Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

He nods, acknowledging that point. “True. But you know what hasn’t changed, Heath?”

“What’s that?” I ask, though, from the way he talks, I’m pretty sure I’m walking right into a verbal trap.

He wiggles a brow. “Sex. Sex hasn’t changed. And you, Heath . . . you just really sound like you need to get laid.”

I laugh. He’s not far off. I do miss that. A lot. “Yes, that would be nice too.”

“Why don’t we focus on that? Get you back in action. Tonight. Do it. Do it. Do it.” Ending his chant, Jude shoots me a steely stare, the smolder that works on men and women alike when he flashes it on screen or stage.

I shake my head, amused at his antics. “But of course. I’ll just go have a shag right the fuck now.”

He smacks his palm on the wood of the bar. “That’s what I’m talking about.” Jude glances around, draws a deep breath, studies the scene. “All right. I’m devising a plan.”

“Wait. You’re serious?”

“Uh, yes. Of course I’m serious.” He taps his temple. “And as I said, I have a plan already. I’m that good. That sharp. Do you know that saying, ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”

“Of course.”

“Tonight, you’re going to be honey, Heath. You’re going to laugh. You’re going to smile. You’re going to be engaging, if you can indeed do that.”

“I know how to be engaging, thank you very much.”

“You do. But you disengage that gear most of the time. So maybe, turn that frown upside down and let’s see if we can get you a little something with some honey.”

“You want me to act . . . nice . . . and get laid,” I say, part teasing, as if the concept is that hard to get my head around.

“Yes. Who knows? It might improve your mood, which will make work more enjoyable—even that office collaboration bit. Hell, getting laid will make your fucking toast tomorrow more enjoyable. Sex makes literally everything more fun.”

I arch a brow. “Literally everything? Dental appointments? Dreadful meetings that should have been an email? Riding the tube at rush hour?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Every single thing,” he says, emphatic to the core. “Clinical studies have shown that getting laid is directly related to happiness.”

“I doubt there are studies on that topic.”

He stares down his nose at me. “That’s exactly the kind of shit scientists love to study.”

Come to think of it, he’s probably not wrong. Nor are the scientists. Sex does boost your mood. Endorphins, orgasms, all that.

Maybe I’ve been overcomplicating this whole dating thing. Perhaps I should have been thinking of it more simply—as sex. I like sex. Lots of women like sex too. What’s good for the goose should be good for the gander.

For anyone who’s having consensual sex, really. To each their own.

Besides, it isn’t sex I’ve wanted to avoid, but the setups.

“Fine,” I huff, conceding.

He pumps a fist. “Yes. Heath is getting laid tonight.”

“You’re assuming we’ll find somebody who wants to hook up with me.”

“Piece of cake. You’re half as good looking as I am, which is plenty to do the trick for you. And I’ve seen you turn on the charm before. Maybe a century ago, but still.” He rubs his palms together. “Let’s do it.” He says it like he’s my swim coach and he’s about to send me into the deep end.

Laughing, I ask, “And how would you propose I find this woman for one night?”

“People still meet at bars.” He waves a hand grandly to indicate the crowd around us. Sure, there are some ladies here. “What’s your type? You always liked the pretty ones.”

“The pretty ones with brains,” I correct.

“Pretty and witty. Got it. We’re going to find someone right here. How about the next clever beauty who walks through the door?”

“What if she’s married?” I throw out. “What if I’m not attracted to her? How do I know if she’s smart?”

He rolls his eyes. “You have so many rules and requirements. No wonder you’re hard up.”

“Fuck off,” I say, but I’m laughing.

For the next hour he watches the door, muttering assessments like an Olympic judge.

That one will be too shrill in bed.

That one hasn’t read enough Shakespeare for you.

That one thinks Rembrandt is only a toothpaste brand.

By the time the clock strikes nine-thirty, I doubt I’ll meet anyone interesting enough, but at least I’ve had a lark with my brother and I haven’t hurt the feelings of any co-workers’ friend or cousin or tennis coach. I haven’t had to wiggle out of darts, artfully or un-artfully, or evade an offer from Freddy’s wife.

Sure, Jude is kind of doing what I loathe—setting me up. But I’m not his project.

He doesn’t feel sorry for me.

And there’s no workplace fallout if I don’t like the woman he picks for me. Jude will go on his way, and we’ll have a drink again next Sunday, and the next until he returns to New York when his limited-run play ends in a few more weeks.