by Eliza Watson
“Well, would you?” He set the card face down on the table. Let her wonder if he was posing the question.
“Great answer,” Lucy said.
“So where are we going?” he asked Cassidy.
“Gee, I don’t know,” she joked, yet she looked intrigued by the prospect of a date.
Their first date? Where would he take Cassidy if they went on an actual “date”? His dates usually involved attending work or charity-related functions. He wouldn’t take Cassidy to some event with hundreds of people. No, he wanted it to be somewhere…intimate.
“We should get together,” he said. “I have some details I’d like to discuss.” Ideas she’d inspired about kids’ baseball events, not about his wedding.
Her eyes widened with surprise. “You actually want to seriously talk?”
“Dinner at my place. Chicken cordon bleu is my specialty.” However, the thought of having her stay for breakfast and making French toast was more enticing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryan was psyched to share his ideas for the kids’ baseball events with Cassidy. Like having Hall of Fame players crash Little League practices and play ball with the kids and hand out their player throwback jerseys. They could knock on kids’ doors and ask them to play catch. He could just picture the surprised looks on their faces and hear their squeals of excitement. He couldn’t recall the last time his ideas flowed more freely than Cornwell beer on the Fourth of July weekend.
The doorbell rang. Cassidy.
Heart thumping, he stuck the chicken breasts in the oven. On his way through the living room, he turned on a Sinatra tune. He opened the door to find Cassidy standing there in a short, black dress. Nothing fancy. Just a plain, cotton, sleeveless dress that about made his heart stop.
She smiled. “Ah, can I come in?”
He stepped aside. “Yeah, of course.” Get a grip.
She sniffed the air. “Mmm. Smells good.”
“My mom used to make chicken cordon bleu. It’s my aunt’s recipe but tastes exactly how I remember it.”
Curiosity filled her green eyes. “Your mom was a good cook?”
“The best. Well, don’t tell Fiona that.”
She laughed. “It’s our secret.”
The word secret caused them both to pause, an awkward silence filling the air. Too bad they didn’t share more secrets with each other than they kept.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“Sounds great.”
He went to the kitchen and poured the open cabernet sitting on the counter breathing. He returned and handed her a glass. They each took a sip, their gazes locking over the top of their glasses. She glanced over at the pictures on his walls. She seemed drawn to the one of his family’s villa in France.
“So you inherited your mother’s cooking skills?”
“This is the only dish I make besides a mean steak.”
“What else did she make for Christmas Eve dinner?” she asked, still mesmerized by the picture.
“A dessert spread you wouldn’t believe. Thirteen different ones.” He could picture them displayed on the lace tablecloth covering the scarred wooden table. “A Bûche de Noël. It’s a roll of light sponge cake, covered in chocolate, textured to resemble bark, like the ancient tradition of burning the Yule log.”
Her dreamy expression faded into a serious look. She glanced away from the picture and over at him. “Maybe that should be your wedding cake.”
How the hell had they just gone from discussing fond family memories to his bogus wedding?
“Villa Luna could perfectly resemble a festive French villa at Christmas. Reminiscent of your family home.”
“Ah, yeah, something to think about.” No way in hell was he sharing intimate holiday family memories with some woman he didn’t plan to stay married to.
Yet, he’d been sharing them with Cassidy.
“Been thinking about the fantasy baseball camp you mentioned at the game the other day. I came up with ideas for some other events. Wondering what you think.”
He shared his proposal while she smiled enthusiastically, prompting him to brainstorm several more ideas on the fly.
“Those are great,” she said.
“Several of the players still live in the area. I think they’d get on board.”
He was acting like a kid himself, unable to rein in his excitement. Thanks to Cassidy, he had a goal. One that he was passionate about, that he wouldn’t just go through the motions to achieve like most other things in his life. Their gazes locked as the blood raced through his veins. He was passionate about more than the baseball ideas. He stared deep into her green eyes, his heart thumping wildly, like he was preparing to bungee jump off the top of the Eiffel Tower.
“You should contact Erica Turner,” she said.
His head snapped back, thrown by her comment. “Erica Turner?”
“You guys could collaborate. She could give you names of sick children or ones who recently recovered from an illness, and players could go to their homes. With the parents’ permission of course.”
He nodded faintly. “Ah, sure. That’s a great idea.” Except it included Erica Turner rather than Cassidy. Was she still pissed about him trying to pay her off? He’d thought she’d gotten over it.
Apparently not.
* * *
Cassidy had come way too close to forgetting that this was a business dinner, not a personal one. Like mere inches from Ryan’s lips too close.
The stove buzzer pierced the air, startling them both.
“Have a seat. I’ll get dinner.”
He headed to the kitchen, and she inhaled a deep, calming breath and slowly eased it out. She took another calming breath followed by a huge gulp of wine.
Erica Turner was a perfect match for Ryan. Not her. She repeated that as she sat in the cream-colored upholstered dining chair. Ryan returned carrying two black dinner plates bordered with a teal-colored design. She inhaled the scent of the seasoned chicken breast covered in a white creamy sauce and cheesy French gratin potatoes.
“This looks incredible.”
He smiled proudly. “Thanks.”
She sliced the breast in half and cheese oozed from the center. She slipped a piece in her mouth and let out a soft moan. “Delicious.” She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a homemade meal. And a man had definitely never cooked for her.
“You know, chicken cordon bleu isn’t actually French in origin. Just the name. Means blue ribbon.”
She pointed her fork at the dish. “This could definitely win a blue ribbon.”
He smiled, gazing deep into her eyes. Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight” was playing. Heart racing, she finally dragged her gaze from his and focused on the chicken. She swallowed hard.
“So, I’m planning to include all of your mother’s Christmas Eve dishes at your wedding’s dinner. Are there any others besides what you’ve mentioned?’
Ryan’s smiled faded, and he set down his wineglass, appearing to regret mentioning any of the dishes.
This was going to be a very long dinner.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday morning, the staff, Alex, and Cassidy watched the candidates’ videos in an all-day marathon at the mansion. Ryan was banned from seeing them, so she had a valid excuse for avoiding him. By 6:00 p.m., Cassidy sat slouched on the couch, staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Her near-comatose state was a result of the case of Guinness in Fiona’s Irish stew and the fact that they were on video number forty-five, with five videos to go.
The woman in the current video smiled seductively, flipping her long, red hair behind her shoulder. “I believe in love at first sight,” she said in a breathy voice, a la Marilyn Monroe. She wore a pink spandex shirt without a bra. “I fell in love with Ryan the first time I saw him in the commercial—”
The television screen went black. “Bloody floozy,” Fiona said, shaking the remote at the screen. “Won’t have me Ryan marrying some floozy.”
“Soft porn is what that is.” Charlotte fanned her flushed cheeks with a dryer sheet.
“Certainly is,” Charlie muttered, gaze still glued to the TV. “We really should watch the rest just to be fair.” He reached for the remote, but Fiona beat him to it.
“Sí.” Hector nodded, grinning earnestly. “Just to be fair.”
“Stop acting like a bunch of horny teenagers,” Fiona commanded. “We’re trying to find Ryan a woman for a lifetime, not a nighttime.”
“You have to look past a woman’s appearance and into her soul.” Charlotte placed a hand to her chest. “We want to find Ryan’s soul mate.”
“Saw pretty much everything but her soul,” Alex said.
“We really aren’t doing too badly,” Cassidy said. “We’ve found four great candidates.”
“Hmph,” Fiona grunted. “Only recall seeing one, if that.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I didn’t like her.”
“Maybe we’re being too hard on these women,” Alex said.
He collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. His wrinkled khakis and yellow polo were a testament to a long day’s work. He took a swig from his bottle of Cornwell beer. He’d broken out the alcohol around video number thirty, as frustrated as Cassidy over the staff’s nitpicky attitudes. Granted, they wanted what was best for Ryan, but they were faulting women over minor things like wearing chartreuse—a color Ryan despised.
“Gotta be hard on them, we do,” Fiona said. “Want to find the perfect woman. It takes time to build castles. Rome was not built in a day.”
“Well, we better get building. We have to choose ten finalists by tomorrow night.” Cassidy gazed lovingly down at Barley asleep on her lap, stroking his bare belly, which was healing nicely. He’d lost interest by the third video.
“Gonna take a helluva woman to be good enough for Ryan.” Charlie slid back his chauffeur’s cap and scratched the tuft of hair on top of his head.
She had to make him want to marry for love, not money. Charlie was right. That would take a helluva woman.
“Maybe some of these women just don’t come across well on video,” Alex said.
“Like the one who wanted to go to Hawaii when she got herself a passport?” Fiona asked. “Hawaii is part of the United States, it is, not some foreign country. Daft woman.”
“Her interview wasn’t live. Why didn’t she retape it?” Charlotte mused, smoothing a finger over the curlicue at her temple.
“What about the sales director for that car company?” Alex took another drink of beer.
Charlie shook his head. “She talked a mile a minute, couldn’t understand a blasted thing she was saying.”
“She displayed a lot of energy and enthusiasm,” Cassidy said.
“And plenty of skin,” Fiona added. “Her dress was more than a bit too tight.”
This from a woman who was mere ounces shy of splitting the seams of her purple capris and gold knit blouse.
Alex eyed his beer bottle, undoubtedly debating whether to slam the contents or crack himself alongside the head with it and put himself out of his misery. He glanced over at her, and they exchanged frustrated glances.
“Let’s continue.” Alex took the remote from Fiona and hit play. “This is Erica Turner.”
Cassidy’s stomach tightened. Had Ryan contacted her yet about his baseball ideas?
Erica’s magenta-colored dress made a great first impression. It was a flattering color on her, and the high neckline contained her breasts. She looked natural, not as if she was posing for a camera, putting on an act. She had short, dark hair, honest blue eyes, and a genuine smile. The girl next door, down-to-earth and personable. She’d put herself through business school and studied art history in Paris for a semester. She was driven. Her twenties were spent focusing on her career rather than finding Mr. Right. Now that she’d found herself, she’d like to share her life with a mate…
The video ended, and they stared at the screen in silence. The staff was undoubtedly searching for a flaw.
“Perfect.” Alex slammed his beer bottle on the table, a victorious grin on his face.
Fiona shrugged. “She’s not so bad.”
The others reluctantly agreed.
She’d been secretly hoping the staff would think the woman was all wrong for Ryan. Instead they’d confirmed what she already knew. Erica was everything Cassidy was looking for in a fiancée. A perfect match for Ryan. She should be ecstatic.
But she wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cassidy spent the next three days rewatching twenty videos, selecting ten finalists, preparing interview questions for them, and avoiding Ryan. Of the ten finalists, nine of the women were flown in and put up at a downtown hotel. Erica Turner was local. Another point in her favor. They were on interview number nine and had zero candidates. The staff was even more critical of the women in person than when reviewing the videos.
A few of their objections were valid. Like the woman who’d removed Hops from her lap and then spent the entire interview picking fur from her skirt. She’d apparently lied on her application about being a cat lover. And then there was the woman who recently ended her engagement and had an emotional breakdown when asked why she was ready to settle down and marry.
Cassidy’s temples throbbed to the point of making her stomach queasy. It was dinnertime, and they all sat around the large mahogany dining room table with Natalie, the chatterbox from the video. The candidate wore a red dress with gold buttons, and her brown hair was pulled back in a twist. She looked great until she opened her mouth, speaking even faster in person.
Everyone stared at her in grim fascination. Charlie appeared on the verge of a heart attack, his breathing erratic, his hollow cheeks deflating as he sucked in some serious air. He focused on her mouth, as if reading her lips would help him comprehend what she was saying.
“I definitely want kids. I loooove kids, unlike my sister Barb, who had two abortions, although it was a good thing she didn’t bring kids into this world, since her husband turned out to be a total deadbeat, and that marriage didn’t last more than a year.” She paused for a quick breather, and everyone joined her in unison. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m antidivorce—my parents divorced when I was very young, but that wasn’t my mother’s fault; she had no choice after she discovered my father had a girlfriend…”
This woman was revealing every skeleton in her family’s closet without even being asked. She’d sing like a canary if ever questioned about Ryan’s family.
“Here, have some more.” Fiona ladled some Irish stew into Natalie’s bowl, undoubtedly hoping she’d stick a spoon in her mouth and shut up. No such luck. Fiona glared at the untouched bowl of stew, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Sorry, I don’t eat meat.”
Fiona gasped.
Cassidy had scheduled several interviews over mealtimes to gauge the women’s reactions to Fiona’s cooking. This one failed miserably, in all respects.
Cassidy glanced discreetly over at Alex, whose expression said they were on the same page. The woman was definitely out.
“I’m sorry, your time’s up,” Cassidy said, cutting her off fifteen minutes early. Besides, she’d crammed into forty-five minutes what would take most of the other women an afternoon to disclose.
“Already?” Natalie glanced at her watch. “Didn’t I start at four? Thought I started at four. Is my watch slow?” She tapped her watch, her gaze skittering around the room, searching for a clock to substantiate her case.
Cassidy stood, prodding her to do the same. Fiona grabbed the woman’s purse from a chair and thrust it at her. Cassidy placed a hand on Natalie’s back, ushering her swiftly toward the back door where a limo waited to return her to the hotel.
Natalie was still rattling off appreciation for the interview when Cassidy practically shoved her into the limo. “I’ll be in touch.” Yeah, with flight information for her return trip to Los Angeles.
Cassidy wen
t back to the den to confer with Alex and the staff before bringing in the last woman. Charlie was slumped in his chair, looking like he’d had the life sucked out of him, attempting to get his breathing back to normal.
“A quiet tongue shows a wise head.” Fiona snatched up the untouched bowl of stew and dumped it back into the serving dish.
“Then that woman is dumber than a rock,” Charlie said.
“Loose lips sink ships,” Hector said, appearing proud of reciting a proverb.
The staff exchanged uneasy glances, silently acknowledging they were ships waiting to be sunk.
“She doesn’t come from the best family, does she?” Charlotte mused, smoothing a hand over her green chiffon dress.
“Think we all agree she isn’t a viable candidate.” Alex poured a glass of iced tea, undoubtedly still hungover from earlier in the week or he’d have been hitting the whiskey by now.
Fiona wandered over to Aggie’s resting spot on the fireplace mantle. “What would you be making of her, Agatha?” She stared thoughtfully at the felt mouse perched on the spring. “So she is.” She glanced over at everyone. “She’s a wanker.”
Sounded more like Fiona’s opinion than Aggie’s.
“I’ll bring in our final candidate,” Alex said.
Cassidy’s stomach tightened. She’d saved Erica Turner for last.
Erica had on a pink tweed dress with a matching jacket. Very Jackie O. Her shoulder-length, brown hair was flipped up on the ends, resembling Marlo Thomas’s hairdo in That Girl, adding to her wholesome looks. They convened in the den. No need to give her Fiona’s taste test. This woman would have to vomit up the stew on Charlotte’s chiffon dress and lobby to reestablish Prohibition before she wouldn’t make the cut.
Erica sat in a chair, not appearing the least bit curious about its plastic cover. Hops promptly jumped up on her lap. She seemed comfortable stroking his orange fur, unconcerned about it shedding on her pink outfit.
Kind of a suck-up, wasn’t she?