Frustrated with her spinstery ways, Macy Grant’s friends staged a Sex Intervention. But as Macy agonizes through her first—and worst—date in years, she can’t help but notice the brawny, shaggy-haired artist sitting at the next table. Handsome. Sexy. With hands that are incredibly...uh, skilled. So when Macy runs into Jake Stanton at a party, it’s a definitely a sign from the Gods Who Want Her To Get Laid. And oh, she does.

Except that Jake didn’t tell Macy that it was his engagement party. Or that his fiancée is the hottest supermodel to walk the runway. Now Macy must decide if she can let the perfect guy walk away...or if she’s ready to step into the spotlight and turn her sex life into the biggest headline of the year!

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo

About the Author

Zoey Williams was born and raised in New York. She graduated from NYU with a degree in writing and nutrition and currently works in the publishing industry. When she’s not writing, she enjoys traveling, yoga, hiking and annoying her tuxedo cat, Rini. She loves to hear from readers, so feel free to interact with her on Facebook, facebook.com/authorzoeywilliams, and Twitter, @ZoeyWilliamsxo!

Also by Zoey Williams from Cosmopolitan Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

Addicted

Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up Exposed, my second novella for the Cosmopolitan Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon program! During the course of writing this story I changed jobs, moved back to NYC after four years in the ’burbs, and...(dun dun dun) started dating again. I’m sure many people can relate to how much comedic material dating in New York City can provide.

The fun stuff aside, I do want to mention that in addition to Macy Bryant and Jake Stanton’s hot romance, this book also features Jasmine Lee—aka my favorite character I’ve ever written—and her girlfriend, Ashley, who are both members of the LGBT community. I want to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to a couple of my favorite LGBT organizations: The Trevor Project and The Matthew Shepard Foundation. Please consider donating whatever you can (donating your time as a volunteer can be just as valuable as money!) to these amazing efforts. I think we’re making such great progress, but I can’t wait to live in a world with more acceptance, tolerance and peace.

xoxo,

Zoey

Exposed

Zoey Williams

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo

This book is dedicated to Allison Carroll,

for forcing my butt out the front door to go on that

Tinder date when I was just getting over stomach flu.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

Chapter One

The blister forming on my right pinky toe throbs with every step. I can’t wait to go home and kick off my six-inch pumps, unhook the bra whose underwire is digging in right under my armpit and peel the pantyhose off my legs like a snake shedding its skin. I glance down at my watch. It’s nine o’clock. I’m coming home from work on a Friday night at nine o’clock. Any other twenty-six-year-old event planner would have some glamorous lifestyle—instead, I’m making a pit stop at the local bodega before I head home and collapse on the couch.

I’m bending down to grab a cardboard cup of instant chicken soup—the ultimate sodium-ridden comfort food—to add to my small basket of junk food when I feel my phone vibrate in my purse.

I answer it without looking at it. “What’s up, Reka?”

I hear heavy, rhythmic breathing. Reka, my neurotic fifty-something boss with big eyes and spindly limbs like a praying mantis, must be running on her treadmill desk again. She’s in our Paris office since yesterday; it must be close to three o’clock in the morning there. I swear this woman does not sleep.

“Did the seating chart arrive for the opening tomorrow?”

She’s referring to the opening night of the most recent winner of a network cooking competition’s new sushi place. The irony of me eating incredibly processed chicken soup when I throw opening parties for the top chefs and restaurateurs in New York isn’t lost on me. “It’s in your inbox.” I smirk at myself for being so on top of things.

I hear the treadmill power down and then a shuffling of papers. “It’s right here. I should’ve known. You’re always one step ahead of me, Macy! If I’m not careful, you could easily have my job one of these days.”

I chuckle. “Goodnight...err, good morning, Reka. See you on Monday.”

“Oh, that reminds me. There’s supposed to be a big fashion show next week. We just got the account. I know fashion isn’t your thing, but I may need to help out.”

She’s referring to the fact that I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. It’s rare that I have to work the red carpet of anything other than a restaurant opening—and it’s not my favorite thing to do—but of course I say yes. It must be a big show if she needs all hands on deck.

“Knew I could count on you, Mace,” Reka says being hanging up.

I momentarily consider what it would be like to have Reka’s job. Coming to the office before the ass crack of dawn, leaving at ten, running around like a chicken with my head cut off. I know that’s what it takes to work in New York City’s cutthroat event-planning industry, but I can’t imagine being Reka. One time, when she was on a business trip to LA, she asked me to look for something in her desk and I stumbled upon an entire drawer of blood pressure medication.

Event planning is exciting—the fluttery feeling I get when someone walks down the red carpet I planned, the blinding lights, the never-ending flow of champagne—it’s all so glamorous. I’m a behind the scenes kind of girl. I like to say that I’ve walked many red carpets—it’s just that I’m always in the background of the screaming paparazzi’s shots, speaking into a headset with a clipboard in hand.

I pay for my food and the same graveyard shift cashier who doesn’t speak a lick of English gives me the thumbs-up sign and I give it back. I come to this bodega way too often.

Walking out onto the street, the air is cool and I pull my blazer tighter around me. With each step, the plastic bag from the bodega hanging from the crook of my elbow bumps lightly against my hip. I walk past a line of restaurants with outside seating, the cloth and metal barriers dissecting the sidewalk in two. I walk on the narrow path, smelling a new cuisine with each restaurant I pass. The garlicky, fresh bread scents of a brick oven pizza parlor, the spicy, exotic air of a Thai restaurant, the fresh, gingery smells of a sushi joint—they all tickle my nose as I pass. On the other side of the barrier, couples hold hands across red and white checkered tablecloths, lean in for a wine-soaked kiss or throw their heads back in laughter at their partner’s joke or anecdote.

I look down at my bag full of my measly dinner and walk home more aware of my singleness than I have ever been. I can’t think of the last time I went on a date. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I hung out with my two best friends.

It has to have been at least a month. I think of Jasmine and Daniella—they’re both so busy with their own lives, I hope they don’t mind that I haven’t been around lately. Ella’s pregnant with her first babies (twins!) and Jazz started a not-so-legal operation out of her apartment selling ganja-infused juices. For the pothead who likes to stay trim!

But, thankfully, they know how much I love my job. It’s always been that way. Even in college, at the parties I threw, Jazz and Dani danced on our dorm-issued giant wooden coffee table while I quietly stacked abandoned red plastic cups and deposited them into the trash, shushing people so none of the RAs would show up. Watching from the sidelines while my friends shone in the spotlight, planning, cleaning up—that was me in my element. I’m happiest when I see other people enjoying themselves at an event I put together. I’m a giver by nature. So it was no surprise that Velvet Rope, Inc. snatched me up right after graduation.

I walk up the steps of my brownstone and then up another flight to my apartment.

Turning my key in the lock, I don’t feel the familiar give of the metal mechanism. I suddenly realize that the front door of my apartment isn’t locked at all. I scrunch my brow. I’ve never, ever forgotten to lock the door to my apartment, but chalk it up to the craziness of the past week. I make a mental note to triple-check the door instead of my usual double-check the next time I leave. Once inside the small foyer, I flip the switch on the wall and the hallway light glows to life. I hang my keys on key holder by the door and kick off my shoes, arranging them neatly so that they’re at an exact ninety-degree angle with the wall. I slide my handbag down my arm and put it on top of the small desk by the front door, fluffing it slightly so that the hobo bag doesn’t droop and cause a slight crease in the leather.

The cold tiled floor of my kitchen feels good on my feet that have been in high heels all day. I go over to the sink to fill the teakettle with water for my soup, but turn off the tap after a few seconds. I hear a creak. I squint, straining to hear if it will happen again or if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I turn the tap on and shut it off abruptly when I hear it again, and now it’s undeniable: the sound is footsteps in quick succession, a scurrying, almost like a small animal. I’m too busy to take care of a pet, but I sometimes long for an orange and white tabby to graze its body on my calf with a cheerful purr or a big, goofy dog prancing over with a tennis ball between its drooling jowls. Then I hear the clunk of something knocking into my coffee table in the living room and a harshly whispered, “Dammit!”

Someone is inside my apartment.

The front door. I swear I remembered to lock it this morning. Maybe I did leave it locked and someone figured out a way to break in. But there wasn’t any damage on the doorframe, I remind myself. The only people who have keys are Ella and Jasmine, and we agreed that it would only be in case of emergency. I look down at my phone and don’t see any missed calls or texts from either of them. I hear the small creak of metal springs; someone is sitting on my couch. Oh god! Someone really is in my place. I clutch my phone again, my finger poised above the number nine on the keypad, but realize that if I call the police, the burglars will hear my voice. Actually, they’ve probably already heard me enter the apartment, so I don’t have much to lose. If I enter the living room, they’ll probably run away, maybe even out the fire escape, and I want to get a good look at the bastards. I instinctively take a few steps toward the living room and then stop myself. I really, really have to call the police. But then a whiff of something reaches my nose. It’s not overpowering, but I detect a slight hint of something...burning. Is some maniac lighting my freakin’ apartment on fire?

I rummage through my cabinets. With a large kitchen knife in one hand and a mini fire extinguisher in the other, I charge into the living room like a Spartan soldier.

“Don’t move!” I yell. “I have a knife!”

My feet come to a halt on the carpet when I realize that the lights are dimmed and scattered all throughout my living room are lit tea lights. It’s quite pretty, actually. And then I see Dani and Jazz sitting together in the middle of my loveseat.

“Oh my god, you s-scared me half to death!” I sputter as I put the knife down on one of my bookshelves and drop the extinguisher to the floor. The bravado I had just a moment ago rushes from me in an instant. I brace my hands on the top of my thighs and bend over, panting. “What’s going on? Are you both okay? Is everything okay?”

I look around at the candles. “Are you planning to murder me?” I laugh. “It looks like you’ve set up for a ritual sacrifice.”

Jasmine gets up from the couch and walks over to me with a serene smile on her face as if she’s pitying me, as if she knows something I don’t. I look over at Dani, who’s rolling her eyes, clearly embarrassed. I look back at Jazz and it’s then that I realize she’s wearing a cream-colored pantsuit, something a preacher on television would wear. For someone who feels most comfortable in tight leather pants and a vintage T-shirt advertising a punk rock band, this is obviously well out of the norm for Jazz. In contrast to her ridiculous outfit, her dark almond-shaped eyes painted in sparkly eye shadow, a row of hoops trailing up the length of both ears, her signature silver peace sign necklace. That is, except for her hair which has changed a million times over the years—her naturally straight, black locks permed into kinky curls, dyed every color under the sun, chopped to every length, even shaved right down to the skull. It’s now fashioned into a lavender-hued Mohawk, crafted into spikes with the help of some extra-strength hair gel. Her head looks like a dinosaur.

“Are you okay?” I repeat, making sure all her limbs are intact. “Why are you dressed so weirdly?” I spin in a circle, surveying my living room. “Seriously, why did you light all these candles?”

Dani smirks and blows out a breath.

“Mace-y,” Jazz says, overpronouncing both the syllables of my name like Oprah, “I’m so glad you’ve come. Please. Join us.”

“What do you mean, so glad I came? I live here, Jazz.” I walk farther into the living room and put the back of my hand to her forehead. “You okay?” I look around the room again at the candles. “You guys are scaring me.”

“Come,” she says again robotically like the leader of a cult. “Let’s have a seat.”

“Did someone die?” I ask, still completely confused. “Are we sitting shiva? I need to remind us all that none of us are Jewish.”

“I told her this was a dumb idea.” Dani sighs, patting her swollen tummy.

Jasmine smooths her silk pants before resting her elbows on her knees and steepling her fingers. “Mace,” she says dramatically. “This is an intervention.”

I look around at the candles and then back at Dani, hoping she’ll provide some answers.

She leans in and whispers, “Jazz kinda got confused between an intervention and a séance. Just go with it.”

I burst out laughing. I wonder if Jasmine’s been sampling her wares more than usual lately.

“An intervention? Jazz, I don’t suffer from any addictions. I barely have any vices. Last time I checked, you were the party girl.”

“Hey! I was a party girl, too,” Dani pouts. “You know, before this happened.” She points to her stomach. A sliver of her dark skin peeks out between the top of her stretchy maternity pants and the bottom of her flowy blouse.

“Don’t you see? That’s the problem. I love you and I think it’s time you loosened up a little bit.”

“What are you talking about? I am loose. Here I am about to have some dinner, watch a part of a movie and relax.”

“Macy, there’s another part of you that I’m concerned isn’t loose enough.” Her eye line goes to my crotch. “I’m talking about your vajean.”

“What?”

Jasmine reaches behind one of the pillows on the couch and removes a plastic bag. A plastic bag that has been stuffed in the back of the first drawer of my dresser for years.

“Hey!” I say.

“Exhibit A,” she pronounces a little too loudly, dumping out the contents of the bag on my coffee table and pointing her finger accusatorily at a heap of lace and chiffon. She extracts something I vaguely recognize from the pile and twirls it around her pointer finger. I then realize what’s spinning around and around is a pair of long-forgotten lacy underwear. “Behold all of your lingerie.” She tosses the pair of panties back on the coffee table with the others. “Underwear, bras, teddies. All of them still have the tags on them.”

“Exhibit B,” Ella joins in, pulling a small box from behind her on the couch. What is this, a magic show? “The vibrator I got you for your twenty-fifth birthday, Frank.”

“You named my vibrator?”

“You don’t remember that? We named him Frank, like a hot dog. Get it?”

The memory comes back to me. “Ah, yes, you’re right.” Between all of the margaritas, the fuzzy memory of us giggling over the pun comes back to me. And then I remember shoving Frank into the back of my pajama drawer and forgetting all about him.

“And lastly, the most terrifying piece of evidence of all,” Jasmine says forlornly. “Your calendar.”

She flips open the glossy wall calendar, every page as pristinely white and blank as the day I purchased it.

“Is this an intervention or a trial?” I ask.

“All I’m saying is that you take way too many Facebook quizzes for a woman in your age bracket. You just took one called ‘Which donut are you?’”

I press my lips into a tight line because I can’t argue against that. It’s true.

“Ugh, that sounds amazing,” Daniella says wonderingly. “Which donut were you, by the way?”

“French cruller.” I sigh.

“The most single of all the donuts,” Jazzy comments.

“Shut up.”

Jasmine holds hands with me and Daniella. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the death of a dear friend...”

“That’s not how it goes,” I say. “You just combined what a priest says during a wedding and a funeral.”

“...Macy Grant’s ladybits,” she finishes. “We barely knew ye. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

“Yeah, I got it loud and clear, Jazz.” I roll my eyes. “You think I’m a pathetic single person. Where is this all coming from?”

“You know how I thought for a long time that monogamy wasn’t for me? Well, I’ve met someone and she’s wonderful, and now that I’ve found what Daniella and Mark have found—”

“Hey, hey—slow your roll. You’re not married with two little cage fighters in your uterus,” Daniella laughs. “You sleep with anything on two legs. So you found a new hookup—”

“First of all, that’s not true. I’ve never slept with a kangaroo and I once dated a one-legged chick. Secondly,” Jazz insists, “this woman’s the real thing. She’s my soul mate.” A dreamy, goofy smile develops on her face. I feel like tiny blue cartoon birdies could start flying around her head any minute now.

“If she’s so important to you, why is this the first time we’re hearing about her?” I ask.

“She hasn’t exactly...come out yet.” Jasmine’s eyes dart to the floor, but then snap up to meet mine.

Ella and I both give her a look. Jasmine has dated closeted women in the past and we all know how great that ends up.

“I know what you two are thinking,” she says. “But she will. It’s coming soon—she promised me!”

“I can’t imagine anyone being able to get you to settle down,” Ella chuckles. She must be pretty special.”

“She is,” Jazz says, her cheeks flushing in a way I’ve never seen before. “And don’t pretend that you weren’t a wild child before you met Mark,” Jazzy scoffs. “You slept with so many dudes, when your mother sat you down to have the talk freshman year, you asked her what she wanted to know.”

Daniella opens her mouth to speak, then closes it.

“Anyway, I just want you to have what the two of us have, you know? I didn’t want to have to do this, but...” Jazz removes a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of her suit jacket like a slick lawyer presenting some damning evidence.

She clears her throat. “Ahem. Macy, your singleness has affected me in the following ways—”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I grouse. “This is silly, Jazz.”

“Macy your singleness has affected me in the following ways,” Daniella starts then puts her piece of paper down. “Actually, it hasn’t really affected me, Mace. I like you the way you are and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Ella!” Jasmine whines indignantly. “That’s not part of the plan!” she stage whispers.

“I wasn’t finished yet,” Daniella laughs. “We just see how hard you’ve been working lately and how if you don’t get out there soon the only thing you’ll be married to in the near future is your job. Though you don’t have to go along with Jasmine’s plan, it would be nice. You’ve been such a good friend to us. I know any man would be lucky to have you—” She shoots a playful glance at Jasmine. “—if only for your incredible amount of patience. You deserve somebody special.” Daniella scoots over so that there’s a space between her and Jasmine. I sit between them and they each take one of my hands.

“This is coming from a place of love. You’re our best friend and we only want what’s best for you,” Daniella says. “We know how amazing you are and just want you to find someone who sees that, too.”

“And the only way to do that is to get out there.”

“We’ll be your dating gurus!” Jasmine exclaims brightly. “I have a great person to set you up with. A client of mine. I think you two could really hit it off!”

I love my friend, but I’m downright scared to find out who Jasmine—who once dated a girl who carried around pictures of her rabbit in her wallet and would take them out at any given opportunity—would set me up with.

“That’s nice of you, Jazz, but I don’t think I could do the blind date thing,” I say, trying to spare her feelings. “Could we start smaller?”

“Are you saying you’d start online dating or something?” Jasmine asks, her voice full of hope.

I look at my two friends, holding hands, staring at me with the same expectant look my grandmother gets when she’s waiting to hear the winning lottery numbers announced on television. I’ve known them long enough to understand that it’s not worth putting up a fight when they’re like this. They have this idea stuck in their brains, and there’s no way I can convince them to let it go.

I look up at the ceiling helplessly. Lord, give me strength. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

Jasmine and Daniella jump up and down and emit screeches only dogs can hear.

When she finally calms down, Ella says, “Great. Now all you need to do is tell work you’ll need the entire week off.”

“Hey, wait a minute. You never said I’d have to take time off from work. I can’t do that.”

“Tell them there’s been a death in the family,” Jasmine says simply.

“But there’s a big show coming up next week—some fashion thing. I always have to be on call for other events I’m not assigned to, you know.”

“You’ll always have a big show coming up,” Ella says simply. “If you wait until you don’t have work to do in order to start dating, it’ll never happen.”

She’s right, but I shake my head. “Even so, my boss is in Paris until Monday. I can’t call her when she’s on vacation. Even if she works half the time she’s there.”

“Macy—” Jasmine starts to whine.

Ella puts her hand on Jazzy’s forearm to stop her. “Wait. Let’s give her the weekend. She needs time to prep. Like get a manicure, get some waxing done...”

I raise a hand to my face self-consciously. “Yeah, I guess my eyebrows could use a little cleaning up.”

“She doesn’t mean your face,” Jasmine says automatically.

“Come to my house tomorrow afternoon and I will show you all the joys of online dating,” Jasmine says breezily. “Oh, and bring a bottle of wine, too.”

“Why?” I ask. “You know I’m not a big drinker.”

Jasmine exchanges a knowing glance with Ella. “Because you’re going to need it.”

Chapter Two

I spend the entire weekend trying to convince myself that I didn’t promise Ella and Jazz that I’d start dating. I wish I’d fallen into a sodium-induced coma from all the instant chicken noodle soup and it was all a dream. I’m so nervous to tell my boss that I need to take time off. I haven’t taken a single personal, vacation or sick day in nearly two years. I notice my teeth are clenching so hard I’m giving myself a jaw ache as I dial Reka’s number and tell her the excuse Jasmine came up with.

“The entire week?” Reka’s voice is filled with incredulity. “Are you sure?” she asks, desperation edging into her tone. She didn’t take the news of me taking a break from work well. But this is coming from someone who’s never taken a vacation day—not even her full lunch hour—the entire time I’ve known her.

“Yes,” I apologize. “There’s been an emergency.”

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” I assure her. “It’s just that,” I say it in the dramatic way I practiced in the mirror. “Someone I knew passed away.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry,” she says sincerely. “Were the two of you close?”

I look down at my crotch and remember Jazzy’s eulogy. “You could say that.”

“Family?”

“Oh, yes. To be honest, I haven’t seen her in years, but we were once inseparable.”

“That’s just terrible,” Rena sighs. “Take the week, Macy. You’ll miss the big fashion show, but I’ll find someone to cover. Be well,” she says kindly.

“I will,” I say before hanging up. I feel kind of bad for lying to her, but then I look at Jasmine’s building and I remind myself why I need to do this. If I don’t take steps towards getting myself out there, Jasmine and Ella were right, I’ll end up a single fifty-year-old who’s obsessed with her work.

But as I walk up the flight of stairs to Jazz’s brownstone, I start to feel sick. A sense of dread settles over me. Five years. It’s been five years since I’ve dated. I’ve been out of the game for so long I wonder if I still remember how to have good sex. Is it like riding a bike, something I’ll never forget how to do? I momentarily consider calling Reka back, telling her I’ll be at the office in an hour and live the rest of my life in a hot-and—heavy relationship with Frank the vibrator. But then I remind myself that I don’t want to be that career woman with the blinders on. I can do this. Dating is supposed to be fun. Normal people date. I shouldn’t be missing out. I deserve someone like Daniella’s husband, Mark, and Jasmine’s mystery girl, whoever she is.

I press the buzzer to Jasmine’s apartment and the door clicks open in response. As I enter the foyer, I smell the lingering scents of floor cleaner, dust and whatever is cooking down the hall. Jasmine’s about to show me the ins and outs of online dating and with each step up to the third floor, my nerves kick more and more into high gear. I remember in the days before the internet, my middle school experience and some of my high school days, where the most explicit it ever got was daring to put your crush’s initials in your carefully crafted away message on AIM. There was no texting—you had to call a guy’s landline and pray that his mother didn’t answer. Your heart raced, your stomach tied up in knots, your palms sweated uncontrollably—that was pre-internet love. I have absolutely no idea what I’m in for with this YoCupid deal. Maybe it’s not too late to take Jasmine up on her offer on the blind date. But then I shake my head.

By the time I’ve knocked on Jazz’s apartment door, I feel a wave of nausea settle over me. This is it. Once I cross this threshold, I’m no longer Macy Grant, the Loner. I’ll officially be Macy Grant, Putting Herself Out There. Thankfully, Jazz is guaranteed to have something to treat nausea.

The moment I open the door, the smell is potent. She must be cooking up a new batch of her famous juices. Many of her clients are rich and famous—wealthy people love their juice cleanses and their drugs.

“Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life,” Jazz says with a toothy smile as I enter the apartment and hand her the bottle of wine she said I’d need.

“Tone it down, Hallmark card,” I say. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Jasmine chuckles as she rummages through a junk drawer and pulls out a corkscrew. “Now, before we get started, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to be set up with the guy I know? We can bypass all of this if you do.”

It’s very tempting, but as much as I love Jasmine, I’d be more likely to gargle bong water than to let her set me up with someone. Especially someone who belongs to the group known as Jazzy’s clients, which I’m sure is an incredibly mixed bag personality-wise.

“I appreciate the offer, but let’s try this first,” I say as diplomatically as I can.

Jasmine pops the cork and pours me a glass of red. I guzzle it down in two big gulps.

“Nervous much?” Jasmine asks.

“No, I’m fine,” I lie. We haven’t even started yet and I have an urge to snatch the bottle out of her hands and down the entire thing right now.

“It won’t be that bad,” Jasmine says as she places a hand on my shoulder. “Plus, you’re such a catch, I’m sure you’ll be fighting dudes off with a stick.”

The glass of wine I just gulped gives me a little bit of a fuzzy feeling. I very rarely drink. “You’re right, Jazz. This will almost be like online shopping,” I say with a false hope. “It’ll be kind of fun, right?”

“That’s one word for it,” Jasmine says and I give her a look. “I’m joking, I’m joking,” she says with a breathy laugh. “And let’s not take any profile pictures of you right now because you have a serious case of red wine mouth.”

I laugh as I kick off my shoes and walk over to her couch, scrubbing my teeth with my finger. A laptop is open on the coffee table facing it, and I immediately spot my face on the screen.

“Wait. Did you start creating a profile without me?”

Jazzy scans the room, shifting her eyes guiltily. “Maybe.”

I look at the pictures she’s chosen of me. One of them is me in a bikini.

“No, no, absolutely not,” I say adamantly. “Take that down right now.”

“Why?” Jazz asks innocently. “You look hot.”

“Firstly, because this picture was taken six years ago.” I point to the screen. “My hair is even a different color.” This picture was taken when I had a terrible addiction to peroxide. I’m surprised Jazz and Ella didn’t hold an intervention for me then. “Secondly, I don’t want some guy I don’t know beating off to this.”

“Ah, I forgot about that. Men tend to do that, don’t they?” Jazz says, furrowing her brow. “Fine, you can delete that one.”

I delete it and scroll through the rest of the pictures. One catches my eye. I squint slightly as I inspect it. “Did you...did you Photoshop a tattoo onto my right bicep?” I click on the picture to enlarge it and lo and behold, there’s a rainbow sugar skull decorating my arm.

“I thought it looked cool. Guys compliment my tattoos all the time. Everyone loves an edgy chick. Wear a long-sleeved shirt on the first date. Problem solved.”

“But Jazz, I’m the opposite of an edgy chick. Last week I got excited when a skirt I had been eyeing at The Limited went on sale. Now what did you write in my profile?”

“Here, take a look,” she says, angling the screen towards me.

I scan through it and it looks like a select mute filled it out. Almost all of the questions have short, one-sentence answers. Under the What I’m Doing with My Life header, Jazz wrote “Lovin’ it.” I look at the About Me section and it simply reads “I like yoga.”

“Jazzy, there’s barely anything there. Here, let me fill it out a little more,” I offer as I reach for the computer.

“No need,” Jazz says. “When it comes to online dating, especially straight online dating, no one cares. You could write entirely in a foreign language and guys wouldn’t give a shit. You could be a professional unicyclist who lives at home with her parents and it wouldn’t matter. It’s all about the pictures.”

“Point taken.”

Jasmine shows me the rest of the profile and it seems good enough. Even though the page is filled out with cavewoman answers, at least I’m fully clothed in each picture now.

“Are we ready to publish this now?”

I take a deep breath. “I guess.”

“Going live in three...two...” Jasmine counts me down with the intensity she reserves for New Year’s Eve. I cover my eyes with my hands, spreading my fingers the way I do at a horror movie so I can kind of see as Jasmine clicks a button with a dramatic flourish.

“One!” she exclaims giddily as she raises both arms in the air. She turns to me and peels one of my hands off my face to shake it enthusiastically. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Miss Grant. Congratulations, you are now part of the wonderful New York dating pool.”

I hear a dinging noise. Then it happens again. And again. Ding! Ding! Ding!

“What’s that?” I ask, looking around. “Did you leave something in the microwave?”

Jasmine beams at me. “It’s coming from the computer, silly! They’re messages!”

“Already?” I scoff. “How is that even possible? I’ve been on here for a grand total of five seconds.”

“Believe it, babe,” Jasmine says as she picks up the laptop and starts going through them.

“Oh-ho-ho, these are good. These are real good,” she guffaws. The computer dings at least five more times in rapid succession. “You certainly are popular.”

“Last time I checked, they were my messages. Let me see!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Five of my eight messages are just the phrase, “What’s up?” Two of them ask my bra size. The last one I have to reread twice before I can convince myself that this is real life and an actual human being wrote this: “Hey, you are cute like a little mouse. Wanna play a game? And no, it’s not sexual before you think that’s what I’m insinuating you perv.”

“Did you read this one?” I ask Jazz, pointing to the screen. “Do guys in their mid-twenties know how to talk to women at all? Do they really think this is an effective way to get intelligent women to talk to them? I mean, who would fall for something like this?”

“I would!” Jazzy says, cackling as she forms a peace sign with her hand and puts it behind her head. “Look! I’m a mouse!”

“Those are rabbit ears, Jazz.”

“Same difference.” She hands me the bottle of red wine and I take a long swig. “What’s next?”

“Look, this guy’s profile picture is him with a parrot on his shoulder.”

“Now that’s confusing. I don’t know which one is Jeff—the dude or the parrot.”

“Oh, shit. I think I accidentally signed you up for a parrot dating service.”

I read another one. “Can I pleasure you with my ten-inch meat sword?” My mouth hangs open. “This is just plain disgusting. Why are they all so vulgar?”

“Are you kidding? That’s mild. That’s practically a ‘how do you do?’ in this day and age.”

Curious to see the face that belongs to such a twisted mind, I click on his picture to see him better.

“Jazz, this kid looks like he’s twelve! You are too young for that kind of language,” I admonish the computer screen. I go back to my inbox and search the webpage. “How do I delete all these gross ones?”

“Why would you delete that one? He’s ten inches for crying out loud, Mace.”

I give her a pointed look.

“Kidding.” Jasmine puts up her hands. “No, but really, if you delete all the gross ones, there won’t be many left. Just sayin’. There’s always my cli-ent,” she says in a singsong voice like she’s dangling a bone for a starved dog.

“No, no, I’m not done yet,” I insist as another message comes through. It says, “So you like yoga? Which kind do you practice?”

I turn to Jazz, almost a little smug. “See? This guy seems okay. And I’m kind of impressed that he knows that there are different kinds of yoga, to be honest.”

“Open his page,” Jazzy requests.

I click through a couple pictures. “He’s pretty cute,” I admit before going back to scroll through what he filled out. “He’s a dentist—that’s good, I may need a new crown put in, always a plus...”

Jazzy laughs. “Go on.”

“He likes pets. Always good.” A small smile begins to form on my lips, but then my hand stops cold. I see it. Under The Most Private Thing I’m Willing to Admit it says: “I own a sarcophagus. I refer to it as my roommate.”

I scrunch my nose for a second and open a new tab to look up the word sarcophagus. I think I know what it means, but I have to double-check. When the definition loads, a breath escapes me.

“Nope, nope, shut it down,” I say, closing the laptop with a click. Jasmine gives me a toothy grin. “He probably wanted to know what yoga you did because maybe it’s a small coffin and he hasn’t found anyone who can fit in it.” Jasmine mimes stroking an invisible beard. “Or maybe, if he’s a dentist, he fills his coffin roommate with old teeth.”

“Okay, Jazz, I get the picture. I think that’s enough.” I lean back and sink onto the couch, deflated. I feel like I just did a meet-and-greet with a pack of stone cold weirdoes.

“What do you mean enough?”

“I really don’t want to do that again, Jazz. How do people do that? Like every day, go on these sites?” I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m a strong enough woman for that.” I look down at my watch. “I lasted thirty seconds.”

“There is one other option...” Jazzy is all too happy to remind me.

Ugh, her client. “Fine,” I mutter, defeated. I don’t want to do this again, so I don’t really have a choice. I have the entire week to meet people and it will not be from an online dating site. “I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Jasmine brightens. “That’s great! I kind of knew this would happen, so I already set something up.” She looks down at her watch. “For...ten hours from now.”

I do a double-take. “What? You already made arrangements for me to meet this guy?”

“Of course I did. I may not have online dated in a while, but I know it sucks. And that you would never go for it. So I was efficient. I made the plans you should have agreed to anyway.”

Jasmine cooks with weed for a living. She’s never efficient. “But...how did you...?” I stammer, trying to find the words.

“Know this was going to happen?” Jazzy finishes for me. “Because I know you. I know how you operate. Online dating just isn’t for you. You work better in person.”

I open my mouth to say something, but stop myself. I couldn’t really argue with that. Being the salesperson she is, Jazzy could read anyone like a book. To be a successful entrepreneur in New York, she had to be. She even claimed her powers grew stronger every time she was under the influence. Jasmine Lee certainly had my number, that’s for sure.

“So you made a reservation for a restaurant tonight? How far is it?”

Jazz shrugs. “Not a restaurant—just a drink at a bar around the block. Here, let me spruce you up.” She reaches out her hands and fluffs my hair a little. “Do you want me to do your makeup?”

I eye Jasmine’s teal lipstick and glittery green eye shadow—boy does this woman love glitter—and hesitate. “Nah, I think I’m good.”

She then looks me up and down, surveying my outfit. “I wish you’d worn something different.”

I look down at myself. “What’s wrong with this? It’s a maxi dress.”

“It looks like a nightgown.”

“That’s precisely why women wear them. They’re comfortable as hell.”

“Men don’t care about comfortable. They want your tits out. I don’t have to be straight to know that.”

Jazz circles one of her hands around my wrist and pulls me in the direction of her closet.

“Why don’t you try on some of my clothes? I get hit on all the time in ’em.”

She opens the double doors and it’s a sea of ripped jeans, clothes pinned band tees and tie-dye. Chunky candy-hued platforms, spiked sneakers and glittery sandals all the colors of the rainbow line the floor. The shelf above her clothes rack is stuffed with all the props she wears to Pride parades—tutus lined with LED lights, feathery halos and wings with elastic straps to loop her arms through like a backpack—her collection is quite colorful in more ways than one.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass.”

Jasmine shrugs, then something catches her eye. “At least wear my favorite leather jacket over that dress. It’ll jazz you up a little. Pun intended.”

I humor her and take the jacket off the hanger. It’s worn to the point that it feels like butter. Gliding it on over my shoulders, I instantly feel a little cooler. The buckles jingle a little when I move. Jasmine stands behind me in the mirror and beams. “You look very New York.”

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