7
“OH, COME ON,” Emmy said, hands on her hips, looking disappointed when she should be looking guilty.
Cameron Crawford checked the temperature of the mash for The Four Sisters’ newest summer ale. Eric Strand, the brewery manager, and his crew were attending to the fermentation tanks and Emmy was being a pain in Cameron’s ass, so he ignored her. Until he couldn’t hold on to his temper for another second. “You’re actually surprised I’m upset that you joined some dating cult thing and used my name and picture without my permission? I know you weren’t raised by wolves but only because you’re my sister. What the hell were you thinking?”
Emmy narrowed her eyes. “So I should just tear this card up right now.”
“Yes,” he said. “Please. Do that.”
She laughed. He didn’t care for the sound of it. “You might be a brainiac chemist with a doctorate, little brother, but sometimes you’re as dumb as a box of rocks.”
That made him turn on her. “Really? A box of rocks?”
“Yes. This is a Hot Guys Trading Card,” she said, waving the evidence of her crime as if it were a victory flag. “Although why I ever considered you being a hot guy is anyone’s guess.”
He finished the temperature check, made the notes on the log, then moved on. At least it was cold in the brewery, unlike the rest of Queens. The summers continued to get hotter, which meant their utility bills were out of control, but the heat brought a ton of customers to the brewpub. “Right. Let me get this straight. I’m ugly and stupid and...”
“Selfish.”
He loved his family, he really did, but it was a lot easier when they weren’t living in the same town. All he wanted to do was finish his rounds, then get back to his lab in the back room. “Selfish.”
“You should be glad I’m not moping over my divorce. And there’s no safer way to find a decent man in this city than Hot Guys Trading Cards.”
“Go ahead. Do your trading-card thing all you want. Although, for the record, it doesn’t sound safe. But don’t make me out to be the bad guy just because I’m sick of you and everyone else playing matchmaker.”
“It is safe. Because the men are all direct referrals. Not even friends of friends. You have to know a guy, be related to a guy or work directly with a guy to submit his name. And this has nothing to do with fixing you up. I swear.”
“Right.”
She glared at him. “I wasn’t allowed to choose a card until I’d submitted two of my own.”
“First of all,” he said, after digesting that bit of information, “you should have led with that, but it still doesn’t excuse you from not asking me first.”
“I figured you’d want to help me find someone. And honestly...even though it wasn’t my intention—” holding up her hands, she backed away “—this could end up being good for you, too.”
And there it was again. The big issue. “Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He shook his head. “Emmy, you know how I feel about setups—I don’t like them. I’ll meet the right person when it’s meant to be. It’s all a matter of chemistry, and you can’t manufacture that. I believe in serendipity. Not being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
“It’s not an auction. You get chosen. If you’re lucky. Then she’ll call you and you can find out all about her from me, because if I don’t know her, I’ll at least know some of her friends, and it’s likely we’ll already have talked before she takes out her cell phone, so yes, it’s safe. And there’s nothing that says serendipity can’t happen via a trading card.”
“How many women are we talking about here?”
Emmy raised her I’m so superior eyebrow, making him regret the question. “At the moment, twenty-seven.”
He knew he was going to be sorry, but the prospect of twenty-seven women deserved a little more investigation. “Are they all as old as you?”
“Very funny, you bastard. Keep making comments like that and I really will tear up the card.”
With great self-control, he faced his sister head-on, deciding the quickest way out was to let her have her say. “Fine. What kind of young ladies are they?”
“Single working women. Our group meets near my office, so most of them work in the East Village. And so far, everyone’s been really nice. Mindy—you know, my friend from krav maga—she invited me.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s been to the bar plenty of times, but anyway—” Emmy took a step closer to him. “Wait a minute. She was here last Friday night and you talked to her for, like, twenty minutes. Blonde? Green eyes? Talks like she’s from Jersey?”
“You talk like you’re from Jersey.”
“I do not.”
“Wait, Mindy? I think I remember her now,” he said. “Shorter than you, right?”
