Hot in the City

AS SOON AS Della Clark settled into her first-class seat, flying back to New York City after a month of consulting on a project in San Diego, she pulled out her tablet to check for progress on her online dating accounts.

Yes, accounts—plural.

Statistically speaking, she needed to cast a broad net. Fellow mathematicians had posited that the chances of finding a perfect partner, depending on the variables and location, were about one in two-hundred and eighty-five thousand. Della was pretty sure she hadn’t met that many people in her thirty-three years, and true to the math, very few were at all suitable for her. Well, at this point, the sum was actually zero.

On top of that, census numbers showed that there were far more unattached females than available males in the world, and the older a woman got, the more unlikely she—Della, for instance—would be able to find a man her age, thirty-three, or older. It wasn’t impossible, of course, just nearly so.

Unless you compromised, but Della didn’t want to compromise on love. Or sex. With a few mediocre sexual relationships in her past, she had yet to discover the sex that other women crowed about, the blow-your-mind sort. The kind of sex that made women fall in love with the wrong man—not that she wanted to do that.

Or maybe she did, if only for a while.

People crowded into the plane, but she was oblivious as she studied a few of the suitors’ profiles.

Jamie Reynolds was cute, she thought, pursing her lips and tilting her head to the side as she considered his picture. With attractive, masculine features and a good smile, she clicked onto his bio, feeling hopeful. Her hopes were quickly dashed. Among his interests were guns, hunting, and domination. He’d included some extra profile pictures that showed off his very nice body, but it was decked out in leather, with a picture of him carrying a whip and handcuffs slung off a belt at his waist.

Next.

Garrison Gunther.

Garrison had recently moved to New York from Germany, and he was curator of a small international museum. He was in his fifties, but appeared distinguished and intelligent, with no affection for weapons of any kind, that she could tell. Then she saw the note: Need someone who will love and take care of four young children. He wanted a nanny, not a life partner.

Next.

Unfortunately, she had to ditch the next three, as well. Too young, too political and one ex-con.

Oh well, at least she was getting more responses since she let her stylist put the strawberry highlights in her blond hair, and she’d started wearing some lip color and mascara. But she wasn’t attracting the right kind of guy. Did they think she was desperate because she was a single, mid-thirties mathematician? That she would take any offer that came along?

Well, she had standards. But perhaps she had cast her net a bit too widely—maybe she needed to revise her profile so that it would attract a slightly more refined range of potential mates.

As the flight attendants instructed that all wireless tech be shut down, she closed her tablet with a sigh. Looking up, she watched a handsome guy walking down the aisle to find his seat.

Nice. Why couldn’t someone like him show up on her dating profiles?

Tall, he had to duck slightly as he made his way down the center, a shock of ginger-brown hair falling across his high forehead in a way that made her want to push it back. He reached up to open an overhead compartment and showed off his flat stomach, accentuated by the way his maroon, short-sleeved shirt was tucked into a pair of rugged khakis.

The front of the khakis didn’t escape her notice, either. Strong thighs, slim, straight hips and...well, suffice to say he had—er, was—the whole package.

Then, he was right in front of her as he settled his computer case into the overhead compartment above her. He turned, slid into the aisle seat next to her and smiled. She was looking into caramel-colored—or were they more café au lait?—eyes that were only inches from hers.

It took her about thirty seconds to realize that his gorgeous lips were moving; talking to her.

Hi, looks like I’m your company for this flight.

Good thing she’d learned to read lips when she was a kid. One of her best friends had been deaf, and Della had never lost the skill.

“Yes,” she responded vaguely, still trying to decide on the right adjective for his eye color.

He held his hand out, and she placed hers in his. As his smooth, warm grip closed around hers, she sucked in a breath.

Wow.

Oh heck, had she said that out loud?

“I’m Gabe.”

“Della.”

He nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” she replied, removing her hand as soon as he loosened his.

The flight attendant went through the safety spiel, and Della and her neighbor settled back, belted in, secure in their individual space as they took off. Once at altitude, Della let out a sigh of relief and relaxed.

“Don’t like takeoffs?” Gabe asked.

She managed a smile. “Not much. Or landings.”

“They are the most dangerous parts of the flight, they say.”

“Landings are more so, about twenty-six percent more accidents happen on final approach and landings, though the number of fatalities is the same as in accidents during takeoff and the initial climb. Overall, though, the number of fatalities is below one percent for all flights, so it’s still the safest way to travel,” Della rambled, and then bit her lip, stopping herself.

Yes. This would be the reason she almost never had sex.

But Gabe leaned in, looking interested. “You know a lot about safety statistics.”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I read a lot,” she hedged, taking off her dark-rimmed glasses and putting them in her pocket. She only needed them for reading, anyway. Maybe this was a good time to do some light research in revising her dating profile. Start with losing the glasses.

“So what do you do, Della?”

Next, don’t mention you are a genius mathematician.

“I teach. At Columbia.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Impressive. What subject?”

“Math,” she said quickly, and then pretended to drop something so she could bend down to reach for it, halting the conversation.

When she rose, he was looking at her closely, his eyes narrowed, studying her expression, as if he could see what she was thinking.

Oh, she hoped not.

“What do you do?” she asked brightly, changing the subject as she tried to regain her composure.

He was distracted from answering as the flight attendant approached with the drink cart, at which point Della also surreptitiously noted that Gabe was not wearing any rings.

The attendant also seemed to note that fact as she asked them what they wanted to drink. She made much more eye contact with Gabe than with Della, and when she handed Della her cola, she leaned over enough to give Gabe—and anyone who was looking—a good view down her blouse.

Della had to force herself not to roll her eyes. Though she couldn’t blame the guy if he did look; the attendant was practically shoving her breasts in his face.