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“So I’m just supposed to bump into him, spill wine on his shirt, and then make my move?”
Grace glanced at her in approval. “Not bad!”
“Grace, it’s horrible! It’s the most obvious ploy in the book. I might as well go for the whole ‘You look familiar’ cliché.”
“Oh, come on. Guys don’t care how original you are as long as you’re hot.”
Julie opened her mouth to argue but was forced to concede. Grace did have a point there. Most men put originality somewhere between knitting skills and snoring on the list of must-haves.
Grace snapped her fingers in front of Julie’s face. “You got this. You can do it. Just keep your eye on the ball.”
Julie batted her hand away. “Okay, coach, I’m ready. What do I need to know about this guy?”
Grace pursed her lips. “I’m trying to remember something interesting.”
Julie groaned. Not a good sign.
“Actually, all I really know is that he works with Greg. And according to Greg, he’s kind of a workaholic. Not big on the social stuff. But he’s been nice enough at those stuffy Wall Street functions Greg’s always dragging me to.”
Julie choked on a bacon-wrapped fig. “Wall Street? You want me to date a guy from Wall Street?”
“Not date. Woo. And what’s wrong with guys from Wall Street? Greg works on Wall Street.”
Exactly.
Julie pictured her best friend’s boyfriend: his navy suits, his slicked-back hair, that sharky smile, and his inability to talk about anything other than stocks and golf. Not to mention his insistence that argyle would never go out of style. Julie tried not to shudder.
Still, she had to admit that Grace’s reasoning was sound. Most Wall Street men she’d encountered were of the trophy-wife set. They needed someone young and shiny to show off along with their high-rise condos. Julie could be young and shiny. Granted, the first one was getting further and further out of reach, but she made up for it with a push-up bra and an affinity for trendy cocktails.
You can do this. It’s no different from any other dating expedition. Smile. Keep your lipstick off your teeth. Don’t slur.
Easy peasy.
“Okay, where is he?” Julie asked.
“Over by the chocolate fountain. He’s talking to Allen Carsons.”
Julie’s eyes bugged. “Allen Carsons of the New York Tribune? As in Camille’s ex-husband? As in Stiletto’s enemy number one?”
Grace gave a rueful smile, and Julie rolled her eyes. Great. This just keeps getting better and better.
Schooling her face in a casual, indifferent expression, Julie oh so slowly turned in the direction Grace had indicated. Almost immediately her eyes landed on Allen Carsons’s distinctive bald head. There were rumors going around that he shined it up with duck fat before special occasions, but Julie was inclined to think that was a Camille-fabricated detail. Apparently their divorce had been spectacularly messy.
Her eyes moved to Allen’s companion, a tallish man in a pinstripe suit.
Pinstripes. Good lord. Ten bucks says he has a pocket protector.
“Grace,” she said desperately, “I don’t think—”
“Give him a chance.”
Julie took a deep breath and looked at him again. Maybe she was underestimating him. Julie braced herself and waited for it. The zing, the sizzle.
And she felt … absolutely nothing. He was like dry toast.
Julie could have identified this guy as a broker even without Grace’s introduction. He was fit but not bulky. His brown hair was just on the chocolatey side of mousy, and while she couldn’t see the color of his eyes from here, there was nothing to suggest that they’d be any more interesting than the rest of him.
And the man wore glasses. Call her judgmental, but she couldn’t imagine getting hot over a dude with glasses.
