Kitabı oku: «Dare Me»

1

“OH, COME ON,” Emmy said, hands on her hips, looking disappointed when she should be looking guilty.

Cameron Crawford checked the temperature of the mash for The Four Sisters’ newest summer ale. Eric Strand, the brewery manager, and his crew were attending to the fermentation tanks and Emmy was being a pain in Cameron’s ass, so he ignored her. Until he couldn’t hold on to his temper for another second. “You’re actually surprised I’m upset that you joined some dating cult thing and used my name and picture without my permission? I know you weren’t raised by wolves but only because you’re my sister. What the hell were you thinking?”

Emmy narrowed her eyes. “So I should just tear this card up right now.”

“Yes,” he said. “Please. Do that.”

She laughed. He didn’t care for the sound of it. “You might be a brainiac chemist with a doctorate, little brother, but sometimes you’re as dumb as a box of rocks.”

That made him turn on her. “Really? A box of rocks?”

“Yes. This is a Hot Guys Trading Card,” she said, waving the evidence of her crime as if it were a victory flag. “Although why I ever considered you being a hot guy is anyone’s guess.”

He finished the temperature check, made the notes on the log, then moved on. At least it was cold in the brewery, unlike the rest of Queens. The summers continued to get hotter, which meant their utility bills were out of control, but the heat brought a ton of customers to the brewpub. “Right. Let me get this straight. I’m ugly and stupid and...”

“Selfish.”

He loved his family, he really did, but it was a lot easier when they weren’t living in the same town. All he wanted to do was finish his rounds, then get back to his lab in the back room. “Selfish.”

“You should be glad I’m not moping over my divorce. And there’s no safer way to find a decent man in this city than Hot Guys Trading Cards.”

“Go ahead. Do your trading-card thing all you want. Although, for the record, it doesn’t sound safe. But don’t make me out to be the bad guy just because I’m sick of you and everyone else playing matchmaker.”

“It is safe. Because the men are all direct referrals. Not even friends of friends. You have to know a guy, be related to a guy or work directly with a guy to submit his name. And this has nothing to do with fixing you up. I swear.”

“Right.”

She glared at him. “I wasn’t allowed to choose a card until I’d submitted two of my own.”

“First of all,” he said, after digesting that bit of information, “you should have led with that, but it still doesn’t excuse you from not asking me first.”

“I figured you’d want to help me find someone. And honestly...even though it wasn’t my intention—” holding up her hands, she backed away “—this could end up being good for you, too.”

And there it was again. The big issue. “Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He shook his head. “Emmy, you know how I feel about setups—I don’t like them. I’ll meet the right person when it’s meant to be. It’s all a matter of chemistry, and you can’t manufacture that. I believe in serendipity. Not being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

“It’s not an auction. You get chosen. If you’re lucky. Then she’ll call you and you can find out all about her from me, because if I don’t know her, I’ll at least know some of her friends, and it’s likely we’ll already have talked before she takes out her cell phone, so yes, it’s safe. And there’s nothing that says serendipity can’t happen via a trading card.”

“How many women are we talking about here?”

Emmy raised her I’m so superior eyebrow, making him regret the question. “At the moment, twenty-seven.”

He knew he was going to be sorry, but the prospect of twenty-seven women deserved a little more investigation. “Are they all as old as you?”

“Very funny, you bastard. Keep making comments like that and I really will tear up the card.”

With great self-control, he faced his sister head-on, deciding the quickest way out was to let her have her say. “Fine. What kind of young ladies are they?”

“Single working women. Our group meets near my office, so most of them work in the East Village. And so far, everyone’s been really nice. Mindy—you know, my friend from krav maga—she invited me.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s been to the bar plenty of times, but anyway—” Emmy took a step closer to him. “Wait a minute. She was here last Friday night and you talked to her for, like, twenty minutes. Blonde? Green eyes? Talks like she’s from Jersey?”

“You talk like you’re from Jersey.”

“I do not.”

“Wait, Mindy? I think I remember her now,” he said. “Shorter than you, right?”

“Good try. Everyone’s shorter than me.”

He shrugged. Even twenty-seven single women wasn’t worth much more of this. He’d come back six months ago to help his dad with the craft-beer business. The first four months, he’d been neck-deep in work, so his sisters had left him alone. But lately the whole meddling bunch had been trying to set him up with friends, acquaintances...bar customers... That was the worst. At least Emmy wasn’t pressing him to get married before he left Queens. Probably because she was the only one in the family to have been through a divorce.

Emmy must have realized she was losing him, because her voice got softer. “Okay, look, we’re not dummies. We know we’re throwing women at you, but you know why. It’s Dad. He lives for the day you find a woman like Mom. At least with the trading cards, you’ve got a chance of meeting someone who doesn’t live in the neighborhood.”

“I’ll only be here a few more months, and I’d really appreciate some time off from work and setups. I do just fine on my own in Syracuse, so why does everyone think I need so much help?” He frowned at the card. “What’s all that writing on the back?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She pulled the card away. “You’re gonna thank me.”

“Not feeling the gratitude yet.”

“It says you’re a brewmaster.”

His first instinct was to correct her, but she wasn’t wrong. Not exactly. “Why didn’t you say I’m a chemist?” he asked, his hand still sticking out, waiting. “Since that’s what I am.”

“Because women don’t think of sex when you say chemist.”

“And they do when you say brewmaster?”

She just smiled. “I also said your favorite restaurant is Prune.”

“Prune? It is not.” He made a grab for the card, but damn all six feet of her, she was quick.

“I know. But if I put down your favorite restaurant is White Castle, no one would ever want to date you.”

Not that he’d tell her, but she might have had a point. Although to be clear, White Castle burgers were only one of his favorite foods. He also loved pizza. “Is that it? That’s everything on the card?”

“Nope. I also said your secret passion was creating prizewinning beer, that you’re not nearly as nerdy as you sound, that you’re an all-around great guy, and—”

“You called me a nerd?”

“And all-around great guy.”

“Yeah. Thanks a bunch. Now can I see it?”

She smiled too quickly. “Sure,” she said, handing it over. “Good picture, huh?”

“I don’t remember this photo.”

“Because Jade took it. Stealthily.”

“Great. Now it’s not just one sister. It’s a conspiracy.”

“You might want to turn the card over, Narcissus, and take a look. At each response.”

His sigh said exactly what he thought about what she’d put down for him. Until he got to the choice of marry, date or one-night stand. Ah. Okay. So Emmy did get the only thing he was interested in. “Fine,” he said, handing back the card. “I’ll do it. But only because I’m a good brother.”

Her laughter followed him all the way across the brewery until he closed the door behind him.

* * *

“GOLDFISH,” MOLLY GRAINGER SAID, leaning slightly away from the microphone that dangled in front of her face. “I assume you mean the crackers, not the actual fish.”

Her “frequent listener, first-time caller” Andy laughed. “Yeah. The crackers. The Hot ’n Spicy Cheddar ones.”

“Give me a second.” Although she already knew the wine she’d recommend, Molly waited a few beats for dramatic effect. “Malbec,” she said. “Definitely a Malbec. And I suggest trying one from Argentina. They’ve done wonderful things with an often neglected grape.”

“Okay,” Andy said. “But what makes it good to drink with Goldfish?”

“It stands up well to strong flavors. Malbec has a jammy character, and a great blend of aromas and flavors that makes it very complex, so you’re not just putting out the fire, but adding to the dining experience. Plus there are some very good choices for under twenty-five bucks. Let me know what you think.”

“Cool. Gracias.”

“De nada,” she said, then added, “This is Molly Grainger and you’re listening to Molly’s Wine for Newbies on WNYU radio. We’ll be right back.”

She clicked off her mike and switched her attention to the card that was sitting on her console. She’d just come back from her fifth Hot Guys Trading Cards meeting, and for the first time ever she’d selected a guy. His name was Cameron Crawford. Although he was, by any standard, a very good-looking man, she’d chosen him because he was a brewmaster, a distant cousin of sorts, careerwise. That should make the small talk easier.

Fact was, while she’d worked for years to overcome her natural shyness in order to teach and speak in public, she still had a hard time with personal one-on-one conversations. Which shouldn’t have mattered, since there was no room in her life for anything but a one-night stand right now, and yet she wasn’t about to jump in the sack without at least finding out if she liked the guy first.

Her being a master sommelier and well on her way to becoming a master of wine and Cameron’s passion for brewing gave them enough in common to begin a conversation without too much flailing about. And after meeting his sister Emerald, Molly doubted he’d be horrid. Emmy seemed bright and funny and had that very enviable ability to fit in with a broad assortment of people.

Now all that was left was for Molly to call Cameron and set up a time and place for dinner. Somewhere that wasn’t Prune. She was going to foot the tab, and there was no way she wanted to pay those kinds of prices. She’d already learned that he lived in Queens, so she focused her restaurant search on the area around the Queensboro Bridge. Bistango’s, perhaps, or Tommy Bahama.

But before she dialed Cameron’s number, she called the woman who’d introduced her to the trading cards: Donna, her boss at Wine Connoisseur and her closest friend. Molly’s producer, Roxanne, would signal her a few seconds before they went back on the air.

Donna answered on the first ring. “Did you call him yet?”

“Nope.” Jeez. Donna had been with her when she’d chosen the card all of one hour ago. “But I’ve figured out where I want to meet. The problem is what happens after.”

Donna was silent for a second. “It’s a date, Mol. You’ve been on dates.”

“Yes, thank you for being so literal.” Molly studied his card again. “He lives all the way out in Queens. You think he’s going to want to come all the way to Bensonhurst for a one-off?” Donna’s laugh was so loud, Molly had to move her phone away from her ear.

“You think a guy looking for a one-night stand via a trading card is gonna balk at a train ride? You have been celibate for way too long.”

“It’s not celibacy if you don’t have time for it.”

“Were you having sex? No? That’s being celibate in my book. You’ve been so busy working I doubt you’ve seen one movie this whole year. Am I right? Of course I’m right. You need to call this man.”

“I’m calling him! Stop yelling at me. I just... I wouldn’t go to Queens for him. That’s all.”

“He won’t mind. I promise.”

“Hey, Molly. You can screw at my place.” Bobby’s voice boomed over the intercom.

Molly closed her eyes. She’d neglected to cut off the intercom between her and the booth. When she did look, it was with a glare at the engineer. “I’m one hundred percent certain you’ve hooked up your entire apartment with video cameras,” Molly said. “You’re a perv, Bobby!” Turning her attention back to Donna, she said, “I’ll call you after I set things up.”

Donna said, “Good,” then hung up just as Bobby said, “I’m a guy, Molly. Did you know we think about sex every six seconds? My interest in the subject is a biological imperative.”

“Your interest in the subject is that you can’t keep it in your pants,” Roxanne said, her voice dripping with disdain. Theirs was not a match made in heaven. Shockingly, Bobby looked a little ashamed. Not that it would last.

Molly couldn’t have been happier that Roxanne had joined their team as a producer. Molly had originally worked with a guy named Wesley, who not only didn’t understand wine, but hadn’t understood the basics of personal hygiene. University radio stations were great, but the constant revolving door of personnel was a crapshoot.

“In three...two...” Roxanne gave Molly the signal. Her next caller had obviously taken a cue from the caller before the break and wanted to know what wine to pair with popcorn.

“Buttered?”

“Why not?” the caller asked.

Again, Molly went to the base ingredients, the underlying flavors and texture of the food. Popcorn was, after all, corn. And the butter meant she needed something sharp enough to cut the coating sensation on the tongue. “There’s a nice aromatic wine called Viognier that would fit the bill.” She spelled the word, which she had to do with a number of wines. “It’s a reasonably priced white—at least, the California varieties are. Look for Cold Heaven, and make sure the bottle’s well chilled. Then enjoy the movie.”

The requests continued in that vein for the next fifteen minutes. One ridiculous pairing after another. Molly ended up pleased with the hour. They’d had a lot of calls. She was so happy that she did some extra commercial recordings before she gathered her briefcase, her phone and her notes for the following week’s show and headed out to make the all-important phone call to Mr. Crawford.

But first she borrowed Roxanne’s empty office to steal a few minutes alone with her tablet. Molly checked her messages, texted a few replies and then went to her calendar. It was a masterpiece of organization born of necessity. Every day of the month was broken down into half-hour segments, and each segment was tied to her agenda, including breaks for meals, phone conversations that might take longer than five minutes, blogging, teaching, wine tasting, writing, editing... The list went on. What she was looking for now was evenings when she was free. She usually ended up sleeping or working on her evenings off. Occasionally she’d read, but mostly for research. In the past six months, she’d met Donna for drinks three times.

Ever since she’d gone to her first trading-cards meeting—ironically in the basement at St. Marks Church—she’d been shifting her schedule just enough to clear two possible nights next week when she could meet her date, have a meal or a drink, have sex and make it back to her apartment before one the next morning.

She found them on the following Thursday and Sunday. Granted, it would have been better if she’d blocked out a Friday or Saturday night, but those tended to get booked up months in advance with wine tastings, lectures, classes. She had an all-expenses-paid four-day event coming up in the Hamptons, and she’d had to do some serious reshuffling to attend that.

She dialed the number on the card, her heart beating rapidly, her mouth dry as a desert until her call went directly to voice mail.

Cameron sounded nice. And sexy. And polite when he asked her to leave a message.

“Hi, this is Molly Grainger. I’m calling about your trading card. I’d like to talk to you about meeting for a drink next week. I’m into wine as a career, and you’re into beer, so...give me a call.” She left her phone number and cut the connection, hoping she hadn’t sounded too much as though she wanted to sell him life insurance. But at least it was done. He’d probably call. Just hopefully not while she was stuck in a sardine sandwich on the subway going home.

She’d just made it out of the building when Bobby came jogging up to her. He was dressed in his regular uniform of raggedy jeans and a loud T-shirt, this one declaring his passion for zombies. To be fair, her tailored slacks and starched white blouse were her own version of a uniform. Ever since she’d set her sights on becoming a world-class wine expert, she’d dressed for the part, even back when she hadn’t had ten cents to rub together. God bless the Goodwill and consignment stores.

“Hey, Mol, this whole trading-cards thing. Can I get in on that action?”

She didn’t even hesitate. She wouldn’t wish that upon any poor woman. “Sorry, but no.”

“Seriously?” Bobby’s breath still carried the distinctive smoky notes of Cannabis sativa.

She took a step back. “Seriously.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “See you next week.”

She stopped for a moment to watch him flirt with a young woman standing outside their building holding an armful of books before he went back inside. Had Molly ever been that relaxed, that young? Sometimes it felt as if she’d spent most of her life on a treadmill, running as fast as possible and gaining little ground. But that wasn’t completely true. At twenty-seven she’d already accomplished so much. As long as she stayed on track, there was nothing but success ahead of her.

Which reminded her...it was four-fifteen already, and she had a wine-tasting class at six, which meant she just had time to make it home for a quick shower and change before she had to be at Winesby to do her setup. She’d given the kitchen at the restaurant and wine shop the menu before the classes had begun. Tonight’s tasting was Focus on Red, which she particularly loved.

She made it onto the D train in the nick of time. Not surprisingly, she didn’t score a seat, but she wasn’t so squished that she couldn’t steal another glance at Cameron’s trading card. A brewmaster. A great-looking brewmaster with wavy dark hair, sinfully dark eyes and a mischievous smile. Okay, if he called while she was on the train, she wouldn’t answer. She’d wait. Call him back on her own time. The idea of finding someone she could actually talk to while they were in bed was proving to be very enticing. She just hoped he would be free on Sunday or Thursday, because she honestly didn’t think she could make it much longer with just her vibrator and fantasies of Benedict Cumberbatch to get her through.