Dear Jane Read online

  “Oh. And I have another favor to ask.”

  Maybe this could turn around.

  She held up a finger and wagged it. “No lawyers. I will never date one. Ever. I’d rather stay single the rest of my life.”

  Nope. No turning this disaster around.

  Numb, and not exactly sure how he’d gone from up-and-coming attorney to flower delivery boy to Jane Dixon’s personal dating service, Eric shuffled out the door and down the hallway to the safety of his office. This time, he closed the door.

  Chapter Three

  Jane stared at her open doorway for a long time after Eric left. He was cute up close. Thick, mahogany hair, great face with a strong jaw, but it was his chocolate brown eyes that struck her the most. There was something about his eyes—warm, intelligent eyes that studied her like a puzzle he was trying to solve. She’d only seen him from across the conference room and in passing at company functions, but now that she’d spoken with him…damn. And she’d almost lost it in front of him. Well done.

  At least he hadn’t made fun of her like her brothers always did. Oh man, her brothers would have been brutal.

  She pulled a white spider mum out of the arrangement and twirled it. Usually, she just never heard from guys after the first date, or got Dear Jane texts instead. These flowers were a first. She plucked a petal, then another. God, she’d asked the cute lawyer to set her up with a friend. Desperate much?

  No. It wasn’t desperation, it was self-preservation. One more family dinner with a round of fifty questions from her entire family, including all-time favorites like “What are you doing to scare men off?” and “Do you even like men, Jane?” and she’d lose her freaking mind.

  All her life she’d tried to stay in step with the Dixon family expectation of who and what she should be: a successful lawyer, loyal wife, excellent mother. Somehow, though, she never seemed to get it right.

  Why couldn’t men be more like her cat, Gandalf? Loving, self-sufficient, and chill with whatever happened? Gandalf didn’t care if she spilled ice water, or laughed too loud, or wore sweats, or didn’t like Brussels sprouts.

  She started removing the second row of petals. The Brussels sprouts thing was weird. The guy actually ended their date because she wouldn’t try them. She didn’t need to try them. They smelled like barf. The fact it was an old family recipe made no difference. Barf balls equal gag. Gag is bad in any social setting. Therefore, no tasting. End of story. And, unfortunately, end of date.

  She’d worked her way to the small, inner petals, reversing direction to pluck them counterclockwise, now. Maybe her family was right. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It surely wasn’t that she didn’t like men, though. They just didn’t like her, evidently. At least not enough to ask her out again. And then there were the ones with roving hands—which wasn’t a bad thing if it weren’t a first date.

  She pulled out the remaining half dozen or so central petals in a single pluck and flicked them from her fingers. She hadn’t always had this problem. She’d gone out with several guys multiple times in law school. What was different now from two years ago? God, it had been so long since she’d had sex, she could probably qualify for her V card again.

  With a sigh, she pitched the bare stem in the trash can and then scooped up the pile of petals. They were soft, like the lapel of Eric’s jacket—totally unlike what she’d felt underneath that jacket when she’d wrapped her arms around him. Her body heated as she remembered running her fingers over the lean muscles of his back. She closed her eyes and recreated their brief embrace. His hands had been soothing and warm as he rubbed them up and down her spine. And that smell. He smelled fantastic. Soap and starch and dry-cleaned suit. Before she got carried away, she opened her eyes, still clutching the shredded petals. In a white blizzard, she let them flutter into the trash can.

  When Eric had walked into her office with that gorgeous floral arrangement and equally gorgeous brown eyes, she’d hoped it was a gift from him. That a guy had noticed her in real life and not hunted for a suitable hookup based on a profile from a dating website. But that wasn’t the case. She brushed her hands together to dislodge a few remaining petals. Didn’t really matter, anyway. He was a lawyer, and besides the firm’s non-fraternization policy, all lawyers were off the table.

  Her office phone buzzed and she picked up. “Your appointment is here, Ms. Dixon.”

  Ah, yes. Her nine o’clock. Mother of two trying to collect child support from her deadbeat husband who had run off with his best friend’s wife. Followed at ten by a man who was trying to get sole custody of his daughter due to his ex-wife’s tendency to disappear for weeks at a time. Then, her afternoon was full with depositions of a couple trying to nickel and dime each other to death before the division of property could be agreed upon, who were never going to be happy no matter what the outcome was.

  She pushed the intercom button on the phone. “Go ahead and send the first appointment back.”

  Smoothing her hair, she stood, then buttoned her jacket. Raising her chin, she took a deep breath, mentally hardening her heart and putting up her emotional shield.

  Maybe she was lucky. Perhaps never making a second date was a good thing…

  No. She refused to let this job get to her. Instead, she decided to focus on the positive. Maybe Eric would set her up with a vet or someone who loved animals like she did. Someone nice, and patient, who would appreciate her for who she was outside of this office.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re shitting me, right?” Alastair, the bartender at Eric’s favorite local pub, slid another Heineken his way. “You want me to go out with some lawyer you know from work? You can’t be serious.”

  “Dead serious. I’d really appreciate it.” Eric grabbed a handful of peanuts and popped them into his mouth. Alastair was the perfect choice. Friendly, outgoing, good looking, with a cool Australian accent.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing.”

  Alastair dried a wine glass he’d just washed. “Not buying it. Gotta be something wrong with her, or else we wouldn’t be having this discussion.” He hung the glass on the rack above the bar.

  Eric took a swallow of beer, choosing his words carefully. “She’s beautiful and smart. There’s nothing wrong with her.” He couldn’t believe he was actually having this conversation. Even more unbelievable was the fact he was trying to secure a date for a girl he’d wanted since the first time she’d walked by his office door. “She’s perfect.”

  He was either too convincing or not convincing enough, because Alastair’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect, huh?”

  Afraid of giving himself away, he answered with a simple nod.

  The bartender pitched his towel over the edge of the bar sink. “Why aren’t you taking her out, then?”

  “I can’t.”

  There went the eyebrows again.

  “She doesn’t date lawyers.” Eric took another pull on his beer.

  “But she is a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, ironic, huh? Look, just do me a solid and take her out for dinner tomorrow. You already said you had the night off.”

  “Gave up my best shift to watch the rugby match on TV, not go out with some lawyer who can’t find a date for herself.”

  Ouch. “Look, Alastair. Record the match. She’s so much better than rugby or anything else you had planned.” He winced at the look of pity thrown his way. Surely, he wasn’t that transparent. He’d promised her a date. He had to deliver. Time for the nuclear option. “How about I pay for dinner?”

  The bartender leaned close. “So, let me get this straight. I take a woman you’re hot for out to dinner, and you pay for it?”

  “I’m not hot for her.”

  “And all along I thought lawyers were supposed to be skilled liars.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Alastair took Eric’s empty beer bottle and pitched it in the trash. “So, my question is no longer what’s wrong with her.” He wiped the area in fron
t of Eric and placed his hands on the edge of the bar. “The real question is, what’s wrong with you?”

  If Alastair and Jane hit it off, Eric would have to watch his best friend with a woman he’d wanted since the moment he laid eyes on her. What was wrong with him? Everything.

  …

  “Your friend’s accent is amazing,” Jane said from the doorway of Eric’s office the next day. “He asked me out for dinner tonight.”

  Eric’s stomach gave a churn as he calmly set his pen down, determined not to let his misgivings show. “That’s fantastic!” At least Alastair had made good on his promise to give her a call.

  “Yeah, and he’s taking me to MacLandon’s Steakhouse.”

  Figured he’d take her to a ridiculously expensive restaurant. “One of my favorite places.”

  Her grin was contagious. “Really? Mine, too.”

  “I’m glad it worked out.”

  Just when he thought she couldn’t be more attractive in her fitted, navy business suit, she laughed. Not a chuckle, but a full-blown laugh that made her face light up and her eyes sparkle. He’d give anything to see her laugh like that again.

  “Oh, don’t speak too soon. I’m sure I’ll mess it up somehow.”

  “I expect a full report.” He raised an eyebrow in jest, but inside gave his forehead a slap.

  “I’ll spare you none of the gory details.”

  There were lots of details from which he’d like to be spared. Like if his friend kissed her…or more. He picked up the pen to give his hands something to do other than clench into fists.

  “I’ll text you when he drops me off and give you the run down.”

  Alastair was outgoing and charming. Eric couldn’t wait to hear all about it. Or not. He groaned inwardly. “Great.”

  She arched an eyebrow at the pen he was clicking a billion times a second.

  Way to play it cool, Blackwell. “Sorry, I’ve got a lot of stuff going on.”

  “The Anderson deal. Yeah. Dad’s pretty uptight about it.”

  Dad. Boom. Direct hit. And “uptight” wasn’t even in the ballpark. The meeting with Mr. Dixon yesterday had been a disaster. Eric needed to figure out a way to minimize the tax consequences or the deal wouldn’t go through and neither would his promotion.

  “I’ll let you get back to work, then.” She tilted her head and studied him for a moment from his office door, and he resisted the urge to check himself to see if something was off.

  “Good luck tonight,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

  Chapter Five

  After a grueling day at work, Eric’s favorite thing to do was binge watch sitcoms and work that day’s New York Times crossword.

  Number three across: “One who weeps, in a saying.” He traced his fingers over the five empty spaces. “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” he chanted in a taunting, playground voice. With a sigh, he filled in the blanks. L-O-S-E-R.

  While he was home, living like an old man at thirty years old, Alastair was out wining, dining, and romancing Jane on Eric’s dime.

  Number twelve down: “Live a dull life.” Second letter of eight was a T and fourth a G. No doubt about the answer to this one. He was an expert on dull. S-T-A-G-N-A-T-E, he wrote in the blanks.

  Something had to give. He popped a potato chip into his mouth. His entire life, all he wanted was to not be like his selfish, pleasure-seeking father—the father who left his family penniless when he’d died. Eric had vowed at an early age he’d be responsible and support those he loved, not only financially, but with undying loyalty. He’d succeeded. Three months ago, he’d bought his mother a small house upstate and nothing had ever felt better. If he could make the Anderson Enterprises acquisition of Cahill Investment Group work out, he’d be the youngest junior partner ever at Dixon, Rosenbaum & Schoot, a dream of his since he’d interned with them during his second year in law school.

  He’d been called an overachiever so many times during his life, he’d lost count. Editor of Law Review, Phi Alpha Delta student board, and a job offer well before graduation with one of the most prestigious law firms in New York City. Overachiever. He shook his head. Yeah, he was a success in all areas of his life except one.

  Number two across: “Like some gases.” Tipping his head, he studied the five boxes ending in R-T.

  He tossed the pencil down on the glass coffee table. “Inert,” he said through gritted teeth. Even the crossword knew he was pathetic.

  Switching off the TV, he leaned back into his leather sofa and closed his eyes. All he’d ever wanted was to make right what his dad had done to his family—and that had always been enough. Security and financial stability for his mom were up there on the top of his list of what was important. He’d done that…

  He picked up the pencil and traced seventeen across: “Lack of fulfillment.”

  “You’re a crossword puzzle,” he muttered at the half-completed grid, “not a fucking fortune cookie!”

  Calm down. Lots of puzzles were thematic. This just happened to be a shitty theme and not a reflection of him at all. He was content with his life. He was. Really. Things were exactly as he had planned them—better, in fact. F-R-U, he wrote in the blanks. No turmoil. No unhappiness. S-T-R-A. No bending his world to make it mesh with someone else’s. No one unloading the problems of the day on him. No one for him to vent to… No romantic dinners for two at Ruth’s Chris. No love… No sex. T-I-O-N.

  The pencil snapped in his grip.

  Shannon had left him after he’d refused to choose her over his career. He’d just been moved up to team leader in his division—chosen over several lawyers who had been there longer—and she wanted him to back down. He’d worked his ass off to get the partners’ attention and stand out enough to be noticed, and it had worked. Backing down wasn’t an option. Hell, they’d only been dating eight months when she’d made her ultimatum: her or work. In his mind, the two weren’t mutually exclusive. His job came first, but they still got to see each other once a week at least. Still, she said his job was all-consuming and she needed more.

  More what? She knew his goals when they began dating. Yeah, the hours were long and the daily grind sucked, but there was the goal of making partner…and the money. That’s what it was about for him. Dad had lived his life as if there would always be time to fix the financial mess. Only there wasn’t. One missed red light and all of it ended instantly, leaving five-year-old Eric and his mom with nothing and no one but each other. At least if something happened to him, Eric knew his mom was provided for. Between the house and the escrow account he’d set up for her, she wouldn’t have to fear the future again.

  He picked up the usable half of the broken pencil and smoothed the Times page. He’d never really missed Shannon, and she’d obviously not missed him much; he’d read her engagement announcement not three months after she’d broken up with him. Twenty-three down. Eight letters beginning with O: “What cynics lack.”

  Ding.

  “Jane” appeared on his phone screen.

  Great. Now he was going to have to act like he was happy to hear the date report. Before opening the message, he gave the problem another shot. “What cynics lack…” Nothing came to mind.

  With a sigh, he opened her message.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

  He smiled, imagining the playful distress call said in her voice. “State your coordinates. Will dispatch rescue crew,” he typed.

  “My home base. Backup needed immediately.”

  He read the message several more times. Was she asking him to her home? He didn’t even know where she lived. Maybe it wasn’t as big a joke as he’d originally thought. He swallowed hard. Maybe she really needed help. He’d known Alastair for two years, but they didn’t hang out other than at the bar. “You okay?” he typed.

  “Yes. Could use a friend.”

  The lump in his throat was back, joined by a jackhammer in his chest as he studied her words. He hated texting. It made it impossi
ble to tell what was really going on. Sarcasm and anger were always muddled. So was sincerity. And emojis had a special place in hell, as far as he was concerned.

  “Want to meet somewhere?”

  “Yes. Here.” And then she typed a Soho address.

  Holy, holy shit. Jane Dixon had just invited him over. He stood and brushed potato chip crumbs off of his jeans. No need to get uptight. It was simply a lateral move. He’d gone from flower delivery boy to matchmaker to sounding board. Nothing to get worked up about.

  Grabbing his wallet and MetroCard, he laughed. Yeah. His body clearly hadn’t gotten the “nothing to get worked up about” memo.

  He stared at the crossword one more time. “What cynics lack,” he read aloud then smiled as he filled in the blanks. O-P-T-I-M-I-S-M.

  Chapter Six

  “Wow, you got here fast,” Jane said, gesturing with a bottle of beer for Eric to enter her apartment.

  He stepped inside, still in disbelief he was actually in Jane Dixon’s apartment. “Only seven stops on the One Train.”

  Her apartment wasn’t anything like he’d expected. With George Dixon as her dad, he assumed she’d have a slick, modern place decked out like the office: refined, elegant, expensive. Instead, it was colorful, warm, and comfortable with a plush sofa and two bucket chairs facing the TV, which was next to a bizarre sculpture made of carpeted boxes.

  The sculpture hissed, or rather something inside it did.

  “Oh, Gandalf. Don’t be an ass,” she said, finishing off her beer with one hand and motioning for Eric to sit on the sofa with her other. “Sorry, he doesn’t like anyone but me, and fair warning: he’s never lost a staring contest.”

  “Challenge accepted.” Eric lowered himself onto the side of the sofa farthest from the sculpture, which clearly housed a hostile cat. “Is he…” He wasn’t sure how to ask if it was aggressive without being rude.

  “He’s a big blowhard,” she said, sitting on the other side of the sofa. “Total scaredy-cat.”