The Rules According to Gracie Page 2

  Subject: Re: Bellini Girl

  Dear Des,

  Happy to put my tastebuds to work. They’re all yours next Tuesday. Have a date, though hopefully no shiny shoes this time! Glad you find my escapades entertaining, hopefully I get to poke fun at your date in the future. Do you even date? You never talk about girls…or guys?

  Best,

  Gracie

  Chuckling, she clicked send and continued with her lunch. Des would be doing the same thing that she was—sitting at his desk, eating while he typed.

  They had a ritual, emails at two o’clock for about half an hour, Monday through Wednesday. Those were the days that Des got to work early, and Gracie booked her appointments and took her lunch break specifically to be at the computer at the same time he was.

  Des Chapman

  Subject: Smart A**

  Very funny, Gracie. You know I only have eyes for the fairer sex, but I don’t put myself on display when I’m wooing a girl. I do my best work in private.

  Des

  Gracie licked her lips; the thought of Des doing any kind of private wooing sent a trickle of heat down to her belly. She’d never had the chance to see him put moves on anyone, since the only time she saw him was when he was working.

  They had formed a solid friendship over the months she’d sat at his bar, relaying her dating failures as he’d listened and occasionally offered advice. It was mostly useless advice, but advice none the less, and she appreciated it. Still, she’d never seen him outside work and never spoken to him over the phone. Only her visits to First and their mid-week email dates kept them connected.

  Gracelyn Greene

  Subject: Scaredy Cat

  That’s no fun, I expect tales of dating woe next week. You can’t leave me out here feeling like I’m the only one who sucks at this! Seriously, with all the failed dates I’ve had, it’s enough to make a girl question her sanity.

  Gracie

  P.S. I’m giving myself a year, if I don’t find someone decent in 12 months I’m calling it quits and adopting a houseful of cats.

  Des Chapman

  Subject: More of a dog person

  Why don’t you let me get at your dating profile? I could help you attract some more interesting guys. Better yet, why don’t you come to the bar without a date and see what happens? You know, like people used to do before the internet.

  Just a thought.

  Des

  P.S. Is “houseful” a unit of measurement for cats?

  She’d thought about visiting Des on her own, as in, without first bringing a date. But what excuse would she have to do that? If she went to the bar on her own, then he would know she’d come specifically for him.

  No, she couldn’t do that. It would give him the wrong idea and make things messy. She didn’t want to deal with the possibility of turning him down if he asked her out…or worse, not being able to say “no”.

  Gracelyn Greene

  Subject: Re: More of a dog person

  “Interesting” is not what I’m going for. Successful? Yes. Educated? Definitely. Interesting is a cover word for weird…or creepy. I’ll send you my checklist and you can tell me what’s missing.

  Gracie

  P.S. Maybe it’s a collective term rather than a unit of measurement, i.e. a gaggle of geese, a flamboyance of flamingos, a business of ferrets…a houseful of cats?

  Gracie frowned, biting down on her sandwich as she contemplated her problem. Maybe something was missing from her checklist? She knew from her work experience that the right candidate was always out there—she simply had to flush them out. Dating was much the same, although at this point she was starting to wonder if her Mr. Perfect was simply a figment of her imagination.

  Des Chapman

  Subject: Re: Re: More of a dog person

  Tell me you don’t actually have a checklist for looking through online dating profiles. I think I found your problem.

  Des

  P.S. You’re making those up. Why would I assume all flamingos are flamboyant?

  Of course he would think a checklist was a bad idea. Des was more of a “gut feel” kind of person. In other words, he liked to fly by the seat of his pants.

  Gracie shook her head. This was another reason—in a list of many—why they would never work as a couple. Imagine how he would react to her Christmas shopping list, sorted by family member and price point, and color-coded by shopping medium? Trying to organize him would be like herding llamas.

  Gracelyn Greene

  Subject: Making a list, checking it twice

  What’s wrong with having a checklist? If you go to the supermarket you take a list with you, and that’s only food! Finding a partner is way more important than shopping for groceries. I need to know I haven’t missed anything. Don’t even get me started on Christmas lists…

  Gracie

  P.S. I definitely did not make that up. Google it!

  Okay, so maybe she was a little extreme Type-A. Growing up with a mother who scrutinized every single detail of her life had made Gracie a bit of a control freak. She liked to do things properly. It was the only way to keep Cecilia Jane Greene at bay. Keeping her satisfied was one thing, but Gracie didn’t bother trying to make her mother happy. That would be like trying to cut an onion with a spoon—messy and definitely resulting in tears.

  Des Chapman

  Subject: Re: Making a list, checking it twice

  I’m not even going to touch the fact that you compared finding a partner with shopping for groceries. Maybe have a think about that next time you’re looking at dating profiles. Finding ingredients for soup is not the same as ticking off the attributes of a potential date.

  Des

  P.S. I’m not Googling flamboyant flamingos…how do you think that would look to my IT guy?

  P.P.S. Gotta run. See you on Tuesday.

  Gracie dragged the email chain into a folder marked “friends” and finished her lunch. She was already looking forward to Tuesday with much more excitement than she should—and it had nothing to do with her date.

  Chapter Two

  The days dragged until Tuesday night. Gracie had a blind date with the cousin of a friend—a lawyer, divorced, no kids—so she returned to First. She’d changed at work, touched up her makeup, and ignored the fact that she was more excited to see Des than she was to meet her date.

  The city was dark and glittery. A hint of leftover winter chill caused Gracie to pull her coat tighter around her. She’d had one of those days—the drop your latte, ladder your tights, trip on the stairs in front of your boss kind of days—and she was late.

  Clicking up the narrow sidewalk, she kept her head down to watch for any cracks or grates which might claim her new stilettos. Breaking a heel would be the cherry on top of a perfectly crappy day and, if Murphy had anything to say about it, a broken heel would come at the worst possible moment.

  Her feet moved quickly, a blur of bright red patent leather, as she hurried toward First. As she was about to turn into the restaurant’s entrance she slammed into something hard and dark. Her flattened palms connected with a solid wall of muscle, her nose pushed against black fabric as she tottered on her heels.

  What in the—

  “Whoa.”

  Large hands gripped her arms and the scent of spice and wood-fire filled her nostrils. Forcing herself not to sigh against the man’s chest, she looked up and met two onyx eyes. She would recognize those eyes anywhere.

  “Gracie Greene, what a surprise.”

  “Des,” she squeaked, stepping back to straighten herself. She brushed his hands off before her brain decided to remember how they felt, and tugged her coat back into place. “You shouldn’t come storming out of a doorway like that. Someone could g
et hurt.”

  “Perhaps that someone should watch where they’re going.” He quirked a thick, black brow at her, his luscious lips curved into an amused smile.

  Why did he have to smell so damn good?

  “Isn’t the customer always right?” She tilted her head, hoping to hell her face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.

  Des stepped aside and pulled the door open with one hand, motioning with the other for her to enter. “I’m assuming the dude in the obnoxious suit is waiting for you? Be warned, he’s going thin on top. Give it a few years and you’ll be able to use his head for a solar panel.”

  “You’re awful,” she said, stifling a laugh.

  He didn’t move as she stepped through the doorway, the confines of the entrance forcing her to get close. At six feet something, he towered over her, and his huge shoulders crowded her as she slipped past. She kept her hands against her stomach, lest she brush them over the denim that melded to his thighs like a second skin.

  “Give a girl a bit of room, why don’t you?” she muttered.

  “That was much more pleasurable than giving you room.” His wolfish smile made her heart thud an erratic beat, her palms slick around the handle of her bag. “See you for a drink later?”

  “Only if you’re lucky.”

  She stepped into the restaurant, the dim lighting making everything warm and cozy. Deeply colored wood panelled the walls and candles flickered at every table. The space was intimate, sensual. Or perhaps she connected the place with Des, and she associated him with those words? Shaking her head, she looked around until she found the man in a suit sitting by himself. He wore a purple tie, as he’d said over the phone.

  “Barkley?” His name was almost as obnoxious as his suit…almost. The dark gray wool was patterned with thick, white stripes, and the shirt he wore underneath was louder still.

  “Lovely to meet you, Gracie.” He extended his hand. Clammy flesh slid into her palm and Gracie swallowed.

  Perhaps breaking a heel wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen to her that evening. Her date smiled, his reptilian lips spreading thin.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I don’t usually do this,” he said, retracting his hand and appraising her openly.

  “Date?”

  “Specifically, blind date. I’m serious about finding someone to settle down with, and like all good investments, I like a thorough opportunity to do my homework before making any commitments.”

  Did he call me an investment?

  “Of course,” she said slowly, careful to keep her facial expression neutral. When she didn’t continue, Barkley motioned for the waiter.

  “A bottle of the De Bortoli Reserve Chardonnay, please,” he said.

  Gracie opened her mouth to respond but quickly snapped it shut when her date relieved the waiter with a, “That will be all”.

  “You’ll like it, Gracie. It’s an excellent wine.”

  “I don’t drink chardonnay,” Gracie replied, stifling a smile at the shocked look on his face. “I’m quite capable of ordering my own drinks.”

  “Excuse me for being a gentleman.”

  Gracie seriously doubted he understood the first thing about being gentlemanly. She flagged down another waiter passing by.

  “I’d like to order a drink, please.” She used her most charming tone and delighted in the red flush that swelled in Barkley’s cheeks. “A Bellini, please, with a cherry on the side.”

  …

  Des sat in the back office of First, clearing his head. His literal brush with Gracie had left him irritated and…horny. With a single glance, a flick of her lashes, a glimpse of a smile, she made his blood roar and his hands itch to be on her. It wasn’t healthy how much he wanted her, especially since she brought loser after loser into his bar.

  Was she trying to torture him?

  He stared at the unfinished staff roster. Lately he couldn’t seem to concentrate on the most basic of tasks without getting distracted by thoughts of her.

  Paul walked into the office and winked at him. “Your lady friend is here. Looks like she’s on another date.”

  “Don’t start,” Des warned him.

  Paul held up his hands. “All I’m saying is that you might want to, you know, grow some balls and ask her out. It’s obvious you like her. What’s with the silent act?”

  The last thing he needed was his younger brother berating him. The Gracie thing was… Well, it was complicated and Paul wouldn’t understand. He changed girls more frequently than he changed his underwear. He didn’t know what it was like to harbor feelings for someone in the unattainable zone.

  “Besides, she’s hot. Why wouldn’t you ask her out?”

  “Enough,” Des growled.

  “Des?” The trainee barman poked his head into the office and thrust an order docket in Des’s direction. “I got a strange order from table seven. Where do you keep the cherries again?”

  He smiled and plucked the piece of paper from the young man’s hand. “I’ll take care of this one.”

  He hadn’t even finished pouring the Prosecco when Gracie appeared at the bar, her eyes narrowed. Her silken dark chocolate curls were piled on her head, but winding tendrils had escaped to softly frame her heart-shaped face. Large green stones hung from her ears and glinted in the candlelight.

  “Thanks for coming to the rescue,” she said, not sounding thankful at all.

  Des finished her drink and passed it to her. “I only just got your order.”

  She grabbed the flute and brought it immediately to her lips, downing a third of it in one swallow. It was then that Des noticed the glimmer in her eyes.

  “Have you been crying?” He grabbed a small handful of cherries and put them into a dish in front of her.

  “No.” She blinked at the cherries, the smudges around her eyes revealing the truth.

  “Gracie, what’s wrong?”

  A tear dropped onto her cheek, her lashes glistening with those that hadn’t yet fallen. Her lips quivered but she held herself together.

  “He said I wasn’t as described,” she managed to get out, her voice wobbling.

  “He said what?”

  “Apparently I was oversold by the friend who set us up.” She let out a little sigh. “I don’t think he expected a woman with a mind of her own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well he ordered a bottle of wine without even asking me if I wanted a drink, let alone which drink I wanted.” She let out an indignant huff. “And when I called the waiter to order the drink I wanted, he said I was rude and classless.”

  “Has he gone already?” Des looked around, his hands gripping the edge of the bar. Son of a bi—

  “Yeah, he left.”

  “I have a baseball bat.”

  She smiled, her gaze flicking up to meet his. “Don’t go all Tony Soprano on me.”

  He let out a long sigh, calming himself. “I swear to God if I ever catch him hanging around here…”

  “I hope for both our sakes that doesn’t happen.” She brought the champagne flute to her lips, this time taking a more delicate sip. “Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Gracie. But for whatever reason, you pick losers.” He balled up his towel and threw it to the other side of the bar. He needed to get rid of this pent up energy. Keeping a distance between the two of them was becoming harder and harder.

  “They don’t seem like losers when I organize the date—well, the ones that aren’t blind dates anyway.” She bit down on her lip. “They all match the things I’m looking for.”

  “Ah, that must be the checklist you mentioned,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because finding the right person is not something you can tick off a list.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head. “Because you don’t always know what you want until it’s right there in front of you. These th
ings cannot be quantified.”

  “But I need the list. It helps me work out what to look for.” She said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

  “Maybe if you stopped looking so hard you’d see the forest for the trees.”

  “But I only need one tree,” she said, her brow crinkling. “If the forest is a metaphor for dating.”

  He sighed. “You’re looking for the wrong things.”

  Her affinity for perfection explained a lot, like why she kept setting herself up to meet these BMW-driving, stuffed shirt guys who would never treat her as well as she deserved. She was expecting someone’s value on paper to hold up in reality. Unfortunately, life didn’t work that way.

  “Okay, tell me Mr. I-Do-My-Wooing-in-Private, what should I be looking for?” She sipped her drink, peering at him over the edge.

  An inexperienced guy might’ve launched into an explanation of the right characteristics to look for in a man. But Des had been with his fair share of girls—despite the recent drought—and he recognized the challenge in a woman’s tone when he heard it. The fire in her eyes dared him to tell her what to do, dared him to give her the excuse to lash out.

  “It’s none of my business,” he replied, his tone neutral and even.

  “If there were good guys available don’t you think I would have found them by now?”

  “Not the way you’re going about it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Gracie.”

  He tilted his head and took in the glorious sight of her. A silk top and black pencil skirt hugged her body in all the right places, hinting of pleasures beneath but revealing little.

  “How come you’ve never asked me out?” Her question shocked him momentarily, and her dark brows rose, issuing a challenge. She reached for another cherry, pushing the red fruit through pillowy, rose-colored lips. “Well?”

  “Maybe it’s because you keep flaunting your dating life in front of me?”

  “I don’t flaunt,” she said, her pouty lips parted in indignation.

  “You bring them all here.” He studied her. “Is that because you’re looking for my approval, or my protection?”

  “I don’t need anything from you except the occasional extraction.”