10 Rules to Sex Up a Blind Date. Heidi Rice

he figured out her most shameful secret? Not that she’d slept with a married man, because she certainly hadn’t done that on purpose. But that she’d had the gross stupidity to fall in love with a man—to think she could build a future with a man—who was as much of a bastard as her dad? Discovering at the grand old age of twenty-six that she suffered from the same rose-tinted blindness as her mother was humiliating, to say the least. But she could see things for what they were now, and she would never be that myopic again.

      ‘Although, for the record,’ Sam continued, ‘no way in hell would I have hooked you up with a guy who was already taken. Apart from being a shitty thing to do to you, that’s bad karma for me. And megashit feng-shui, lifestyle-wise. I don’t fuck with feng-shui. Not if I can help it.’

      The sweet, giddy rush of relief she felt made her light-headed. Sam hadn’t guessed what a tool she’d been.

      ‘Just a tip, Sam,’ she said, tucking the wrenching pain back in the drawer marked Don’t Ever Go There, ‘if a girl starts making goo-goo eyes at you again, tell her about your feng-shui obsession. It’ll reduce the shock value when you do the big reveal.’

      Sam sent her a mocking salute. ‘Yes, boss.’

      Tally folded her arms on the bar, feeling mellow again—and moist, but not for Sam anymore. Thank goodness. The feng-shui comment had had the desired effect of directing any residual lust towards pastures new...and hopefully more fertile.

      ‘So do you have anyone in mind?’ she said, trying not to sound too eager.

      ‘Actually, I think I may have the perfect candidate.’

      ‘Really? Already? That’s amazing.’ And a tad too good to be true. The hum in Tally’s clitoris dimmed. Was Sam the real deal, or just another gift horse with a very big mouth, like Melody?

      ‘Yeah, his name’s Brent. Brent O’Neill. He’s a fellow Yank living in London, a pal from my college days. Six foot three with a rep in the sack that he never boasts about.’

      ‘Then how do you know about it?’ Tally asked, trying to be objective—and not drool ahead of schedule.

      ‘His ex-wife’s a pal from college, too. Della got drunk with me the night after their divorce papers came through and told me why she married him. Turns out he’s so good at giving head she totally missed the fact that he’s a—’ Sam paused to do air quotes ‘—”heartless bastard” for three whole years. Good enough?’

      ‘Promising, certainly,’ Tally hedged.

      And sort of tacky. Who married a guy based on his cunnilingus skills?

      ‘And to seal the deal,’ Sam continued. ‘Brent’s also ripped, ruggedly handsome and extremely well-endowed.’

      Tally’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. ‘Not to be funny, but how do you know that?’ Good grief, had Brent’s ex-wife gotten drunk enough to give out his measurements? That took tacky to a whole new level.

      ‘Locker-room voyeurism.’ Sam coughed into his hand, looking sheepish. ‘Mostly. We played on the same basketball team at Cornell. Believe me, a dick that size is impossible to miss. Not that I was trying that hard to miss it. A guy can dream, after all.’

      Tally’s clitoris throbbed deliciously. ‘Well, as long as it was only dreaming.’

      ‘I swear.’ Sam crossed a finger over his heart. ‘He’s straight as an arrow.’ His eyebrows wiggled. ‘Joke intended that time.’

      A high, fluttering laugh floated out of Tally’s mouth that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. ‘Sam, you’re hired.’

      ‘Awesome.’ Resting an elbow on the bar, he flicked a finger at the barman, who trotted over like a trained pony.

      ‘A beer for me and another daiquiri for the lady,’ Sam ordered while the barman beamed at him like a long-lost lover. Clearly the barman’s gaydar was a lot better than Melody’s. Or hers.

      Sam’s gaze lingered for a second on the barman’s tight ass as he headed off to fetch their order. ‘Right, let’s figure out how to hook you guys up without Brent knowing it’s a set-up.’

      ‘Why can’t it be a set-up?’

      ‘Because that’s way too cute.’ Sam’s condescension somehow managed to be charming instead of, well, condescending. ‘Brent’s a wolf in geek’s clothing. A type-A guy who gets off on the hunt. Which means this’ll work a whole lot better if we let him think it was all his idea.’

      ‘You’re not serious?’ Tally’s feminist outrage tumbled out. ‘He sounds like a sexist jerk.’ Heartless was doable. Misogyny not so much. She had to be able to talk to this guy, at least a little bit.

      ‘Hey, I’m working with your wish list here. Not mine.’ Sam threw up his hands in exaggerated dismay. ‘You wanna get laid by a guy who’s hung like a horse and has made it his life’s work to turn giving head into an art form, then Brent’s your guy. But he’s a hard-ass when it comes to women—ever since his divorce. No argument there. So if you’re looking for more than a casual hook-up, we’re going to have to look elsewhere.’

      ‘Forget I said anything.’ Tally capitulated, her feminist outrage drowned out by the reminder of Brent’s expert lip-service. She propped her own elbows on the bar and smiled encouragingly at her matchmaker. ‘This isn’t a forever deal. At all.’ She did a zipping motion over her lips. ‘I’ll shut up now and let you do your job.’

      When it came to Project Get Laid, surely she could suck up her feminist principles for a night? Plus Brent the Clitoris Junkie got points for letting his shortcomings show—unlike Henry the Metrosexual Rat. At least women knew to approach Brent at their peril. She’d just have to cut the talking portion of the evening short if his alpha-jerk tendencies came to the fore.

      ‘Cool.’ Sam lifted his bottle to take a fortifying swallow of his Bud.

      ‘But before we get down to business.’ Tally fluttered her eyelashes outrageously. ‘Do you think you could describe Brent’s hard ass in more detail?’

      Sam clinked his bottle to her glass, a slow conspiratorial smile spreading across his face. ‘Sure. I’ve written a couple of songs about Brent’s hard ass.’ He winked. ‘It’s kind of inspirational.’

      ‘Fabulous.’ Tally licked dry lips, already composing tomorrow morning’s tweet to the insistent rhythm of her throbbing clit. ‘Inspirational is just what I’m looking for.’

      Chapter Three

      #NewRule: 2 Wear or Not 2 Wear Knickers? Is that the question? Answer: Dress for sex-cess but aim for the #Wow Factor not the #Whoa Factor

      

      

      Tally handed her coat to the fresh-faced cloak-room attendant, who sent her a shy smile before his gaze became surgically attached to her cleavage. Her confidence perked up as he handed her the ticket, his cheeks shining like beacons in the club’s half-light. She smoothed her palms down the plush velvet of the vintage minidress she’d found on eBay. Tucking the ticket into her bag, she smiled at the poor kid. Good to know the three hours she’d spent debating her wardrobe options for this evening had not been entirely wasted.

      Her phone pinged and she whipped it out of her bag, grinning when she saw the text pop up from her partner in crime.

      We’re in one of the booths on the left in the American Bar. Hope you’re looking hot because Brent certainly is. S x

      She headed down a wide stairway, the walls expensively upholstered in dark wood and red leather, tapping out a reply while doing her best to ignore the knot in her stomach.

      Stop salivating, he’s my date, not yours. And I’m in ’80s Dior—so let the enslavement begin. T x

      But as she stepped into the darkened bar and