Page 35 of RAKEish

“I thought you might.” It pleased him that she’d engaged for real in this conversation.

“What kind of man will a frozen strawberry daiquiri net me?”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “That order will catch the eye of the professor you’re secretly hoping to snag someday. The one who wears elbow-patched sweaters, corduroy pants, brown shoes, and enjoys a pipe and the Sunday crossword puzzle in the New York Times.”

Doc’s mouth dropped open. “How in the hell do you know the type of guy I long for?”

Because after Ms. Birdie had left his office, he’d gone in and read Doc’s dating profile. Just as Ms. Birdie had hinted at, Doc’s ideal man was the antithesis of everything Scott embodied. “I did a bit of homework,” he admitted. “I went through your profile on the dating app. You were quite specific about the type of guy you’re looking for, which, incidentally, limited your options. Guys who didn’t fit the bill, like me, dismissed you.”

Her perfectly groomed brows shot up. “Men like you?”

He leaned back slightly. “I’m a rake with honor. I don’t pursue nice girls whose hearts are yearning to be loved.”

Her response came swiftly. “My heart is most certainly not yearning to be loved. I believe a woman can be perfectly happy without a man. In fact, I believe they are most likely to be happy without one, because men are fickle. They love you today, and ten years down the road, they chase after a prettier bauble.”

Scott felt a twinge of something unexpected at her words—anger…for her. “It’s not every day you meet someone who dreams of the white picket fence yet views relationships like the most seasoned rake.”

“Who taught you to be a rake with honor?”

The question caught him in the heart. “Before Mum passed away, she sat me down for a serious talk. Not the typical sex talk, but about how to treat a woman with respect and integrity.”

“I bet it went nothing like my mother’s version of the ‘how to treat a man’ talk,” Doc said dryly.

“No?” He’d never met her mother, but instinctively did not like her.

“Not unless your mother advised that the way to a man’s heart, especially for a plain girl like me, was through his balls. Her exact words were, ‘Keep them empty, and he’ll stay around longer. Not forever, but longer.’”

“Your mother called you plain? Was she blind?”

“Multiple times, and no, she wasn’t.”

Scott had to unlock his clenched jaw to respond. “Your mother sounds…like Frankie. A person with horrible people skills.”

“She’s not great.” Doc hesitated before adding, “To her credit, though, my father cheated on her and broke her ability to trust a man. Since then, she’s made it her mission to date only men who are at least a decade older than her, and then she leaves them before they have grown tired of her.”

Doc’s response hung in the air, and Scott found himself momentarily lost in thought, as the weight of her words settled over him. “Bloody hell. That’s rough,” he finally said. “I take it she never remarried?”

“That would seem logical, but no one has ever described Mother as logical. Her solution is to marry a man for five years and then divorce him,” Doc explained.

As they spoke, the server arrived, balancing a tray of artfully arranged finger foods and their drinks.

Once they were alone again, Scott raised his glass and initiated a toast. “To unlikely connections. Ours.”

“To unlikely connections,” Doc echoed, her glass clinking gently against his. She took a tentative sip, and immediately her face contorted in disgust, and she coughed.

Scott quickly patted her on the back and handed her a napkin. “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

Doc’s expression was one of pure horror. “This tastes like rubbing alcohol. How do people drink these things?”

Scott couldn’t help but laugh, drawing disapproving glances from nearby tables. Doc, oblivious to the stares, frantically rubbed her tongue with the napkin, trying to rid herself of the gin’s sharp taste.

Their moment of levity was abruptly interrupted as Frankie appeared at their table, her expression a blend of shock and disapproval. “What on earth is going on here?” she asked, her eyes darting between Doc’s frantic napkin rubbing and Scott’s barely contained amusement. “You two are representing Naked Runway and this behavior is not acceptable.”

“To be fair, Doc is representing Columbia University,” Scott corrected.

The withering glower on Frankie’s face told him exactly what she thought of that.

Why did he have the feeling she wasn’t here to wish Lux good luck with her upcoming dates, but instead because she was working an angle to get around Ms. Birdie’s no cheating rule?

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