Mr. Right-Swipe Read online

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2017 by Ricki Schultz

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  Cover copyright © 2017 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

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  grandcentralpublishing.com

  twitter.com/grandcentralpub

  First Trade Paperback Edition: June 2017

  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.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934403

  ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9722-2 (trade paperback), 978-1-4555-9721-5 (e-book), 978-1-4789-1562-1 (audiobook, downloadable)

  E3-20170317-DA-NF

  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

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Newsletters

  To Mom and Dad,

  (Sorry about all the penis jokes.)

  Chapter 1

  I shoot back the tequila, and it’s smooth. No cheap stuff this time. Patrón. No retching, no face to make. Just pure, unadulterated DGAF juice to parasail me off to my happy place before this idiot gets here.

  If he even shows up.

  Track lights hang in funky zigzags, amber pendants misting down a warm glow on all the sad stories strewn across the barstools: The lady in the leopard-print miniskirt, who crosses and uncrosses her legs with such fervor while she flirts with the Jack Palance–looking hombre across the way that she’s either DTF or she’s already got some kind of lady infection. The couple nestled in the corner, who won’t shut up about how it’s “date night” and they can’t believe they trusted Dude’s kid sister to babysit. The squirrely fifty-something whose khakis look like they haven’t lost their pleat in the better part of a decade, who’s been spinning his wedding ring out in front of him like it’s a frickin’ dreidel.

  And then there’s me.

  “Another?” the bartender asks before I’ve even wiped my lips, my sinuses suddenly clear.

  “I shouldn’t.” I touch my fingers to my sternum—My, what a lady—and I’m the epitome of demure as I dab my mouth with a cocktail napkin. “This gloss cost more than the damn drink,” I tell him.

  “So yes, then?” His mouth quirks at the corners, and either the shot has just hit me or his pheromones have. My legs ignite from the ground up, and part of me wonders what that mouth would feel like on my neck. My chest.

  My phone buzzes, and I jump.

  Valerie: GOOD LUCK!!!!!

  Again.

  Quinn: Is he there yet???

  It’s our group text. And, by their timing, I know they’re together, sucking down a bottle of red in Valerie’s living room and watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta or some shit.

  “You know what?” I slap both palms on the bar. Decisive. “Why not? I’m a goddamn adult,” I say to the bartender, which widens that succulent grin.

  I take to my phone as he goes for the bottle.

  Me: You two are ridonk. This is just drinks. Relax.

  And stop using so much punctuation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I smile at my textual punishment, and my gaze drifts to the curve of the bartender’s back. The way his black button-down stretches across those shoulders.

  He slides the shot glass toward me like we’re in a salary negotiation and meets my gaze with the darkest of eyes. “Your date is a very lucky man.”

  That accent of his. Portuguese? It might even be put on, but I don’t care.

  I give a snort. “Oh yeah. I’m sure he’ll feel like he’s won the Powerball.”

  I down my next, and I feel it in an instant. A tingle in my toes like a sticky summer night with Jesse. The two of us tucked away in that hole-in-the-wall hookah café.

  A hand grazes the small of my back, and I leap from the stool.

  “Rachel Wallace?”

  I give the barkeep a look like he’s my gay best friend—Girrrrrl!—and spin back toward him. Readjust.

  “The one and only,” I say and stick out my hand. “And it’s Rae.”

  I take him all in. A moment’s assessment as he performs his as well, eyes roving over me with what looks like relief.

  Polo shirt, fine.

  Dark jeans that aren’t tighter than mine, check.

  High-tops. What the balls?

  And a faux hawk.

  He’s a dude.

  But at least he’s shaven and he doesn’t seem to exude anything worse than the hair and shoes.

  Workable.

  “Rae. I like that. I’m Ty, by the way.”

  He sets his blue eyes on me, and I stifle a laugh. That’s just—not the name of a real person.

  “Of course you are.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “No need to be yet.” I spin back around and indicate the stool next to me. He emanates Armani Code and I’m okay with that, so we shall proceed.

  He gives the bartender a look like he’s about to be swallowed whole into the abyss, and then I feel a pang of something beneath my clavicle that I decide to rub away. I can’t wait to tell the girls I have feelings.

  Progress!

  The bartender comes back with two more shots.

  “Be still, my beating heart,” I say, hand to chest once again. And I check for a ring on his third finger. None.

  Focus.

  On Ty, not the bartender.

  “Nice to meet you, Ty. Please excuse my—”

  “You’re absolutely terrifying.”

  He says it with a wink, though, so I’m not sure how to take it.

  I melt into a smile and offer a quick nod. “Terrifying. I like it.” Probably a little too much.

  This crack seems to put him more at ease. He exhales for the first time, and my hand is already on my glass.

  “Shall we?”

  He reaches for his. “Definitely. To us?”

  “To us.”

  Clink.

  * * *

  While the others at the bar have shifted or filtered out—Ants-in-Her-Pants left with her rugged ol’ cowboy and the pleated pity party probably
went home to shoot himself—Ty and I have tackled all the important questions. Like which of Valerie and Mike’s kids is the smartest or how many pairs of cargo shorts we think Mike actually has. (I Price-Is-Righted it: sixty-one to Ty’s sixty.)

  Once we hit that lull where there’s only so much more you can analyze about your mutual friends, the beautiful buzz I’ve got going is the only thing keeping me here—a warm flush that curls up in my cheeks like a lazy old dog in an afghan on a rainy afternoon.

  Alex, the bartender—we’re on a first-name basis now—is feeding me stuffed green olives like he’s my cabana boy and I’m the queen of Sheba. I don’t even know if that makes sense, but I don’t care. My palm digs into my cheek, and I’m listening to Ty tell some oppressive story about how he and Mike went golfing last week…and that’s when Valerie got the idea to set us up…and he somehow comes off as the richest, most successful friend Mike has (read: small penis).

  He seems to get the hint, though—after, like, six hours of story—and he tosses some nuts into his mouth.

  Ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Okay. I should really stop drinking. I’ve regressed to fifth-grade boy humor.

  “So Valerie tells me you write books?”

  Ugh.

  My face gets even warmer. And I hope my chest isn’t all splotchy.

  I stick out my tongue in a fake gag—I’m sure it’s super attractive. “Thanks, Val,” I say to my phone screen. “I mean, kind of? I don’t know.” I take a life-affirming swig from my dirty martini and allow a breathy ahh of an exhale before I continue.

  He furrows his eyebrows—probably too sculpted for my taste—and I realize he doesn’t know what I mean.

  “I mean, I dabble.”

  I squirm in my seat, and he cracks a smile.

  “Dabble?” He seesaws his head like he’s trying to make it dirty, but really I think it’s that he doesn’t know the word. “I like to dabble as well.” He loops an arrogant finger under my spaghetti strap, and—clap—my hand shoots over it.

  “I’m not published or anything,” I say, guiding his hand back into his personal space, where it belongs. “I’m working on a manuscript. But I don’t have an agent or anything.”

  He gives me a squinchy face again, and I try not to judge him.

  Regular people don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, I tell myself. Why would he know about the industry?

  I shove another olive in and talk with my mouth full. Fuck it. “Well, you need one if you want to publish traditionally. As in, have your book in a bookstore, etcetera.”

  I see the familiar glaze in his stare. The one regular people get when I start talking publishing. That’s what was so great about Jesse. The one thing. He got it. And he listened.

  Probably because his wife didn’t get it.

  Something clamps around my heart—or am I choking on a stupid olive? I can’t breathe all of a sudden. Why did Valerie do this to me?

  I bang on my sternum to loosen whatever is causing the tightness, and Ty’s gaze drops to my chest. Halle-frickin-lujah—he’s back.

  Guess my tits woke him up.

  “What do you write, then?”

  God. Dammit.

  “Erotica?” I say, still rubbing at the sore spot, and I chew my bottom lip. Watching any chance I had of him not eye-fucking me the rest of the evening fly away like the olive particle I just accidentally launched across the bar.

  He scoots in. “Really? But I thought you were a teacher.”

  I’m definitely red now. I give an awkward shrug. “I am…but I work under a pen name—and, no, I’m not going to tell you. Anyway, the market for erotica is really more e-book based, but I’m trying to break in traditionally. It’s stupid, I know.” I wave it off, even though I most definitely do not find it stupid; I just find it easier to shrug it away on a first date.

  In fact, I like to avoid the subject of writing entirely because, inevitably:

  “You know, my aunt is writing a book. A memoir about our family. You should read it sometime.”

  I stare at the stirrer in my drink and my eyes bug to the size of the last two olives Alex has left. “Um, yeah. That’d be—”

  He scoots way in, his breath hot in my ear. It sends tickles all down my side.

  “I’m hot for teacher. You know that?” He gives me an elbow like he’s the Alexander Graham Bell of that joke, and I just nod.

  But I’m glad he interrupted because there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m looking at someone’s shitty-ass memoir or listening to him blather on about how he’s always wanted to write a comic book series about some polo player who turns into a flying Clydesdale or whatever.

  “Good one.” I point at him, then swipe at the goose bumps.

  He licks the salt from his lips. “You know, I have to say…”

  Alex has some smooth jazz sashaying on the air, and this crowd of what seems to be regulars loves it. The table of leather-faced singles swinging near the back has gotten up and they’ve all begun a clumsy, slow sway—all stuck together like snails mating. It’s making me uncomfortable, of course, but I can’t quite bring myself to look away.

  “You have to say what?” I’m entranced by their movements. And amused that I’m the youngest one here. By eons. This might be my new place!

  “This may sound like it’s out of nowhere…”

  His voice is low, and I meet his gaze now.

  Maybe Ty and I will be here, grossing out thirty-somethings, in forty years. Maybe he’d consider non-faux-hawking it and maybe he’s not married to that chain wallet.

  I fake a real smile—let it crinkle the corners of my eyes and everything—and chew the end of the stirrer.

  “Well, I’m an out-of-nowhere kind of girl.” I lift a brow. #killingit

  “The way you talk doesn’t match your look.”

  I frown. Hmm?

  He fidgets a sec, sloshes the bourbon around in his glass, and then turns back to me, full-on. “I mean—you’re smart. Girls who look like you don’t tend to be smart.”

  And as quickly as the alcohol and sultry music—and the promise of a lifetime of gross dancing—bamboozled me, his comment snaps me out of it.

  I press an Oh-hellllll-naw hand out in front of me.

  He grasps at it like it’s the string on the end of a balloon that’s floating away. “No,” he says. “It’s a compliment.” He pulls my fingertips to his chest, his heartbeat increasing.

  “Which part?” I squint, and this poor douche isn’t even ready for the inner she-beast clawing its way out of my body. “The part where I look stupid, but—yay!” I applaud. “I’m actually not a total dumbass!”

  He flinches and glances around the place.

  “Or the part where I rubbed some sparkly lotion on my legs and sucked myself into a low-cut dress, so that means I look attractive to you, I guess? And therefore—”

  People are looking.

  “Therefore”—my tone takes on a touch of the Foghorn Leghorn—“if I’m hot that means I’m dumb?” I cross my legs the opposite way and rest my elbows on the bar. Chin in palms. Expectant. Twirl a strand of brown hair. “Do you think you could explain it to me, because I got a wax this morning and so I don’t understand your big words so good.”

  I think he’s gonna cry. He clears his throat a couple of times, and the rest of the place picks up with its background hum of conversation. Retirees, body to geriatric body once again.

  “I just haven’t met many girls who”—he’s talking to his nut bowl now; cashews curl up at him like little shrugs who can’t get him out of this one—“are as good-looking as you are, that I can have a conversation with. When I walked in here and saw you, no. I didn’t think you’d be very smart. Is that bad?” He kinda…winces.

  I snort. “I don’t know, pal,” I say, and I grab a handful of nuts from right out in front of him. Gnash on them. “I’m sorry if that was bitchy. But—”

  “No, I like it,” he lies. I can tell he’s really trying to keep his tone bright. “You
speak your mind. That’s good.”

  That’s funny; his stare is about ten inches south of my mind.

  I hitch a thumb at Ty and talk to Alex. “He’s a real progressive, this one.”

  We sit in silence for what feels like twenty songs. But they’re all so smooth and flowy, like the ladies’ long dresses, it’s really hard to tell when one ends and the next begins. Saxophones all sexing up the place and keeping Viagra in business as the number-one import in Plantation this side of Boca Raton.

  After a while, Ty scoots his stool a bit closer. Lowers his voice a tick. “Look, Valerie told me. I get it.”

  “Told you what?” I narrow my gaze.

  “That you’re tired of dating. So I get that you might be a little sensitive—”

  “This is not my first rodeo, no,” I say, and I drain my glass.

  As the vodka hits the back of my throat, there’s also a rawness I’d rather not feel.

  I see my ex Daniel when he proposed. All shiny. Besuited. Eyes so full of babies and minivans and trips to Connecticut to see his folks. All the things we had talked about and dreamed about. All the things I have always wanted and still want—just, as it turned out, not with him.

  I can’t stay here another second, free drinks (and olives) or not.

  “Excuse me one minute.” I hop off the barstool and smooth my silk dress. “Little girls’ room,” I explain.

  “Another?” Ty indicates toward my drink, and I toss him a quick thumbs-up before I go off to the bathroom. (Okay, fine.)

  I stumble into the stall and whip out my phone.

  Who to get me out of this?

  After a hazy moment, I decide it can’t be Quinn or Valerie; they’d look down their noses at my request. Hell, Val might even cry, being the matchmaker for the evening.

  No, this calls for the big guns. Well, the twenty-something guns, anyway.

  This job has Sarah written all over it.

  Me: Can you call me in ten with an “emergency”?

  Sarah: That bad, huh?

  Me: I gotta get out of here.

  Sarah: We just got to Posh. Come have some fun!

  Me: Will do—you just have to “get mugged” or something.

  Sarah: I’m your girl. :)

  * * *