Switch and Bait Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Ricki Schultz

  Excerpt from Mr. Right-Swipe copyright © 2017 by Ricki Schultz

  Cover Design by Lisa Forde

  Cover photograph © Getty Images, Mel Yates

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

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  grandcentralpublishing.com

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  First Edition: June 2018

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933766

  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-4500-7 (trade paperback), 978-1-5387-4499-4 (ebook)

  E3-20180502-DA-PC

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  November

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More Ricki Schultz

  About the Author

  Also by Ricki Schultz

  Praise for Ricki Schultz and Mr. Right-Swipe

  To Mom and Dad . . .

  I know I haven’t given you grandchildren yet,

  but here’s another book about dating.

  (I’m sorry.)

  Chapter 1

  The girl sits. She waits.

  I scribble this into my tattered notebook.

  Her hair is swept over one shoulder, the almond-shaped tips of the manicure (she likely got this afternoon) drum on the black linen placemat.

  Her eyes twinkle. They’re fireflies. There’s a sparkle of hope within them. Every time the door opens and lets in some of the chilly March air, her anticipation pulses through the pub.

  Other than that, she seems pretty chill. She doesn’t even check her phone. The lilt to her voice when she makes polite conversation with the server tells me she’s a regular. She’s been to this place a hundred times. But her bag, her shoes, the whole Kate Spade thing she’s got going on? Says she’s full-on Georgetown.

  This wouldn’t exactly be my first choice in first-date locales; it’s too hole-in-the-wall for me.

  However, I can understand her reasoning—you don’t want to run into anyone you know in real life when you’re about to do an online date meet-and-greet. But there are too few patrons around here for my taste—you know, in case this guy turns out to be a murderer, or worse.

  A libertarian.

  I like its secluded vibe nonetheless. The waitstaff each has some sort of hipstery embellishment—a fisherman beard here, dreadlocks there, a combat boot on every foot. And everyone is smart. You can tell because of the thick Tom Ford frames they’re wearing.

  That, and it’s two doors down from my bookshop, which is why I’m drinking here in the first place.

  It’s a good twenty minutes before some Young Republican type bursts in, eyebrows high with recognition when he spots her. They share a manufactured meet-cute as she goes in for a hug while he bumps her in the chest at a handshake attempt.

  Awful.

  I shake my head and record it into my tome as I strain to hear their conversation over the banjo-tastic music on the air. The bits I catch are nothing short of painful. This résumé one has to present in these situations. Like it’s less a date and more an interview. A pissing contest of Here’s What I’ve Done to Be Interesting. What Have You Done to Be Interesting? Do You Even Deserve to Be Here?

  Why I don’t date, I write.

  And I smile. Take a swig of bourbon.

  Yeah, that’s not why.

  It looks promising at first. His guffaw echoes off the messy mortar walls, but it’s too loud for this place. Too loud for a Tuesday. And like the part in his hair, it’s too careful, too precise to be real.

  “Can I get you another one?” The bartender reaches for my glass.

  “Shh—I’m not here!” I drain the last two drops and shove the cocktail napkin at him. “And, yes, of course! Hurry!”

  I hunch on the barstool. Slide my glasses back in place. Return to my notes, just in time to hear the scrape of the guy’s chair against the distressed hardwood floor.

  “It was nice to meet you,” he says, extending a consolation-prize hand to her. “I’m sorry it’s not going to work out.” He flashes his veneers one last time, and then he’s gone. Without so much as leaving a ten spot to cover his half-drunk Stella Artois.

  I shake my head once again.

  I allow a few minutes—let her compose herself, her red lips parted in what seems like abject horror—and gather my thoughts. Let her gather hers.

  And then: “Excuse me.” I climb down off the stool, drink in hand, ballet flats squeaking as I approach.

  She does a double take, hair swinging over the other shoulder in one swoop. “Me?”

  “Yes. You mind?” I indicate the empty chair but sit anyway, before she can answer. If I’m going to secure her as a client, there’s no time to be timid. “I couldn’t help but overhear—”

  “Um, I’m not into women. No offense.” She’s already going for her shoulder bag.

  I dig her confidence.

  “None taken—me neither. But that?” I hitch a thumb toward the door. “That right there is what’s wrong with America. Chicks like us strutting around in our best Ralph Lauren just to be rejected by some side part with a briefcase?”

  She yanks back. Flicks her stare up and down my attire, apparently giving me the once-over. A heat curls in my cheeks, and I’m back to my sorority days—do I look the part enough? Is this girl gonna be friend or foe?—and I clap a palm to my sternum.

  Enough of that.

  “I’m coming from work,” I say. “I run the bookstore down the street. I don’t always look so…bookish.” I pat my top knot. “And anyway, that doesn’t matter. You’re obviously fine in the looks department. That’s not where you need my help.”

  Her eyes light. She seemingly ignores my last statement. “Literature & Legislature? I love that place!”

  I nod. Allow a grin. “But I also have a little side business. Now, it’s none of my busi
ness, although it is my business”—I pause for the laughter that doesn’t come—“but where did you find that guy? Which dating site?”

  She blushes, like it wasn’t obvious they were on an online date. Clears her throat. “The Spark app,” she manages and frowns into her rosé.

  “No need to be embarrassed…uh…what’s your name?”

  “Kelly.”

  Of course it is.

  “Kelly. Nice to meet you; I’m Blanche. Carter. Now that we’re friends, tell me: What in the hell just happened?”

  There’s a moment like there always is, where the potential client weighs whether or not I’m some psycho. And really, I don’t ever blame them. It’s always this way when I’m being this pushy, but I’ve only gained three clients with this side work in the last two weeks, and Momma needs to pay off her student loans. Most of the time, though, I think these women could stand to be less trusting.

  Yes, even of me.

  But I also know what I know about love. It’s intoxicating. It’s magic.

  (It’s bullshit, but I don’t ever say that. That’s for me and not for them.)

  But everyone who believes in love wants to believe that magic is real. And so, to get that knight in shining armor, people will listen to almost anything, if presented in the right way.

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. Maybe I was too awkward this time? Hold my breath and brace myself for the boot—

  When the tautness in her face softens and what looks like amusement touches her delicate features.

  Phew. Maybe I’ll make rent this month.

  “It’s fine.” She casts her eyes to the tablecloth. “We hadn’t been chatting that long anyway. It’s just annoying, you know? He didn’t like that I said I’m a vegetarian. He said it was way too liberal for him and there was no point in ordering a meal or taking this any further because he’d never be able to enjoy eating a bloody rib eye in my presence, knowing I was some kind of hippie tree hugger.”

  “Oh, I see what happened.” I give her the ol’ pointer finger. “That’s Rule Number 5: Don’t talk politics.”

  “What—”

  “I know, I know. You didn’t talk politics per se, but you talked beliefs. You talked stance. You cared about something. And—hey—” I snap my fingers. “That’s Rule Number 3: Never care.”

  She squishes her forehead at me, and I realize I’ve said too much.

  “Look,” I say. “I know I look like some bad Zooey Deschanel knockoff this evening, but I’m telling you, I can help you. I know about this stuff.” I’m talking with my hands, and while I do so, I flag down the barkeep for another round. “Back in college, I was the ‘love guru’ of Delta Gamma. I’m just always able to sniff out a bad deal, you know what I mean?” I make like I’m smelling something foul in the air right now. “I gave dating advice to my sorority sisters for free—which guys were pure bullshit, how to call them on it, et cetera—until one of them said…” I think back to Sue Ellen in her giant pearls waving a DG flask around like a scepter. “‘You should start charging! One day, being a bitch will make you rich. Hey, that should be your slogan!’” Then she fell onto the beer pong table immediately afterward and had to get, like, four stitches.

  I can’t help but crack up at the memory.

  “So you’re rich now?” Kelly brings me back to reality.

  My lip curls, and my drink arrives just in time. I blink at her. “Not exactly.” I let my next sip warm my tongue before I swallow it down. “I know I’m barging in on you here, and—look—I’m not saying I want to help you with that guy.” I nod toward the door. “But if you’re ever interested in a little help, hit me up.”

  I snap my business card to the tabletop and slide it her way:

  WE SWITCH. I BAIT.

  LET ME HELP YOU SNAG A DATE.

  bc@switch_n_bait.com

  * * *

  I get home just in time for my prime freelancing hours, that special time of night where dinner’s long been had and people are either well into their third drink…or they’re staring at the ceiling and contemplating the poor life choices that resulted in them being alone at this moment. By the time I hear the jingle of Gordon’s keys, I’m already pretzeled into position—sitting cross-legged at my makeshift desk, a card table, with tabs to three dating sites open on my laptop.

  He walks in looking all Neil Patrick Harris in a blue suit and surveys the scene; I’m looking all Quasimodo hunched over the table.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m living with a member of the CIA.” He eyes my electronics. “What are we dealing with tonight?” He hops onto the kitchen island with the elegance of a swan and starts sifting through the mail willy-nilly.

  “At the moment, Catch dot com, HoneyBae, iHart, and these two phones are fired up to Spark and GetHookd.”

  He makes like he’s gagging. “Yeah, I did that one. They should rename it GetHep.”

  I frown. “Aww, no judgies!”

  He waves it off with the Penny Saver. “You’d make a killing if you started taking on some queer clients.”

  I consider that with a nod. Open the eCompany site and log into the profile of a girl named Lily.

  “I can read straight guys, sure. But I wouldn’t want to mess up and somehow, like, piss off every member of the gay community. I’m already white and originally from the South. Let’s not make things worse.”

  We both cackle, and he’s already up and fetching the Trader Joe’s wine we didn’t quite finish off last night.

  “I’ll drink to that.” He clinks our glasses together, hands me mine, and plops down on the adjacent ottoman. “Details?”

  I stretch my arms overhead. “Lily Avondale. Twenty-two. Dental assistant.”

  “Looks cute enough…” He leans over my shoulder.

  “Yeah, but her spelling? Yowza.”

  Gordon pulls a pair of folding reading glasses from his shirt pocket and they assemble with one flick of the wrist. Still, he’s an inch from the screen.

  “Is she for real with that phonetic shit?”

  We spend the next half hour finishing off the white zin and catching up on the day while I fix Lily’s profile and, hopefully, her love life: Gordon worked on setting up an author event (some political analyst with a book coming out); I heard from Isla (having dinner at her place tomorrow night); we’re out of cereal, and almost out of TP.

  “How’s Isla…doing?” He cradles his wineglass like it’s as delicate as this subject, his fingertips skimming the thin neck.

  “Okay, I guess,” I answer, tone bright.

  Too bright.

  I keep my gaze trained on the profile and twirl a loose lock of hair. “She’s not great, all right?”

  He flips his palms up in surrender, and I know I’ve gone one-eighty, but whatever.

  “She’s losing a lot of weight, she says. I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”

  “Is that common with Huntington’s?”

  “Supposedly, yes. But what she’s most upset about is not the fact that she’s twenty-nine years old and, you know, dying—”

  It’s the first time I’ve said this word out loud, when referring to Isla, and the sound of it is harsh in the quiet of our little apartment. It almost feels like it rustles the tie-dye curtains adorning the one window facing the street.

  I rest a hand on Gordon’s knee. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just not fucking fair, you know?”

  “I know.” His voice is soft. He pats the space next to him and I squeeze my way onto the ottoman. “What is it she’s most upset about then?”

  “The girls.” I sit up. I’m better.

  He shakes his head. “Understandable she’d be sad to leave them before they’re grown—”

  “It’s not even that.” The ice skates back into my voice, but I keep it steady. “She’s worried they’re going to have it too. There’s a fifty percent chance they will, I guess.” I face him now and talk with my hands. “She feels guilty. Because, in college, you know, we used to jus
t think ‘There’s Crazy Isla, can’t hold her liquor…gets fucked up and walks all weird…’”

  He chuckles, and then promptly covers his mouth with an apologetic hand.

  But then I burst into laughter.

  I can’t help it. I think about all the insane stuff Isla used to do in college and I can’t. I don’t even know if Gordon knows why he’s laughing, but we’re both cackling until we’re choking and then finally the moment’s gone.

  “And here”—I wipe at my eyes—“those were the first symptoms, and no one knew.”

  We sit there for what feels like a long time, sipping wine, contemplating our own mortality. Super uplifting. And then the depressing silence is broken—thank GOD—by the buzz of one of the cell phones.

  “Jesus!” Gordon gasps, hand over heart.

  “Nope—GetHookd,” I say.

  He scrunches his face.

  And we die all over again.

  * * *

  Not long later, Gordon is sprawled across the couch, a gentle snore crackling on the air, like he’s my mother’s Himalayan cat.

  I snatch the wineglass from his outstretched fingers before it falls and we’re done for. No use in wasting a decent Malbec. Drain the rest of bottle number two. I already finished my portion and this represents the last of the alcohol we have in our two-bedroom, so I can’t afford to be weird about germs this eve. He snoozes? My boozes.

  Now I can focus. I study the profiles in front of me. Danica. Melanie. Lily. Elaine. Not a damn thing wrong with any of them, except they’re going online to find guys—and they’re paying a complete stranger to spruce things up a bit.

  I tinker with Danica’s profile. Flip through some of her photos.

  Tits and tank tops. That’s all she’s got. Or—wait—here’s one with a cowboy hat, but—yeah. Tits and tank tops.

  I rummage through the rest of the pictures she texted me.

  She’s an attorney—there’s not one with a suit?—but then I find it. I can see why she didn’t use it. It’s a pantsuit, which I’m sure was intentional, but it just doesn’t look very soft. Regardless of the pantsuit, however, her smile is forced. It doesn’t touch her cheekbones, her eyes. And although she looks super professional, she doesn’t look very…approachable.