments and flirts. I watch as her hand feels up the muscles of his arm.

Annoyance rises inside me, at the idea that she thinks she can just touch him and it’s okay. I wait for him to push her off, but he doesn’t.

I feel my resolve crumbling.

Jasper is a player. He dates models and actresses.

Wait. Didn’t Graham tell me that Jasper was a member at a private sex club? A place called Decadence, where the membership fee is super expensive. Yes, he did.

When his fan finally moves away, he opens his wallet to stick my business card in. I start to grab it away, but he holds tight. “What are you doing?”

“Forget what I said, Jasper. Your application is denied.”

“What? I haven’t even—”

“Denied,” I repeat. Though I’m a little confused why someone like him, a star football player with a multimillion-dollar contract, needs help. I bet he’s already screwed most of the female population in New York and plans to go through my entire list of female clients like a pack of Kleenex.

I make a play for the card again, but he closes it up in his wallet and then shoves it in his back pocket before I can grab it. “I’m going to apply anyway. See what happens.”

“Don’t waste your time,” I grumble. “I have sole discretion over who I admit into my database.”

He leans into me, and I start at how close our faces are. His gaze traces the lines of my face. My heart races. I smell his cologne, something woodsy and rich. “You have the most adorable scowl right now,” he murmurs.

Scowl?

Oh, he hasn’t seen anything yet.

I give him the most anger-filled glare I can muster.

He rears back and chuckles, breaking the intensity. “Hey! There’s the girl I remember—and you run a dating service? That’s messed up.”

I’m preparing to give him the double-middle-finger salute as two blond girls that have to be underage bound up to him.

“Jasper!” one bubbles, wrapping her arm possessively around him.

I blink rapidly.

“Ready to go home?” she asks him.

Holy . . . he came with them? Like, they’re on a date? I can’t believe I was actually considering him for my dating service. Am I out of my mind?

The other girl leans her head on his shoulder and gazes up at him adoringly. “Can we stop at the convenience store and get some ice cream? Please?”

He boops her on the nose. “Sure thing, darlin’.”

I’m still reeling as he turns to leave with them. He glances over at me. “So you can expect my application—”

“I’ll delete your application the second it comes in,” I fire back.

He simply shrugs, as if to say, “We’ll see about that,” and walks out, bookended by his jailbait.