A Lucky Break: A Modern Match-Maker Romance Read online

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  A Lucky Break

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Kimberly

  Ryan

  Untitled

  Also by Rocklyn Ryder:

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  Brooke

  Aiden

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Jordan

  Stryker

  About Rocklyn:

  A Lucky Break

  A Modern Match-Maker Romance

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Magpie Press

  Copyright © 2017 Rocklyn Ryder

  All rights reserved worldwide

  No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.

  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.

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  A Lucky Break

  A Modern Match-Maker Romance

  by

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Kimberly

  "Which one?" Kay asks as she holds up two dresses.

  I mumble something that's supposed to sound like "I don't know," around the potato chip covered in ranch dip that I just shoved in my mouth with a cursory glance at her picks before my eyes settle back on the bridal magazine in my lap.

  "Kim! You're supposed to be helping me here," Kay whines-- a little more dramatically than is strictly necessary if you ask me.

  Of course, no one did ask me, and she's right, I'm supposed to be helping.

  With a sigh that I hope doesn't show my lack of interest, I close the magazine and set it aside. I pull the reading glasses off my face and give my friend the full attention she deserves.

  Kay is holding a standard little black dress in her left hand and a hot pepper red number in her right. Both of them are short at the hem and long in the neckline and made of Spandex so, on the hangers, they look like they're about 40 sizes too small for a human being.

  Exactly Kay's style.

  "Don't you have anything less...slutty?" I blurt it out before really thinking about it first.

  I don't mean anything insulting by it, but the girl is expecting to come home with an engagement ring on her finger for crying out loud. She's not headed out to the clubs to drag a stranger home for the night.

  "You don't think this is good?" She pouts a little as she holds the black one up closer to her.

  I know she thinks black is classic, and maybe it is, but I can't help but eye the slit up the thigh of its already micro length and the neckline that's so low there's a ribbon criss-crossing it that probably had to be added for sheer structural integrity, and think there's a difference between "classic" and "classy."

  The dress is hot, that's not the problem, and I'm sure it looks like smooth sin stretched across my bestie's size 2, 5 foot 8 inch, 34 double D frame.

  Not that I'm jealous, mind you.

  OK, maybe a little bit.

  I shake my head slowly back and forth and try not to laugh at how disappointed she looks.

  "This is why I need you here," she exchanges the pout for a bright grin in a millisecond, drops both dresses on the bed and shuffles through her closet some more, "I have no idea how to dress like a plain Jane."

  I slide my glasses back on my face and reach for another one of the bridal magazines from the stack next to me, choosing to ignore any possible negative interpretation of her flippant comment.

  Kay and I have been friends for years. I know she wasn't trying to insult me. In fact, in her own Kay way, that ego-crushing comment was a compliment.

  "Where's the dress you wore to the office party last year?" I ask.

  It was a nice dress, still a little revealing but then, a potato sack would look revealing wrapped around Kay's bod, but it looked more Victoria's Secret and less Playboy photo shoot.

  "I sold it," Kay tells her closet as I watch her hand sliding hangers along the pole, "it really wasn't me."

  "Here, let me look." My glasses land on top of the magazine that I drop back on Kay's vanity as I get out of my chair and push her to the side so I can rifle through her closet. "I know you have something in here," I tease, "you have to wear something when you visit your grandmother."

  It's payback for the "plain Jane" comment and I get a pained groan that curls my lips into a triumphant grin as I hear Kay flop backwards onto her bed behind me.

  A glimpse of dark blue catches my eye and I pull out what appears to be a brand new dress.

  "What about this one?" I turn and hold it up so Kay can see what I'm talking about.

  "Ugh," she props herself up on her elbows and rolls her eyes, "really?"

  "Yeah, really," I toss the dress down on top of her, "you wanted me to help you pick out something classy," I tell her, "but you don't like anything I suggest."

  I give up. It's a half-hearted tantrum, but then, it's been a half-hearted attempt at helping her. I'm just not that invested in her dilemma.

  Stomping across the room I fall back into the chair I was sitting in with the kind of drama that Kay appreciates.

  "Wear one of your stripper dresses, Kay," I tell her, picking up the stack of magazines and making a point not to look at her, "he doesn't give a fuck what you wear as long his ring is part of the ensemble."

  "So you really think this one, huh?" Kay's up and standing in front of her mirror, holding the dress I threw at her like she's never seen it before.

  It's a nice dress, some sort of satiny stuff that reflects the light in a much brighter shade of bluish purple than the nearly midnight navy it appears to be. It's still fitted, but it's nicely tailored with clean lines and a hemline that'll hit her just above the knee as opposed to just below the vaj.

  It says "gallery opening," not "pole dancing amateur night."

  Not that Brent cares.

  Kay's boyfriend-- soon to be fiance-- has been smitten with her since day one. Normally, I'd say "who could blame him" because, of course, every guy is smitten with Kay from the moment they see her.

  Brent, however, didn't see Kay before he met her. They met through a service, some sort of match maker that specializes in modern day arranged marriages.

  Kay found it because she was sick of guys who were only into her for her looks. Not that she tries hard to hide her looks, but then if I looked like Kay, you'd have to pay me to keep my clothes on.

  They knew they were getting married before they even met.

  Tonight is just Brent's
way of making it official.

  Keeping my eyes down so Kay can't tell I'm watching her through the mirrored closet doors, I thumb through the pages of yet another bridal magazine and stifle a sigh.

  My bestie might try my patience sometimes, but she is my best friend. And I'm happy for her.

  Really.

  Like, really really happy for her.

  "Maybe with those silver shoes?" I hear her musing mostly to herself.

  OK, I'd go with the nude pumps that I know she has stashed in the back corner of her shoe rack, but I have to let Kay be Kay. The silver heels will go with the dress well enough, I guess. At least she won't look like a hooker when every eye in the place is watching Brent slide a rock the size of Gibraltar onto her finger later tonight.

  Not that I'm jealous, mind you.

  I flip the page in the magazine and and feel my nose twitch with the effort not to tear up just a little as I look at the gorgeous dress on the stunning model in the ad under my fingers.

  Nope. Not jealous. Just happy for my friend.

  I swear.

  Ryan

  "What do you have to do now?" I ask my buddy as he waves off the waitress's offer to bring him another beer while he pulls his keys out of his pocket and throws a couple of bills on the table between us.

  "Cake," he says with a grin.

  "Huh?"

  The man has been a grinning idiot since back in September. Frankly, I'm getting sick of his shit.

  "Cake, man," Brent claps me on the shoulder as he takes a step closer to leaving, "we gotta go taste cake samples and decide what we want."

  I shake my head, "Fucking whipped, dude," I mutter into the pint glass the waitress sets down in front of me.

  Brent chuckles-- fucking chuckles! Like some 1960's television dad or some shit-- and I swear the bastard's just lucky that I've had a couple of beers with lunch or I'd deck him right here.

  "And loving it, man," he tells me...again...sounding so fucking happy about it that I want to puke. "You wait, man, your day is coming."

  I shake my head again. I've been shaking my head for almost a damn year now, ever since he dragged me into the jewelry store to pick out a ring like some love sick, pussy-whipped chump.

  His hand lands hard on my shoulder again with another fucking chuckle, "One of these days, dude," he says, like it's a fucking premonition. "One of these days, you're gonna meet some chick and you're gonna fall for her so hard you're gonna make me look like I went down fighting."

  Brent and I have been buddies since elementary school, it's not like I'm going to bail out on being his best man or anything, but shit! Watching him mooning over his fiance like she invented air or some shit is getting harder by the minute.

  "Whatever, man," I grab his hand and throw it off my shoulder, "go eat your fucking cake."

  When he's gone and I can sit here drinking my beer in peace, I pull my phone out of my pocket and open up the messages from the latest dating app I signed up for.

  All this wedding shit must be getting to me, I think as I scroll through another round of unimaginative greetings from women that all look like they've been ridden hard and put away wet.

  Deleting the messages without replying to any of them, I slip the phone back in my pocket and stare across the dining room of our local brew pub at a couple sharing lunch at one of the booths.

  They're an older couple, maybe in their 50s or so. They're both wearing rings and there's a feel to them that makes me think they're actually married to each other. The woman says something and the man laughs. They're holding hands across the table and when she pulls her hand away to take hold of her fork, he looks like he doesn't want to let go.

  I drain my pint and stare at the empty glass, deciding whether or not I should have her bring me one more round.

  Shit like the couple across the room has been more and more noticeable lately and I blame Brent and his damn wedding planning.

  Lately it seems like everyone around me is in a relationship-- and happy about it. Not like it used to be, either, not just happy to be getting laid without the drama. Everyone's getting hitched.

  My buddies are buying rings that cost more than our first cars-- OK, more than the car some of them are still driving.

  They're getting pre-approved for mortgages and saving for down payments on houses and shit.

  Some of the guys even have kids already.

  It's not like I gotta do all the same shit my buddies are doing. I'm cool being the last man standing in our circle. At least I won't have to share the stripper at the bachelor party.

  I just...I glance at the older couple again and then back at my phone with a frown...it's just that it'd be kinda nice to meet someone, you know?

  A girl that I can stand to talk to for longer than it takes to get in her pants. A girl I want to keep around after I've gotten into her pants, one that I'd like to have stick around. Forever.

  I don't acknowledge that thought as I close out the bill and slide my phone back in my pocket.

  That kind of thinking is crazy and it's only going to get me in trouble.

  Sure, it'd be great to find a woman I could fall in love with. Someone that I could settle down with, start a family and build a life with.

  She could decorate the house so it doesn't look like a dorm room, and we could do the dishes together after the kids go to bed and talk about real shit and stuff...she could talk to my mom when she calls so I don't have to.

  And fuck! Mom would love it. She'd get some grand kids and me and the missus could go out of town and stay in a nice hotel and...

  This time I shake my head hard, trying to clear out the crazy that's running through it.

  A wife. I laugh to myself as I leave the pub. Me. Married, making babies,and planning family vacations. The guys would have a field day if they knew I was thinking about that shit.

  I'm not looking to play the prince in some chick's fairy tale.

  I'm pushing 30 and I haven't come across a girl yet that I'd be willing to get shackled to for the long haul.

  Where do you even find a wife, anyway? Like, if you were really looking? If you'd made up your mind that what you really wanted was a solid relationship, with a woman you could trust with your life? your money? all your shit? your heart?

  I've seen what happens when a guy goes all in too soon. Jake married his high school sweetheart right after graduation and look where that got him-- divorced with a couple of kids that he doesn't get to spend enough time with now that his ex got remarried and moved away.

  Fuck that shit, man.

  If you go into every first date hoping to find your fucking happily ever after, you miss all the warning signs that she's a gold digger or a cheater or just fucking batshit crazy.

  Standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change at the cross walk, I watch a couple about my age on the opposite corner. They're holding hands and she headbutts his shoulder. He allows the force of her hit to knock him sideways and laughs before turning to kiss her.

  I know that couple. Not personally, mind you, but they're down here every week at this time, meeting up to have lunch together.

  Must be nice to have someone like that. Someone that you want to spend your time with, someone you'd go out of your way to hang out with even when you've been together for fucking ever.

  Like Brent and Kay are going to be. I know it. They only dated for a few months before he popped the question, but then, they met through some website agency thing that's all about arranging marriages so they knew what they were getting into from the beginning.

  I knew Brent was going to go through with it the first time I saw him and Kay together.

  Sure, a lot of guys think Brent scored cuz his girl looks like a swim suit model but that's not why he's stupid for her. They caught one hell of a lucky break when they signed up for that dating service.

  Some people are just made for each other and it's a damn miracle when they manage to find each other by chance-- I don't blame my buddy for hir
ing someone to help him out.

  If I thought the lady who set him up with Kay could do half as good a job finding a woman for me, I'd give her my credit card number right now.

  As the I pass the couple from the other corner in the cross walk, I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit call on Brent's number--

  "Yeah man, how's your fucking cake?...Cool. Yeah, I was just wondering who that chick was you met Kay through?"

  Kimberly

  Almost a year of helping Kay with her wedding planning is killing me. There's no way I could have gone on for 8 more months without exploding.

  They got engaged in less than 3 months, why they're taking a year and a half to plan the wedding is beyond me!

  OK. That's not true.

  "Calm, down, Kim," I tell my reflection in a warning tone while I shake my hands to calm my nerves. "You're just deflecting because you're nervous," my reflection replies-- like it's any calmer than I am.

  I'm supposed to be getting ready for a date. My first date. With my fiance...sorta. Instead, I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, getting a pep talk from my own reflection while I try to avoid a melt down. Like a literal melt down. If I don't get myself under control, I am absolutely convinced that there's not going to be anything left of Kimberly but a puddle on the floor after my brain short circuits.

  It didn't take Kay long to figure me out after she and Brent got engaged.

  It's true, I was pretty jealous.

  I've been planning my wedding since I was 9. I have a hope chest in my closet filled with color swatches and magazine articles that I started collecting in the 6th grade. I know what dress I want, I know what h'orderves I'm going to serve, I even know what music I'll play.

  Helping Kay plan her own big day finally got to me, I guess.

  I just want my own turn.

  Oh crap!

  That just reminded me.

  It might be my turn soon.