I walked toward him with a smile, ignoring my brother who was watching with interest from the bar.
"I'm Cat," I said, putting out my hand for him to shake.
Girard stood and took my hand, introducing himself in a voice slightly less deep than my imagined version of him, but I quickly chastised myself for thinking him any less manly for not sounding like Vin Diesel the first time he opened his mouth. (I did like the redheads, but I had a small Vin Diesel fantasy too.)
"I'm happy to meet you," I said, sitting down.
"Me too," he said. "I swear, I answered that Mr. Match ad over a year ago. I thought he'd never find me a match, but here you are. And you're gorgeous. I guess good things come to those who wait."
He was charming, and I relaxed a little bit.
A waitress came by to take our order, and I settled in to get to know my latest date.
We were two drinks in when Girard mentioned his recent hospitalization.
"Oh gosh, I hope you're okay. Anything serious?" I leaned forward, curious what could put a young vibrant guy like Girard in the hospital. I tried hard to repress the alarms that were pinging. My Buttchin date had left them extra sensitive. Was this a red flag?
"It was really nothing," he said, waving a hand, knocking his drink directly into my lap.
"Oh!" I sprang up, jumping back and using my hands to push the liquid from my jeans before it could soak in.
"I'm so sorry," Girard said, and he turned toward the bar to grab some napkins. As he rushed back to me with them, he stepped directly into the puddle of spilled beer, and his foot went out from under him. Two seconds later, he was sitting in the puddle, and we were both soaked with Bottington's Pub Ale. I squatted down to help him up, unable to stifle the giggles. He was apologizing and laughing too, as we stood.
"At least you weren't drinking anything with grenadine," I said, once we had both successfully sponged off with napkins and reseated ourselves.
"Good point," he agreed.
"You were just about to tell me about being sick?" I reminded him.
A tiny blush crept up from the scruff of Girard's dark red beard, and he dropped my eyes for a moment. "It was just a small shock," he said.
"A shock?"
"I was electrocuted." He still wouldn't meet my eyes.
"How did that happen?" I asked, imagining him doing electrical work or rescuing a kitten from a tree during a lightning storm.
"It was an accident," he said, sounding ever more sheepish. "It was bathtub related."
I raised an eyebrow. Girard didn't have that huge muscly manly man appeal to begin with—his good looks were less conventional, as I've already mentioned. But something about a dude in the bathtub kind of killed my mojo, unless he was in it with me. "Oh," I said, not sure I wanted him to give me the gory details.
"I was doing some trimming," he said. "Down there," he added, dropping my gaze again.
Ah, jeez. "Your trimmer is waterproof?"
"No." He sighed. "I was standing in the tub. It's easier for cleanup. But there was a little pool of water I guess I didn't notice, and I dropped the trimmers. My foot was in the water, the trimmers went in, and zap."
"Zap," I said, thinking this guy wasn't exactly suave. I was beginning to wonder again about Max's matching mojo, when Girard looked at me earnestly.
"I'm accident prone," he confided. "I have been my whole life. It's the one thing I'd change about myself if I could."
"I'm not the most coordinated person," I told him. "Which is amazing because my mother was a dancer and my brother plays pro soccer. But I guess I got the klutz gene." Still, I hadn’t shocked myself while trimming pubes—that was a whole other level of klutz.
Girard was looking at me intently, his eyes sincere and his face open. He was a nice guy. I could forgive him an embarrassing accident. "Tell me what your smoothest move was, Cat. I bet you've got nothing on me."
I raised a shoulder, trying to recall one of my less than graceful moments. There had been many. Maybe Girard and I had more in common than I’d realized. "In eleventh grade I got to be in a fashion show being held at the local mall. All the retailers chose a few students from the different high schools to be their models, and my mom's best friend owned a boutique, so she chose me and a few of my friends."
"Sounds good," he said. "Also a good setup for disaster..."
"You have no idea." I relaxed, enjoying the way Girard held my eyes, and how easy he was to talk to. "I'd never really worn high heels, but she put me in a cocktail dress and these sky-high heels that matched. I didn't put them on until I was just about to go on stage, which turned out to be a mistake. I'd had zero practice walking in them."
"Oh no."
"Oh yeah. So the runway was made up of these platforms shoved all together. We'd had a dry run earlier in the day, and they'd told us to step over the cracks between them." I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the humiliation I’d felt. "Everyone from school was there, lining the sides of the runway just like the photos you see of New York fashion week."
"Not sure I really follow the whole fashion thing, but I can imagine what you mean."
"Just envision every single person you know and the entire social universe of your high school watching as you totter down a narrow runway in a dress that reveals more than it covers."
Girard put a hand across his chest. “That’s why I dress modestly at all times.” He grinned, and I laughed, totally at ease with this unassuming guy.
"So the second I stepped out, the nerves really kicked in, and I would probably have been wobbling in sneakers. But in three-inch heels, I was a disaster. I was so focused on just getting one step in front of the other—and on not staring at Bryce Chadwick in the front row, my ultimate high school crush—that I planted one of my heels directly into the crack between the last two platforms and it got stuck. I tried to take the next step, but my foot wouldn't budge and I ended up going over backwards, landing with all my weight on the split between the platforms."
"Oh oh." His eyes were alight, anticipating the horror.
"The bad news was that they'd forgotten to lock the wheels on the last platform and when I wedged my heel into the crack and then pushed my entire body weight against it, the force sent the last platform rolling into the crowd and me crashing onto my butt to the floor below."
"If that was the bad news, was there good news?"
"I got my shoe free."
"Oh my god, were you hurt?" He was trying not to laugh, pressing his lips together, his eyes dancing.
"Yes. I fractured my ego and my pride was in traction for years, and I still don't like to wear heels over two inches."
"Poor high-school Cat." He looked so sincere, and I knew that if anyone understood this painful memory, it was Girard.
"It was awful."
We chuckled together a bit and he told me about the time in sixth grade when he'd put an ink pen in his front pocket and then sat on it just before he had to give his class report in front of the class. "Twelve-year olds can be brutal," he said.
"Grownups can be brutal," I said.
"True."
By the time Girard and I had sat and chatted for most of the evening, I had realized that while he was a nice guy and I had a great time with him, I didn't feel any magical sparks. And maybe that was asking a little too much—maybe a nice guy with a few klutzy foibles should be enough for me, but I felt like maybe there should be more.
I decided to let him kiss me goodnight if he wanted to. I could find out if there was chemistry and go from there.
But we never got that far. We’d basically said goodnight and Girard was going to walk me to my car. If he tried to kiss me, I’d let him, and I’d make whatever decision I needed to make then.
As we stood, I turned toward the door but spun back around quickly at a loud commotion behind me. Girard was face down on the floor, the table upside down next to him. To his credit, he leapt up incredibly quickly, but when he faced me again, he moved his hand from his
mouth to reveal the spot where his front tooth had been.
Oh my God. I struggled to keep my face sympathetic, and tried to keep my reaction shoved way down deep, but I was torn between a screech of horror and a nervous laugh.
"This might be my fashion show moment," he said, lisping slightly through the gap in his teeth.
His teeth were bloody, and the bartender got him some water and paper towels while we searched the bar floor for his missing tooth. I found it finally, under the benches where we'd been sitting, and was able to get it out by lying on my stomach and reaching underneath as far as I could to retrieve it.
Needless to say, any sexual attraction you might have had for a man is killed instantly when you find yourself fishing for his incisor while sprawled facedown on a beer-soaked sticky bar floor.
I took a much longer shower after this date, and then called Max to let him know his experiment was a failure. He had already figured that out, since he’d watched the entire thing from across the bar.
Chapter 5
Math and Love Don’t Mix
Cat
"I've got a show in Los Angeles anyway," I told Max the next week after he swore up and down that he'd reanalyzed the algorithm based on the new information I'd given him from my date with Girard. "I don't have time to waste with guys with sanitation issues and klutzy streaks that might result in my actual death or dismemberment."
"We did have some bad luck there," Max agreed. "But when you get back, I'll have your real match, I promise."
"Max, have you ever stopped to think that maybe math and love don't mix? Maybe you should apply your impressive smarts to something else. Like world peace. Or homelessness. Aren't there math-related solutions for those things?"
He shook his head. "I'm this close, I can feel it."
"If this thing is so good, why don't you try it on yourself?" I asked him. Max had dated off and on, but the last serious girlfriend I remembered hearing about had been when he was in college, and I'd never even met her.
Storm clouds passed through my brother's eyes, and I swear, I could feel the tension ramp up as he stared back at me. "I'm not ready to meet my match," he said simply, but it was clear there was something more to it. I’d pressed him before, but gotten nowhere. I let it go.
"Fine, but I'm done playing guinea pig. I've got to finish up a few pieces for the show and get everything else ready to go."
"I'm on the road for the next two weeks anyway," Max said. "But you'll get an email when I find your next match. Your final match. The right one."
I shook my head. I was not willing to die for the sake of Max’s experiment. "Don't match me again, Max. I'm fine. If I end up on my own, it'll be okay. There are other ways to have babies if I really want one." And I did. That was the one thing I'd ever been clear about. But I meant it, I didn't need a man to make that dream a reality.
"And I'll support you if it comes to that. But give this one more chance. Please, Kitty."
I hated it when he called me Kitty. That’s what Dad used to call me.
I sighed, feeling like I was letting my brother down. "Max. No. I think I'm just going to trust the universe, okay?"
He stared at me with those big brown eyes for a long moment and then pulled me into a hug. "Okay, sis. I'm sorry I failed you."
"You didn't fail," I said into his shoulder. Max had never failed me. "You're a great brother, and it's not your job to fix my love life."
"Okay," he said, his voice almost a whisper.
* * *
The next week was insanity as I prepared for the largest solo show I'd ever done at a very well known gallery in Santa Monica. It wasn't often that I traveled to shows out of town—I usually just sent the work, but a designer who liked my work had shown a piece to the gallery owner, who'd called to invite me up. She thought there was a great market for work like mine in west Los Angeles, and I was willing to go spend a couple days to find out.
The show was set to open on a Thursday night with a reception, and I'd invited my mother to come along. Max was on the road with the team, or he would have come as well. I was staying in a nearby hotel and had gotten a big room with two queen beds, so we made a girls' night out of it. We went to get a late afternoon cocktail on the pier, and then went back to the room to dress and get gussied up together.
"Have I told you how proud I am of you, Cat?" Mom watched me put on my earrings, smiling into the mirror behind me.
"Yes," I said. It was hard for me to accept praise. When I was young, I was used to seeing Max be the one everyone celebrated. I was more comfortable standing to the side—art had always been my quiet way of expressing myself, the fact that it was now the thing pulling me into a spotlight was a little bit ironic and slightly uncomfortable. But I had to make a living and I knew I wouldn't do well in an office job.
"I am," she beamed. "You and your brother have both surpassed the wildest hopes your father and I had for you."
"Really? Daddy had hopes for me? We were so little when he died."
A misty nostalgia crossed her face, and after a moment she said, "Of course he did. Your dad and I used to sit and imagine what you and your brother might become."
"What did you think Max would be?" I asked.
She laughed. "President." She sipped the water she'd set on the table next to the bed. "But honestly, I think what he really has achieved is so much better. So much more him."
"And what did you think I would be?" I felt a little twinge of worry at what she might say.
"It was harder to know which way you were heading. You were interested in so many things," Mom said. "But your dad said he thought you were a genius too, just a quieter one. We thought you might be an author or a scientist."
"Or an artist," I suggested.
"We should have thought of that. Your dad would be so proud." Her eyes shone with tears when she said that, and I wasn't sure if I should switch the subject, but thinking about Dad always made me want my mom to find that kind of love again.
"Mom? Did you ever think about getting married again?"
Mom smiled at me, the tears still standing unshed in her eyes. "I've thought about it, Cat. But I haven't met anyone who felt right to me, who felt the way your dad did."
"Do you think there's just one person for each of us out there?"
"Oh no," she said, and it warmed a place in my heart to hear that despite losing the love of her life she believed there might be another out there for her. "I think there are a few great possible loves for each of us. And for some of us, we might get to know more than one. I loved your dad with everything I was, but that doesn't mean there isn't someone else out there who'd be just as good a fit for me. As Max always says, it's just an equation. When both sides are balanced, it works."
"I'm not sure Max knows what he's talking about, Mom. He's set me up with a couple of guys who were definitely not a fit." Not. At. All.
Mom smiled and lifted a shoulder, laughing lightly as we gathered our purses and headed out the door to my show.
* * *
The gallery was amazing—open and light and airy. And while it was incredible to see my art hanging on the walls, it was far more startling to see more than a hundred and fifty people milling about the space, drinking wine and really looking at my work.
"I'm so pleased you were willing to come up," said Lana, the gallery owner. "And some of the new work is beautiful," she said. “Especially the blue piece.” I'd done that one only in the last couple weeks. Honestly, I'd started it around the same time Max had stirred up all the feelings I had about finding a soulmate, feelings I'd hidden for a while now.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm really happy to be here. To be honest, I'm kind of shocked to see so many people."
“You shouldn’t be. Your work brought them in,” she said. “There’s also a man here who asked about you earlier, wanted me to bring you over when you arrived.”
I looked around as she led me through the crowded space, Mom at my side sipping her champagne.
> "There he is," she said, and nodded toward a set of broad shoulders in a dark suit and a head of full thick blond hair. He stood with his back to us, staring at the blue painting I'd so recently created. "His name is Xavier Dorne," she said, handing me his card.
"I'll go say hello," I said.
"You go ahead," Mom said, turning to collect a little plate of cheese and crackers. "I'm going to mingle."
I approached the man in the suit, stepping up behind him and saying, "Excuse me."
He turned a set of deep chocolate eyes on me and when they met mine, a smile crept over his full lips that nearly sent me to the floor. Something odd happened to me in that one look, something I don't think I'll ever be able to adequately put into words. I was zapped, as surely as Girard had been in his bathtub. And I stumbled a bit finding my next words. "I'm Cat Winchell," I said. "Lana said you were looking for me."
"I am," he said. "I'm Xavier. I'm very impressed with your work."
His voice was rich and strangely foreign, carrying a trace of some accent I couldn't identify, and those deep dark eyes seemed to hold worlds all their own that might sweep me away if I let them. He was tall, and wore his suit like a glove that revealed contours of muscle beneath it that seemed too perfect to be real.
"Thank you," I said, feeling as if I was already getting lost in those deep dark eyes. His card said he was a real estate developer, so I tried to cage my reactions to him around the possibility that he was looking to buy something for his work.
"How long have you been painting, Cat?" Xavier asked, a tiny smile turning up one side of his mouth.
A shiver went through me unbidden, and I stepped nearer to him, both of us turning to look at the saturated blues and turquoises in front of us, a painting that embodied so much want and desire it should have been embarrassing. Instead, something about standing in front of this particular painting with this man felt right. "My whole life," I said. "Seriously for the last eight years."
"You have a real gift," he said. "If this was in my house, I don't think I'd be able to walk past it without stopping. It makes me feel..." he paused and turned to catch my eye, an almost embarrassed look in the beautiful eyes. "It makes me feel exposed for some reason. Like it's about me."
Scoring a Soulmate, a Mr. Match Novella Page 3