Sweet Dreams (Vegas Dreams Book 1) Read online

  He looked at Veronica. “Are your legs tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind all day long, baby.”

  My mouth gaped open.

  Veronica placed both hands on her hips. “Not. Interested. Not now. Not ever. Got it?”

  He scratched the back of his head and stood there for a moment, confused.

  “I said I wasn’t interested,” she repeated. “Go away.”

  He turned.

  “And by the way,” Veronica added after the guy called her a foul name under his breath, “maybe you should try a strip club. Divvying out singles to a woman in a G-string seems more your style.”

  I couldn’t help it. I clasped a hand over my mouth, but it wasn’t enough to contain my laughter.

  Shot down, the guy hopped into a dented, old Ford, slammed the door, and peeled out of the parking lot.

  “I bet that kind of thing happens to you a lot,” I said. “You looked like you were prepared as soon as you saw him.”

  “Sadly, his pick-up line isn’t even close to the worst I’ve received. I rode a subway once and a guy said, ‘I’m looking for buried treasure. Can I search you?’”

  I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

  “That’s the problem with most guys and girls these days. They’re selfish. Full of themselves. They think it’s all about them. It isn’t.”

  Finally, someone who felt the same way I did. “I’m starting to figure that out—the hard way.”

  “I can help if you’re interested.”

  “Are you a therapist?” I said.

  “In a way.”

  “What kind—relationship?”

  She grinned, a wide, secretive kind of grin. “Among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “I’m not really a therapist. I own a matchmaking service.”

  “A dating site?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a private service.”

  “If it’s private, how do men and women find each other?”

  “I match them up.”

  “Through a personality profile or questionnaire or ...?”

  “Nothing like that. My specialty is helping women take back control of their dating lives. I give you the tools. From there, it’s up to you to find the right man.”

  “How?”

  “Most women looking for lasting relationships have similar desires in what they’re looking for in an ideal mate. Yet, time and time again, they fall for the wrong guy instead of the right one. I used to be a therapist. I mainly catered to women and spent my days hearing the same problems over and over again.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Lack of confidence, and either dating or being married to the wrong guy instead of the right one. I help by doing what I just said before. I coach women to step out of their familiar routines and embrace who they really are and what they want most in life. Then I help them achieve it.”

  She pulled a business card from her bag and held it out for me to take. I did.

  “So, how does this work if I want to hire you?” I asked.

  “Easy. You just schedule an appointment.”

  “And then?”

  “The initial visit will take place at your residence.”

  “My residence? Don’t you have an office?”

  “The way I work is up close and personal. This way I get to see who you are and how you live and how I can help you the most.”

  I explained I lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment and I’d rather meet at her office. She said if I wanted her help, she’d have to start at my house. No exceptions.

  I could hardly wait.

  At seven p.m. a few days later, Veronica arrived at my home wearing an above-the-knee, black, spaghetti-strap dress and four-inch, peep-toe heels that had two metal studs poking out the back. My first thought was whether the studs served a purpose other than being there for looks, but on second thought, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Her blond locks were curled in such a way that when she walked past me, they bounced up and down in perfect harmony, like a woman running along the beach in a shampoo commercial.

  Before I could even get the front door closed, she’d started a self-guided tour of my humble abode, checking out every nook and cranny before sitting on the edge of the couch. I sat across from her, nervous and excited at the same time.

  “Why do you think sometimes the plainer-looking girls seem so content in their relationships while the pretty girls seem so unhappy?” she asked.

  I was confused.

  Was she saying I was plain or pretty?

  Or had the question been a hypothetical one?

  “You’re not plain, if you’re thinking that’s what I meant,” she’d said. “You’re pretty, under all that ... what you’ve got going on there.”

  I thought about a couple I’d seen recently in the grocery store, strolling down the aisle, oblivious to everyone around them. The man, a three to four in the looks department, noticed nothing around him but the woman pushing the cart beside him. The woman was also a four in her natural state, but easily had the ability to increase her score to a solid seven if she applied the right makeup. He playfully walked behind her, softly blowing into her ear whenever she wasn’t looking. “Stop it,” she’d said. “Not here, Ron.” I skulked along next to them, trying not to let the color of my envy show. Her mouth may have pleaded for him to stop, but not her eyes. Her eyes soaked it in, enjoying every moment of it, hoping for more.

  I looked at Veronica. “I don’t know why certain girls are luckier than others. I’ve never been able to figure out how some relationships last while others don’t when the girl hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “See that’s where you have it all skewed. It’s not about right or wrong.”

  “What’s it about then?”

  “Not falling for the type of same type of guy over and over who broke your heart before and does it again.”

  “And your saying the plain girl has this all figured out?”

  “She attracts the right guy in the first place. The nice guy. The loyal guy. She gets him and keeps him because she knows who she is. She’s content with who she is. She attracts the kind of guy who prefers a strong, confident woman with a brain and turns down the opposite, even if they’re better looking. When this woman marries, she almost always mates for life. This kind of woman almost never suffers a heartbreaking divorce and is rarely cheated on.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not attracting the right guy for me?”

  “What’s your goal? What are you trying to achieve with a man? I believe I already know, but just to be sure, I want to hear you say it.”

  “At this point, my goal is simply to find someone who’s honest. A guy who’s faithful. I’m beginning to think I’m asking for the impossible.”

  “And if you find a man like this, what then?” she asked. “What’s your goal in a relationship?”

  “To get married one day?”

  “Is that a question or a statement?” she asked.

  “It’s what I want.”

  “You want to get married. Good. Now own it.”

  Own it? Was she expecting me to say it aloud?

  “Go ahead, Rae,” she prodded. “Own it.”

  Apparently so.

  “All right, I want to get married. Not right now, but one day.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “I want a man who will make me happy long-term, not someone who dazzles and amazes at the onset, then over time leaves me feeling empty and unfulfilled. I’ve seen enough of this behavior in my friends’ relationships. I’d rather be alone than suffer like they have.”

  “Good. We have a place to start,” she said. “Now stand up.”

  “What?”

  “Do it.”

  I did.

  She eyeballed the top of my head like it offended her. “What the hell have you got in your hair?”

  “What ... this?” I pointed to the black band securing my bun in place. “It�
�s a scunci.”

  “Take it out.”

  “Now?”

  She sighed.

  I pulled the elastic free, allowing my hair to cascade over my shoulders.

  She reached out, fluffing my locks with her fingers. “How often do you wear your hair back in a bun like that?”

  “Most days, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I’m in a hurry to get to the office, and it’s easy.”

  “You mean lazy,” she said. “You should wear it down more often. You have lustrous, radiant hair. You should show it off.”

  “I wouldn’t even know how to—”

  “I’ll show you how to style it. Do you ever wear makeup?”

  “Not really.”

  “You should. You have a beautiful complexion. We just need to enhance it.” She squinted. “I’m trying to think of who you remind me of. Turn around.”

  I turned.

  “We’ve covered the hair. Now let’s cover the clothes.”

  “My clothes?”

  She nodded. “The clothes have to go.”

  I scrutinized my pebbly, blue sweater and boot-cut jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Nothing ... if the vibe you’re trying to send is dull librarian.”

  I gave myself a once over. It didn’t seem that bad. “You really think so?”

  “Sweetie, your current look is like opening a box of crayons and finding it filled with the same dull shade of blue. It doesn’t really matter which of the twenty-four colors a man plucks from the box; in the end, he knows they’re all the same. Certain kinds of guys want this. They know just by looking at you that you’re submissive, weak. They’ll break you once they’re finished and snatch another girl from the carton.”

  “What kind of guy is that?”

  “Probably most of your past boyfriends. They’re not the relationship or marrying kind.”

  “What should my look say?”

  “It shouldn’t say, it should do,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever you want. In a sea of blue, you want to be red or gold or pink. Vibrant. Unique. The color that pops when it enters the room.”

  The more the words of wisdom she spoke, the more perplexed and intrigued I became. “An outfit can do all that?”

  “The right one can. You’re a size five at most, and yet your clothes give you the appearance of a seven or eight. Lose the boot-cuts and go with something fitted. Skinny jeans paired with boots or heels.” She lifted my sweater, inspecting my waist. “You have excellent hips, a tight ass, and solid thighs. The baggy sweater needs to go as well. You’re, what, a C cup?”

  “Almost. I’m more of a B plus.”

  “Good. Let’s show that off too. A little cleavage goes a long way.” She circled around me. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

  “I think I’m available. Why?”

  “First things first. We need to do a little shopping. You have to prime the engine before you can get it serviced. To get what you want, you have to brand yourself. The way you dress, the way you smell, the way you walk, what you say—all of it matters. Got it?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. A few words out of your mouth and a guy knows the sort of woman you are—weak or strong, normal or crazy, full of yourself or down to earth. You get the idea.”

  “Okay. I think I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Moving on—let’s talk about your place.”

  I glanced around. “My place? What’s wrong with it?”

  She picked up a plastic flower centerpiece off a shelf. “Uhh, 1995 wants its artificial flowers back. Pink is cute, but unless it’s a piece of skin-tight lingerie, it’s not sexy. You want your place to look and feel like you, tell a story about who you are without using a single word. The walls aren’t even painted.”

  Her words felt like insults, but the more I looked at my existing décor, I realized she was right. Pink. Way too much pink. I was living in a teenager’s dream house. “I want to show you something,” I said. I walked to the kitchen and opened a drawer, pulling out a magazine. I took it back to the living room and plopped it down on her lap, opening it to a section of dog-eared pages. “This is how I’d like to decorate someday.”

  She scanned the pages methodically, taking it all in. “This is fabulous. Why someday? What are you waiting for? Why aren’t you doing this now?”

  I sat, crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t know. I just haven’t invested the time, I guess. I want to sell this place first and get into something different. It takes money.”

  “You’re the broker of one of the most successful real estate offices in the city. You can manage it, and you can afford it. You’re making excuses.”

  In her few short hours, she’d done her homework. I wondered what else she knew about me.

  “Keira Knightley,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That’s who you remind me of, except you have darker hair.”

  I looped a finger around my average locks, inspecting my split ends. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Honey,” she said, her head cocked to the side, “once we work on your confidence, you’ll see it too. Trust me. No more hair buns unless you’re taking a yoga class. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  She flipped the page. “What you’re showing me in this magazine is something completely different than what you currently have. The deep browns and rich reds ... it’s perfect. Men will feel comfortable in this type of environment. Comfort equals relaxation, and relaxation leads to everything.”

  Finally, something she liked. I savored the moment. It was short-lived.

  “Take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.”

  I breathed in. “Nothing.”

  “This house has a specific odor. It’s very strong. Maybe from something you spray on yourself on a regular basis?”

  “Oh, that’s Baby Mine,” I said.

  “Baby what?”

  “My perfume,” I said.

  I went to the bedroom and brought it out, handing it to her. She shoved it into her purse without even taking a whiff.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “This perfume, if you can call it that, reminds me of something you’d smell at a child’s birthday party. You’re trying to attract an adult male, not a pimply teenager.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never really thought about any of this before.”

  “Lesson one: never say you’re sorry. Women do this too often and for no reason. You haven’t done anything wrong here. You’re learning, and learning is everything. Speaking of that, I want you to consider everything we’ve just talked about. The goal here is to create an environment that you love and are comfortable in. It’s time for you to be the woman you’ve always wanted to be.”

  “I think I got it,” I said. “New clothes, new place, new attitude.”

  She smiled. “This journey is about finding yourself, loving yourself, and attracting the right person. Are you ready?”

  I nodded.

  She passed the magazine back to me. “Well then, tomorrow we’ll get started.”

  In the beginning, after the new clothes, new perfume, and the time spent working on myself, dating was awkward at best. Dressed in clothes I loved but wasn’t used to wearing proved more than a little difficult. The new-and-improved me still had one thing to work on: confidence. Veronica had decided to test that confidence by suggesting I ease into things via online dating. In her opinion, I needed to learn how to separate the angels from the asses, the studs from the mama’s boys. I was fluent in finding the wrong guy; it was not choosing them that proved to be difficult.

  “But he’s so cute,” I pleaded. “And we haven’t even gone out yet. How do you know he’s not right for me?”

  Veronica hovered over the computer monitor, scrutinizing Hot4You’s photos. “Trust me. Not for you. This guy’s not hot for you; he’s hot for himself. Five of
his seven photos are shirtless gym selfies where he’s flexing.”

  I rested both elbows on the desk in front of me and sighed. “I give up. This is the seventh guy I’ve picked that you’ve rejected. Who would you choose?”

  She typed in the screen name WhyNot. Up popped a guy with blond, shaggy hair, glasses, and a crooked nose. He looked like Owen Wilson, but taller. In his main photo, his brown-and-white-striped polo shirt didn’t match his black cargo pants. “Umm ...”

  “What is it? What’s bothering you?” Veronica asked.

  “He’s mixed a brown belt with black slacks for starters. And why wear those hideous, rimmed eyeglasses when he could be wearing contacts?”

  “I appreciate the fashion sense. You’re learning. But is that all you see?”

  I bobbed my shoulders up and down. “Yeah.”

  “So you don’t care that he took the time to write a couple paragraphs here, where he says he owns his own house and his own business and that one night a week he spends time with his sister’s kids? Look past the glasses. Look past the clothes.”

  “But you just had me donate half my closet to Goodwill and buy an entirely new wardrobe. I thought clothes were important?”

  “They are. This guy probably isn’t your forever, but he’s a great starter.”

  “A what?”

  She pressed a finger to the screen. “It says right here he’s not looking for a relationship. He’s looking for friends. He’s perfect.”

  “Perfect? Why?”

  “You’re not looking for a relationship either.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said. “Not yet.”

  “But what about—”

  “Sex? Not going to happen for the next three months. Sorry. This is phase one. You need to master the kind of guy who’s right for you. That will take your head and your heart.”

  I opened my mouth to object. She lifted her pointer finger, silencing me. “The first thing you’re going to do is get to know a few guys who aren’t just looking to get you into the bedroom. Have you ever spent time with a single guy without having sex? Not a guy you’re just friends with—a guy you’re interested in who’s also interested in you.”