raised her hands. Holding in each one, a card. A beautiful, glossy card. A trading card fit for a Heisman trophy winner, for a Hall of Famer. “On the front,” she said, “the picture. Of course.” Then she flipped her hands around. “On the back are the important details. The stats that matter.”
“Like …” Bree said, surprised she’d spoken aloud.
“First and foremost,” Shannon said, “marry, date or one-night stand.”
The women nodded. Hugely important. How much pain in life could be eliminated by knowing who was whom. Each had their place. Bree would never be interested in a marry. Probably not a date, although that would depend. But a one-night stand? God, yes. Someone prescreened? It would be perfection. A Manhattan girl’s idea of heaven.
“His favorite restaurant,” Shannon added, and again, there was a collective “Uh-huh.” “Because while I’m a gal who likes the pub down the street, some of you might prefer a little Nobu action. Then there’s his passion.”
Silence followed this statement, but Shannon milked it, in no rush to explain, though even she had her limits. “You know as well as I do that all of them want to talk about themselves, and usually they want to talk about their thing. No, not that thing. I mean, their other main preoccupation. You know, the Yankees, or the stock market, or the iPad or foreign films. If you’re into the Mets, you don’t want to get stuck with a day trader. Or maybe you do, but, at least, you’ll know going in. And finally,” she said, taking yet another dramatic pause. “The bottom line. Full disclosure. Snoring might not bother me, but it might bother you. Chemistry is downright fickle. But we all deserve to hear the unmitigated truth. Google can only give you so much, am I right?”
Again, there was silence, but not because anyone was confused. The beauty of the IDEA was sinking in, was gelling, was blooming like a rose in winter. As one, the semimonthly St. Mark’s frozen lunch exchange began to applaud.
Hot Guys New York Trading Cards was born.
WITH A QUICK GLANCE OUT the window at the snowplow spitting down West 72nd Street, Charlie Winslow pushed his chair across his office to computer number three, the Mac. There were six altogether, each running a different operating system, each rotating views of his Naked New York media group. There were setups like this, well not exactly like this, but similar enough, in an apartment in Queens, a bungalow in Los Angeles, a flat in London and an office in Sydney. Then there was the huge old mansion in Delaware where the bulk of his servers were housed.
Naked New York was a gluttonous bitch, needing constant attention. What had begun as a single blog about Manhattan in 2005 had become ten separate blogs generating at last count over two-hundred-million page hits per year, and far more importantly, roughly thirty million per annum in advertising revenue. NNY was just like any other conglomerate, only the products manufactured were ideas and opinions, words and tips, photographs and gossip. Ever changing to remain ever pertinent. The revenue stream was one hundred percent advertising, and while Charlie paid a small team of fulltime employees and a very large team of contributors, each blog was his baby whether it focused on celebrities, finance, sports, technology, gaming or even the female perspective on life. He trusted his editors, but it was his name on every masthead.
Which had made Charlie a celebrity, at least in the important cities. He liked that part. Hadn’t considered it when he wrote up the initial business plan, but there were worse things than getting invited to every major event and having stunning women eager to accompany him to each one. He wasn’t in Clooney’s league, but Charlie’s determination to remain a bachelor had passed from joke to fact to legend in the span of six years.
His phone rang, a call, not a text, and he answered, his Bluetooth gear attached to his ear directly after his morning shower. “Naomi. How are you today, gorgeous?”
“Filled with wonder and delight, as usual,” his assistant said, her voice a nasal Brooklynese, her tone as dry as extra brut champagne.
Charlie grinned. “Any changes?”
“Nope. Just don’t forget that the tailor is coming by at eleven. Don’t make him wait. You did last time, and while you’re precious as diamonds to me, his client list would make you tremble.”
“You’re always so good for my ego.” Charlie glanced at his handset to see who wanted to interrupt his call. It was his cousin Rebecca. Odd, she rarely texted on a workday. “Got to run.”
Naomi hung up even before Charlie pulled out the phone’s keypad.
What’s wrong? Has someone died? CW
A moment later, his phone beeped as his screen refreshed.
Everything’s fine. I have a treat for you, though.
He sailed across his floor again, this time to check the stats on one of his latest clients. Their ads had been on rotation in five markets, and they were doing well in four.
What kind of treat? CW
A date.
He laughed. His thumbs flew.
Come on, Becca. CW
She was his favorite cousin, which was saying something because he had a ton of them. His parents each had five siblings and they’d all bred like rabbits. Charlie had three siblings of his own, but only one had climbed aboard the baby wagon.
Instead of the beep announcing a return text, his phone rang. Charlie switched to voice.
“Seriously,” Rebecca said. “I think you’ll get a kick out of her. She’s … different. She’s new. Brand-new. Still, wears colors, for God’s sake. And she’s bright, tiny, funny and completely starstruck. She’ll swoon over you, and make that head of yours so large you won’t be able to fit through your front door.”
“Ah, Rebecca. I didn’t know you cared. She sounds perfect.”
“I’m betting you’re not booked for Valentine’s day.”
He sighed. “Don’t be silly. I never plan that far in advance.”
“You will this time.”
He looked away from his monitor at the sound of her voice. Teasing, as always, but he hadn’t missed the dare. He liked a challenge, and Rebecca was clever. Really clever. “Fine.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“What’s her name?”
“Does it matter?”
He inhaled as his hands went to his keyboard. “Nope.” Charlie clicked off and two minutes later, he was lost in a conference call, Valentine’s Day and intriguing puzzles forgotten.
BREE HAD MADE CHICKPEA veg curry and mac and cheese for her frozen meals, but like everyone else in the big kitchen, she wasn’t here for the food.
Today was CARD DAY.
The past few lunch exchange meetings had been more focused on the trading cards than food. Everyone, with one notable exception, had offered up at least two men to the trading card list. They’d brought in pictures, supplied the back copy, agreed that all first dates were to be held in very public venues, with the submitter knowing the details and phone numbers involved. Then, Shannon had done mock-ups of the cards, changed them twice until they had a design that worked. The actual printing of the cards hadn’t taken that long, but time had stretched like putty since that day in December. Finally, a month and a half later, here it was. There was actually a chance, remote as it might be, that Bree would find a card that had her dream man on the cover, and all he’d want was a night that would blow the lid off this town.
She didn’t deserve to find Mr. Right Now, though. Because Bree had brought zero men to the table. Zilch. Nada. She knew some single men at the advertising agency, but she’d never gone out with any of them. Not that she hadn’t been asked. But she was planning on moving up in the company as quickly as possible, and didn’t want to make any alliances until she’d