Smart, too. A business analyst? Sounded suitably bland and yet signaled she was smart enough to carry her own in a conversation about something other than Kim Kardashian or Fifty Shades of Grey (really – why? Why had every date for the past two months mentioned it?). A real woman. What a refreshing change.
So he continued reading:
“Luscious, curvy Business Analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I'm a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
Something fierce and hot inside him came to life. From that description it sounded like she...seriously? No way.
"Mike! Hey, Mike! Get in here!" If there were a chance – any chance at all, here, then he had to act fast. Someone this amazing was about to get inundated by messages from needy weirdos.
And he needed to be the first.
His roommate wandered in. Where Dylan was all muscle and brawn, Mike Pine was tall and sleek, a marathoner's body of long, lean tissue. Dylan's dark, Italian, thick looks made him popular with women, but Mike was the golden boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes, the long distance runner with a soft heart, the guy women turned to and poured their hearts out, Mr. Sensitive to Dylan's Mr. Conquest.
Dylan tapped the screen. "Take a look at her." He smiled smugly as Mike's eyes raced across the screen. They'd been waiting for a long time. Too long. His roommate's expression told him everything he needed to know. Score! It might finally be time.
"Do you really think that's some sort of code for being up for a threesome?" Mike asked, eyebrows arched. "I don't know, Dyl...I think it's just some sort of joke she's making. You know how nervous and weird people can be when they try to distill their entire life into a few sentences."
Dylan chewed on the inside of his cheek. Bad habit. "Good point. Well, even if she isn't into a nice menage arrangement, she is one fine woman." A low whistle escaped from his lips. "I have a project on my hands now, don't I?"
Mike nodded, peering at the screen, eyes lingering. "You are going to have a lot of competition."
Dylan snorted. "Like I give a fuck. May the best man win."
Mike went silent, then grinned, his fresh-faced boy-next-door look morphing into a Wall Street trader's predatory smile that made Dylan suddenly uncomfortable for no reason he could pinpoint. "Yeah. I hope he does."
Ding! The little chat box on the online dating site lit up like a Christmas tree. Laura sucked the last mouthful of her coffee and gaped at the screen. You have got to be kidding me, Laura thought. Already? She clicked and read a message from “9inluvr”:
Hey, babe. I live in the city and so do you, so let's hook up for some FWB action.
She snorted. Oh, sure. Just like that. Yer a catch, Bud. A real romantic.
Ding! This one was from some guy named Dylan. Before she read the chat she looked at his profile.
Well hellooooo there, Mr. Firefighter. A thin line of drool formed at the corner of her mouth, an instant response to the picture before her. It was a professional picture, the guy wearing no shirt, a fireman's hat perched at a jaunty tilt. Like a stripper's picture in a firefighter's role. Oh, God. I can't date a stripper, she thought. He'd have nicer g-strings than mine.
But no – he was a real firefighter. The picture, he explained in his profile, came from a charity bachelor auction he was in. Bachelor auction? How much had he gone for? As she studied the picture she figured it had to be a solid four figures. Hell, she was ready to empty her life savings for a night with this guy.
On a whim she Googled “Dylan charity bachelor auction firefighter” and her drool increased so much she would soon need a bucket.
Oh, holy hell. The image search showed the same man, whose name was Dylan Stanwyck, in firefighter's pants, boots, a fireman's hat and suspenders, perched on the floor of a fire station right next to the pole. He was leaning on one elbow and had smears of soot on him, with well-oiled muscles and a smug-ass grin. Whoever set up that photograph needed to be recruited for her company's marketing department because damn – she was ready to use up every available dollar on her credit cards to get a night with him.
Maybe she could save a bunch of money and just set herself on fire. Or her car. It probably wasn't worth much, but if she found out his schedule and whether he'd be the one responding...
And he was pinging her on the dating site? She dropped her coffee and scrambled to write back in the chat room.
“Hi,” she said, all inspiration and creativity vanishing as the heat forming between her legs apparently melted her brain.
Hi. I'm Dylan. Nice to “meet” you. :)
Think, Laura. Think. Man, where was Josie? Of all the times for that girl to be on time to go to work. She needed help figuring out something witty to say.
Hi. I'm Laura. Nice to “meet” you, too!
She wrote back. Then he answered:
You're probably on your way to work analyzing businesses, or businessing analysis, or whatever it is you do ;). I was hoping you might be interested in going out? We can do coffee, maybe? Or go to a nice tapas bar?
Tapas! Her favorite! But wait – Josie always said any guy who likes tapas must be gay. Laura checked the photo again. No way. And even if Dylan was gay, she would still sleep with him. Cute, polite, and loves tapas?
Tapas sounds great! When?
Dammit! Now she sounded too eager. And then he waited. And waited. No reply. Shit! Maybe he was having second thoughts. Or she sounded like a moron. Or he realized he didn't like tapas after all. Or he really was gay. Or this was his cat impersonating him. She began to pace, willing the chat bar to ping. If she stared hard enough, maybe it would come – now! No, now! Or...now!