Page 8 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)
SEVEN
M eara stepped out of the sleek town car, sapphire silk rustling around her legs. The gown—borrowed from Noelle’s latest collection—draped like liquid midnight, transforming her usual paint-splattered self into someone who belonged among Manhattan’s glittering elite. A daring slit revealed just enough leg to make her grandmother raise an eyebrow, while the sweetheart neckline showed off the delicate gold necklace Betsy had given her for her last birthday.
“Darling!” Betsy emerged from the car behind her, resplendent in a floral dress that perfectly matched her silver curls. “You’re going to break hearts tonight.”
“Grandma.” Meara offered her arm for support, though Betsy hardly needed it. “I thought this wasn’t about matchmaking?”
“Can’t a grandmother admire how beautiful her granddaughter looks?” Betsy’s eyes sparkled with barely concealed mischief. “Though if you happen to meet someone interesting...”
“The only interesting thing I’m meeting tonight is the appetizer tray.”
“Keep telling yourself that, dear.” Betsy patted her hand. “But I saw at least three eligible bachelors do a double-take just on our walk up the steps.”
Inside, crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors while a string quartet played something classical that probably hadn’t been performed since Marie Antoinette had a head. The scent of roses permeated the air from massive floral arrangements that definitely cost more than Meara’s monthly gallery rent.
“STOP. EVERYTHING.”
The commanding voice cut through the elegant atmosphere. Frenchy Thompson burst through the crowd, a vision in a metallic blazer that rivaled the chandeliers for sparkle. His bow tie featured actual twinkling lights, and what appeared to be an entire jewelry store’s worth of brooches adorned his lapels.
“You!” He grabbed Meara’s shoulders. “You absolute goddess! This dress! This hair! Those legs that go on for days! When did my paint-covered caterpillar become a butterfly?”
“Keep it down.” Meara tried to stop his enthusiastic spinning. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare! I’ve spent months trying to pry you out of those tragic yoga pants. Tonight, we celebrate!” He gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, speaking of celebration—twelve o’clock, walking Adonis in a Tom Ford suit. He hasn’t stopped staring since you walked in.”
Meara refused to look. “My yoga pants aren’t tragic.”
“Honey,” Frenchy fixed her with a look, “they have actual holes from where you wipe your brushes. The left knee is more paint than fabric. It’s a Pinterest fail waiting to happen.”
“Well, well!” A warm voice carried over the crowd. Gerri Wilder approached, silver-white hair gleaming under the chandeliers. Her jewel-toned dress sparkled with each step, and her smile glowed. “Don’t you all look spectacular tonight!”
“Gerri!” Frenchy dropped into an elaborate bow. “Matchmaker extraordinaire! You must help me. I’m drowning in attractive men, and I need professional guidance on how to handle such abundance.”
“Oh, honey.” Gerri patted his cheek. “You’re doing just fine on your own. I’ve never seen someone turn rejection into such a successful dating strategy.”
“But imagine what we could accomplish together! Your matchmaking skills, my devastating charm...”
“The world isn’t ready for that combination.” Gerri winked, then pointed subtly across the room. “Though speaking of devastating charm—Meara, dear, have you noticed the gentleman by the bar? The one who could model for a Greek sculpture museum?”
“Oh!” Betsy perked up. “The one in the navy suit? My goodness.”
“Stop it, both of you.” Meara fought a laugh. “I’m not here to ogle the guests.”
“Then you’re doing it wrong.” Frenchy whipped out his phone. “The professor from Columbia texted. He’s devastated you won’t be his muse, but I assured him I’d console him over dinner next week. Now, about that silver fox in the corner...”
“Your dating pool gets deeper every time I say no.”
“I’m providing a valuable service.” Frenchy preened. “These poor, gorgeous men need someone to appreciate their cheekbones and PhDs.”
“Wait!” Betsy touched Meara’s arm. “What about that handsome one near the windows? He has such nice shoulders.”
“Amateur.” Frenchy scoffed. “If we’re talking shoulders, check out Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Brooding by the champagne fountain. Those deltoids deserve their own ZIP code.”
Meara groaned. “I can’t believe you’re all ganging up on me.”
“We’re simply appreciating the local scenery.” Gerri’s eyes twinkled. “And what lovely scenery it is tonight.”
The crowd had grown thicker, the music louder. Meara touched her temple, fighting a slight headache from the sensory overload of lights, perfumes, and her friends’ matchmaking enthusiasm.
“You look overwhelmed, dear.” Betsy noticed immediately. “Why don’t you get some air? The terrace is lovely.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Gerri pointed toward glass doors that opened onto a spacious balcony. “Much quieter out there. Perfect for...clearing your head.”
Something in Gerri’s tone made Meara suspicious, but the promise of escape proved too tempting. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Take your time.” Betsy’s eyes twinkled.
“And if you see any more handsome prospects out there,” Frenchy called after her, “remember to get their business cards!”
Meara negotiated her way through clusters of laughing guests, carefully holding her skirt away from stiletto-wearing socialites. The terrace beckoned—a peaceful oasis of soft lighting and gentle breezes.
A waiter passed with a tray of champagne. Meara reached for a glass, needing something to occupy her hands. She moved to take a sip?—
And slammed directly into what felt like a wall of solid muscle.
Champagne splashed. Glasses toppled. Strong hands caught her waist as she stumbled in her heels, pulling her instinctively closer. Meara looked up, an apology ready?—
And forgot how to breathe.