Bad Bachelor Read online

  The group murmured their agreement. Even the photographer nodded emphatically.

  “Have you been with anyone since Ben?” Annie asked.

  The girls looked at her curiously. Darcy hadn’t spoken much about the demise of her engagement or her failed attempts to put herself back into the dating scene. She’d always been the most private one of the group. Growing up with a mother who was emotional to the extreme had made her develop a natural resistance to showing her feelings.

  Maybe that’s why you never saw it coming. You didn’t ask enough questions or pay attention to the right things.

  “The only kind of sex I’ve had in the last year has been with me, myself, and I.” Darcy sighed.

  “Oh, a threesome.” Remi winked. “Kinky.”

  “And even that hasn’t been too spectacular,” Darcy said. “Not for a lack of trying, mind you. I’ve had a few dates, but anytime the guy even tries to kiss me, I freeze up.”

  Annie reached out and patted her knee. “You’re stressed. That’s totally understandable.”

  “What do I have to be stressed about? I love my job, I’m healthy, I have a great family…”

  Annie raised a brow.

  “Okay, not great but they’re decent human beings…most of the time.” Well, barring the cake incident. “Finding your fiancé making out with someone the day before your wedding doesn’t have to ruin everything. Single is the new black, right?”

  “I love you, Darcy, but this #foreveralone thing is stopping right now.” She set her drink and half-eaten dessert down on the table. “You need to break the dry spell.”

  After the split, getting back into the dating scene had gradually moved from the “too hard” basket to the “never, ever again” basket. Except there had been this little voice in the back of her mind lately, whispering dangerous thoughts to her, asking questions she wasn’t sure how to answer, like whether she was happy being alone. Or if she’d be able to watch her beautiful friends walk down the aisle and be okay missing out on that experience herself.

  Despite hating her mother’s über-conservative ways, deep down, she still wanted the white-picket-fence dream—a wedding, a loving husband…even the babies.

  But all that required her to date. And that meant facing up to the fact that she had no idea how to date. She’d given up her chance of learning those lessons when she’d fallen head over Dr. Martens at nineteen. Now, eight years later, she was starting from scratch with no skills and no real experience to draw on.

  Casual sex might sound like a piece of cake to some people, but the idea of dating was terrifying enough. As for casual sex? Darcy had never had a one-night stand. Ever.

  “I wouldn’t even know where to go to meet someone,” she muttered. “And I deleted Tinder the second I started getting dick pics. Not to mention that I’m so out of practice even if I could make it past a first date. I can’t flirt. I can’t do witty banter. I can’t play the temptress. So how am I supposed to have casual sex?”

  And that wasn’t even the hard part. Being able to trust someone again and not be paranoid that they were secretly living a double life, now that was the real challenge.

  “Being celibate is so much easier.”

  “Hey, if that’s what you want, I support you one hundred percent.” Annie reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Say the word and we won’t mention the dating thing ever again,” Remi chimed in.

  Darcy scratched at a fleck of dried paint on her dress. “I do want to get back out there,” she admitted. “But I’m scared I’ll pick the wrong guy again.”

  “Then you need to find a guy who’s trustworthy,” Annie said, pausing to sip her drink. “Someone who wants the same things you do.”

  “And how would I find a guy like that? It’s not like I can trust what they write in their dating profiles.”

  “You could try the Bad Bachelors app,” the photographer piped up. All eyes turned to the young man in the vest and bow tie. A heavy-looking camera hung from a thick strap around his neck. “I read about it the other day.”

  Darcy shook her head. “What on earth is the Bad Bachelors app?”

  “Oh!” Remi bounced up and down in her seat. “I heard about this. Apparently, someone started this app that has all the single guys in New York listed and you can rate and review them.”

  “You’re kidding.” Darcy blinked. “So it’s Yelp…for guys?”

  “Or Uber? You know, go for a ride and then rate your driver,” Remi said and Annie choked on a mouthful of cupcake.

  Darcy shook her head and downed the rest of her champagne, immediately reaching for the bottle to refill her glass. “You’re making this up.”

  “I swear, I’m not. Does anyone have the app?” Remi asked, but the girls shook their heads. “Give me your phone.”

  Within minutes, they’d downloaded the app and were browsing through profile after profile of gorgeous, single New York men. Each profile had at least one photo, a brief description, and a star rating. It looked as though the app was fairly new, but there were already a ton of reviews posted.

  “These are hilarious,” Remi said, swiping across the screen. “Look at this one. ‘Trenton Conner, thirty-eight. Doctor. The only thing that’s large about this guy is his ego and his credit limit.’”

  “Let me read.” Annie grabbed the phone and swiped a few times. “‘Jacob Morales, thirty-nine. Technology executive. Things were going well until he rolled over and fell asleep right after sex. Then his maid came into the bedroom to shoo me out of his apartment.’”

  Darcy laughed. “Oh my God.”

  “This one’s nice.” Annie held the phone in one hand and her drink in the other. “‘Darren Montgomery, thirty-one. IT manager and entrepreneur. Darren is a lovely guy, very sweet and kind. Romantic. But we didn’t have much in common—I hope he finds the right woman for him.’ I’m going to mark this one as a favorite for you.”

  “Gimme.” Remi grabbed the phone back. “What about this guy? ‘Alexei Petrov, thirty. Investor. This guy will take you on the ride of your life…’ Oh no. Looks like he might’ve been dating a few women at once. Next!”

  Darcy pressed her fingertips to her temples. “No cheaters, please.”

  “Oh dear.” Remi turned the phone around to show a photo of the most beautiful man Darcy had ever seen. And yes, beautiful was the right way to describe him. He was so perfect looking, and yet there was a hardness to him, like a marble statue—beautiful and cold and unyielding. “‘Reed McMahon, thirty-two. Marketing and PR executive. Reed McMahon is a master manipulator. He knows exactly what to say and how to say it. Don’t believe a word he says. He goes through women like candy.’”

  Darcy wrinkled her nose. “He sounds like one to stay away from.”

  “Look, you can sort by highest and lowest rated.” She laughed. “This guy is the lowest rated—number one on the Bad Bachelors list. Fifty women have rated him already. Serial dater, not interested in commitment, colder than an iceberg…looks like he always has a different woman on his arm.”

  “What about the good guys? Are there any decent men on that thing?” Darcy sighed. “I feel like I’m searching for a unicorn.”

  “We’ll find the right guy.” Remi’s eyes sparkled at the thought of playing virtual matchmaker. “Why don’t we swipe through and put a list together?”

  “A list will make it easier. I like that idea,” Annie said.

  Remi rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”

  “Say I hypothetically agree this is a good idea,” Darcy said, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table. “What am I supposed to do? Walk up to these guys and say, ‘Hey, you’ve got a five-star rating. Let’s date’?”

  “It’s called recon.” Annie grinned and Darcy could already see the cogs turning in her mind. “We’ll go through the top-rated list and help you narrow down some
options. You never know, with six degrees of separation and all that, you might have a friend in common who can introduce you. But at least you know up front that the guy is a decent person…unlike if you met someone randomly at a bar.”

  Darcy rolled the idea around in her head.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea: a lower-risk, research-led type of dating. As a librarian, that appealed to her. She could get all the information she needed up front and avoid the dangers associated with spontaneous dating.

  Besides, what harm could a little research do?

  Chapter 2

  “When something seems too good to be true, it usually is. Reed McMahon is not the guy you want him to be.”

  —LittleMissMidTown

  Every muscle in Reed McMahon’s body tensed, anticipating, assessing. He shifted his weight, moving his hips as he prepared to unleash all his frustration into a single powerful swing. He’d had the kind of week that made him want to pound something into oblivion.

  With a white-knuckled grip, he pulled back and focused on his target until the rest of the world fell away. The baseball whizzed past him and his bat connected with air.

  Reed swore under his breath and reset his position. His team, Smokin’ Bases, was one run down in the final inning with two outs. Losing to a group of Columbia graduates who loved to fist-bump one another was not an option. The week from hell would not be made worse by a crushing ball game defeat.

  Reed had to make this swing count.

  The pitcher went through his routine of rubbing the ball in his gloveless hand and stretching his neck from side to side. He drew his arm back and sent the next ball sailing in Reed’s direction. It was perfect—fast, but perfect. He swung and the bat made a satisfying crack as it sent the ball flying through the air, eventually bouncing in the empty pocket between right and center field.

  He took off, pumping his legs as fast as he could toward first base. An outfielder scooped the ball up and threw it hard, but he overthrew it and it grazed the top of the first baseman’s glove, giving Smokin’ Bases enough time to get a runner across home plate.

  That tied them. “Keep going!” the third base coach shouted as their captain, Gabriel, legged it down the home stretch.

  Reed ran for second, but the other team recovered and their second baseman landed the tag perfectly across Reed’s midsection.

  “Out!” the pitcher called. But Gabriel had already made it home and the run counted.

  Reed’s hit had given them a one-run victory. The rest of his team whooped and jogged onto the field to shake hands with the opposition.

  “I knew you’d save us.” His teammate and friend, Emil Resnik, slapped a hand on his back as they walked off the field.

  Reed grabbed his workout bag and fished around for a bottle of water. “Just waiting for the right moment to attack.”

  “Like a snake.” Emil flattened his fingers against his thumb and made a striking motion. “I think we’ve earned a beer or three.”

  “God yes.”

  Reed brought the water bottle to his lips and tossed his head back, relishing the slide of the cool liquid down his throat. After a game, his body felt looser. The tension he carried with him Monday through Friday eased out of his muscles. This was the thing he looked forward to each week.

  He pulled his phone out of the small pocket on the side of the sports bag and turned it on. Multiple alerts made the device buzz in some kind of digital battle cry.

  One hundred notifications. That couldn’t be good.

  He scrolled through the list and sure enough, the majority had “Bad Bachelors” in the title. “God fucking damn it,” he muttered. “Not this shit again.”

  “That was a killer hit you had there, man.” Gabriel came over to where Reed stood, ready to congratulate him on locking in the win. “What’s going on?”

  A new message appeared in his inbox from a colleague titled I knew you got around but daaamn.

  “There’s some bullshit new app that rates New York ‘bachelors.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “And apparently I’m top of the bad guys list. I’ve been getting emails about it since Friday.”

  “Have you checked it out?” Gabriel asked as he whipped off his T-shirt and changed into a fresh one.

  Reed glanced at a woman leaning against the black railing that sectioned off the North Meadow diamond from the rest of Central Park. She was dressed in a suit, which was an odd choice given it was the weekend. “Hell no. I couldn’t care less what these women are saying about me. Probably that I’m some heartless brute who only cares about sex.”

  “Accurate,” Emil said with a grin. “And it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

  “Except now it’s out there for the whole world to see and the guys in the office are having a field day.” He shook his head. “They think it’s hilarious.”

  He’d come back to his desk after a meeting on Friday afternoon to find some cheap plastic trophy with Reed’s picture affixed to it, along with the words #1 Lady Killer in bright-red letters. This person had also taken the liberty of “enhancing” the little gold man’s appendage with putty.

  Classy.

  But Reed wasn’t worried. Gossip like that tended to fizzle quickly, in his experience. There was always something more scandalous to worry about than a man having sex.

  “What’s wrong with loving women so much you can’t have just one?” Gabriel chuckled when his pregnant wife, Sofia, whacked him in the arm with the scoring clipboard. “What? I’m talking about Reed.”

  Reed stuffed his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. “They know what they’re getting into, but then they cry foul when I don’t want to see them again.”

  “Because they all think they could be the one to change you.” Emil dug his elbow into Reed’s rib cage. “They think they can tame the beast.”

  “There’s nothing to tame.” He picked up his gym bag and slung it over one shoulder.

  The sun hung low in the sky. Central Park was busy as always, full of tourists and locals out soaking up the rays now that the cold weather had finally started to disappear. Everything was green again, and that usually put a smile on his face. But Reed’s frustration settled like a weight on his chest.

  “I’m sure it’ll blow over.” Emil slung an arm around Reed’s neck and pulled him away from the field. “I’ll buy you a beer. That should cheer you up.”

  They made their way to the edge of the field, heading in the direction of the path that would lead them out to West Ninety-Sixth Street. It was Reed’s Sunday ritual: baseball in Central Park, beers at his favorite sports bar in Brooklyn Heights so they could watch a game—preferably the Mets—and then he’d head over to Red Hook to check on his dad before going home. Nothing messed with his Sunday routine, not even a shitty mood.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Sofia said with a cheeky wink. “He’s got enough money for a therapist. Isn’t that how rich people handle their problems?”

  Gabriel and Emil, along with a few other guys and girls on the team, were mechanics, and they loved to rib Reed about his white-collar job. Sofia joined in the fun, even though she had a degree and worked in an office just like Reed.

  “None of you seem to have an issue with my money when I’m paying for drinks,” he responded dryly.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Maybe we won’t buy you a beer after all,” Gabriel quipped. “Although we did get a new client at the shop. Some trust-fund baby with a hard-on for Audis. God knows why he’d spend so much money on them when he could have something better.”

  Gabriel and Emil dissolved into their long-running argument about the best luxury car manufacturers and Sofia pretended to stick her fingers in her ears. Reed tuned out the familiar banter. Despite having a salary with enough zeros to make most people’s eyes bulge, he didn’t live in Manhattan or drive a sports car. A huge chunk of his
money went to paying for health care and a near full-time caregiver for his father. The leftover cash was funneled into conservative investments.

  Beyond keeping up appearances at work—which required a wardrobe fit for dealing with upper-crust Manhattanites—his home life was fuss free. He’d paid off his DUMBO apartment a year ago when he’d made partner and received a generous signing bonus, and had turned that place into his personal sanctuary.

  “Reed?” The woman who’d been watching their game waved to catch his attention. She wore a light-gray suit and her eyes squinted behind a pair of black glasses. “Are you Reed McMahon?”

  “Who’s asking?” Emil piped up.

  “I’m Diana Lay with Scion magazine. I was hoping to grab a few moments of your time, Mr. McMahon.” She looked directly at him but he could see the hesitation in her face.

  In his sweats and a red baseball cap, he looked totally different from the photos floating around online, which were mostly corporate headshots and a few professional photos from galas he’d attended for work. But they all showed the same image—a polished, curated, and tailored level of perfection he prided himself on. A fake version of him that didn’t exist at a weekend ball game. Or any other time when he wasn’t at work.

  Ugh, he should have guessed she worked for Scion. They’d been trying since the previous Wednesday to get ahold of him. The “society journal,” which could only be referred to as such in the loosest of terms, was now mostly online. But it continued to boast a half-million readership of gossip-hungry people with no lives of their own. Scion wrote about the upper echelons of the “socially prominent” in New York, Greenwich, and the Hamptons. Surrounding the articles was extensive advertising for boat shoes and diving watches.

  “You missed him,” Reed said without breaking his stride.

  “I don’t think I did.” The woman hurried after him, her sensible, low-heeled shoes no match for his well-loved sneakers. “How do you feel about being rated New York’s Most Notorious Bachelor?”