He was over six feet tall with jet black hair, dark eyes, and chiseled features. He leaned casually over the bar, chatting with the bartender. His suit skimmed over the hard angles of his body. I imagined his pants were simply grateful to be hugging his tight ass, thrilled to touch his hips, deliriously happy to be up close and personal with his skin.
I was a reluctant client of White Glove Matchmaking Agency, pressured by my mother into signing up for this pricey service. I’d spotted Aiden Black a few minutes ago at the party, thought he was smoking hot, and asked my matchmaker Charlotte about him. She’d said he co-owned White Glove Agency. Now he negotiated his way through the crowd toward me holding onto a few drinks, his smoky eyes locked on mine. I could fall into those eyes. Disappear. Discover a fantasy world where men like Aiden would be interested in me. Goosebumps erupted on my arms and my face grew hot.
Dear God, all White Glove Agency needed to do was photograph Aiden Black staring into the camera, beckoning with his index finger, put that photo on their site’s landing page and the agency would never lack for clients ever again. Lips would be licked in anticipation, nipples would harden, visions of Aiden would dance through heads. He’d become the poster boy for wank banks everywhere. Why had I ever doubted signing up for a matchmaking agency?
Right—I hadn’t specifically joined White Glove to meet Aiden Black. I’d agreed to meet eligible men that my matchmaker thought might be a good fit for me. I adored Charlotte, but none of the guys she’d picked for me up until this point had been right. Not her fault. I was notoriously picky and wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be matched. The men Charlotte selected would have melted most women’s panties. The hockey player was hot. The litigator was brilliant. The hotel magnate was funny in that dry kind of way and in the looks department could have been a young Kennedy. The problem was that there were no sparks with any of them. Not one made my heart pound faster in my chest or sent shivers down my spine.
Until now.
I knew the second my lips touched Aiden’s that the delicious feeling building in the v between my legs wasn’t from the fabulous food or drink at the Christmas party. We had major chemistry.
Aiden placed the drinks on the table in front of me and gestured toward the empty seat at our table. “May I?”
“Nothing but the best for my fiancé,” I said.
He sat down at the same time Rosalia stood up.
“Ciao, bella.” She kissed me once on each cheek. Tyler helped Rosalia shrug on her coat.
“You’re leaving so soon?” I asked and glared at Tyler.
They nodded and shared a smoldering look that I knew only meant one thing. My mom would kill me if I let anyone take advantage of Rosalia. She was not only family, but she was also a stranger in a strange land. I snapped my fingers at him. “Digits.”
He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. “What’s Gentry Enterprises?”
“We own half of Austin.”
I slipped his card into my purse. “Half of what in Austin?”
“Everything in Austin, Ma'am.”
My cousin looked up at him, smitten, and I sighed.
Aiden hit Tyler with glare worthy of a Catholic high school principal. “Rosalia needs to be home by midnight.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Black.” Tyler saluted, then rested his hand in the small of my cousin’s impossibly tiny back. He whispered something in her ear and she giggled, before allowing Tyler to escort her out.
“He’s okay?” I asked.
“He’s a puppy,” Aiden said. “I’m more concerned about you. Who was the man threatening to kidnap you?”
“My uncle’s gopher.”
“I see. What’s the family business?”
The elephant in the room was relentless. It followed me everywhere. Impacted every company I wanted to do business with. Every man I wanted to date.
“Importing and exporting. But let’s not talk about the older generation’s enterprises. Let’s talk about yours and mine. I’m building my own company.”
“AccardiWear,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“I review every White Glove client’s file,” he said. “My matchmakers turn to me for advice if they get stuck.”
“Interesting. So, you know more about me than I know about you.”
“I know you’re building a promising clothing company.”
“Affordable innovative sportswear for women in a wide range of sizes. I create the designs. I pick the fabrics. I weigh in in the marketing strategy. And I’m the CEO.”
“You’re the big cheese.”
“I am. Tell me more about you.”
“I co-own White Glove. I assign matchmakers to clients. Give everyone a push when things aren’t going smoothly. Intervene when necessary. During my off hours I’m a foodie. I like to cook. I even bake. Apparently, I’m pretty good at it.”
“What did you make for tonight’s party?”
“Nothing.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Hey gorgeous, reserve judgment. The spinach lasagna and the cannolis were both made from my recipes.”
“They were delicious. So, basically, you’re a meddler.”
He frowned. “A meddler? No. I’m just like you—a big cheese. Tell me, how has your experience at the agency been so far?”
“Excellent. I’ve been at White Glove Agency about a month now. My matchmaker’s the best,” I said, my gaze drawn to his muscular hand. Long, but elegant fingers. No ring circling the significant digit.
“Is there anything that would make it better?” He tapped one finger on the table top. His crisp white cuffs were secured with expensive cufflinks. Classic men’s fashion porn. Hot. “I’d appreciate feedback. How can I give White Glove clients a fuller, more rounded experience?”
“I’m going to have to think about that.”
Oh yes, I could think of something that would make my experience much better…
I’d like to see Aiden Black strip naked for me. First, he’d peel off his shirt. His chest would be hard and defined, man-scaped just the proper amount, as his crisp white shirt suggested. He’d remove his belt. I’d hear the leather crack as it snapped out of the belt loops. I was half tempted to bend over this cocktail party table in the middle of the banquet room and drop my elbows onto the table in front of me.
I’d pull up my velvet skirt, my lace thong-clad ass in the air and hope, just hope, he’d smack that belt a few times across my ass as I bit my lip and then begged for just a little more contact. Please.
‘Not yet, Violet.’ He’d smile, drop his belt to the floor and take off his pants, kicking them aside. His erection would be throbbing against his boxers, because of course Aiden Black would be wearing white boxers under those gorgeously-cut trousers. He’d pull them off and his dick would spring free, fully erect, hitting his stomach. It would be just as beautiful as everything else about him.
Big. Thick. Long. Hard. I knew this was just my designer’s brain having an old-fashioned, wet dream. It had been quite a while since I’d had real sex, actual sex with a real-life man. I tended to live in my fantasies. Thank God, they were robust and colorful.
“Violet?” Aiden asked. “Is there something wrong?”
“No.” I yanked my brain back to the present, which wasn’t all that shabby. “Jingle Bells” played in the background. I gazed up at his sparkling eyes, his full lips, the flush on his cheeks traveling down his neck. “Everything’s just fine.”
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We walked in the chilly nighttime of Chicago’s charming Old Town streets. Cars and cabs drove past brownstones, the slush of salted, melting snow kicking off the tires, slopping against the curbs.
“I encountered your Uncle Vincent a week or so ago at the agency when he attempted to buy off your contract,” Aiden said. “Why was his gopher trying to make you leave the party?”
“My family’s bossy. Th
ey like to control everything. Especially me.”
“Did I hear that thug say your hand was already promised in marriage?”
“My hand and other body parts aren’t promised to anyone. Why in the hell would I cut White Glove Agency a check for thirty thousand if I was off the market?”
He shrugged. “I’ve experienced stranger things.”
The icy Lake Michigan air gusted and I shivered.
Aiden placed a firm hand on my arm and tugged me under the overhang of a shop. He pulled out his phone. “I’ll order a ride.”
I glanced up and spotted mistletoe. I saw it because I was short and staring into his eyes. The moment was lost on him, probably because he was tall. People like him could peer over crowds but often couldn’t see in front of their noses.
But I could.
A gorgeous man. A holiday party. Mistletoe. Oh yes, I believed in signs. God didn’t put something, someone, this delicious in front of me unless I was supposed to act on it. I placed one hand on his shoulder and stood on my tiptoes, my knees knocking against his legs. I tilted my chin up toward him expectantly. He smelled like expensive men’s cologne, hints of bergamot, sandalwood, and rich leather. Something that would go perfectly with his crisp dress shirt, his Tag watch, his thick wool overcoat. The fabric was firm and scratchy beneath my touch.
“You okay?” One dark eyebrow quirked up.
“Never better,” I said, and pointed above him. “Mistletoe.”
He peered up, then his gaze returned to me. “It’s a moment, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
Our eyes locked and time seemed to slow down, our breath visible in the cold night air.
“You know, a movie moment. If this were a movie I’d have to kiss you.”
I frowned. “What do you mean ‘have’? You wouldn’t want to kiss me?”
“Of course I’d want to kiss you,” he said, but he didn’t. Kiss me.
His lips were full, practically begged to be kissed again, then licked, and nibbled on. “Did our first kiss suck?” I asked. “I didn’t give it my all. Fine. I winged it.”
“Our first kiss definitely didn’t suck.”
“Your spinach lasagna recipe was delicious. Do I have some in my teeth?” I asked.
“No. But even if you did, that wouldn’t matter.” He smiled down at me and brushed my hair back. He ran two fingers through a lock of my hair, twirling it, palming it, tugging it lightly.
My breath caught in my throat. “Movie moments don’t last forever you know. I think you should kiss me.”
“Ms. Accardi. You are very direct.”
“You have no idea.”
“I like it. I like you.” He leaned his head toward mine, his breath warm and moist. He cupped my chin with one hand, tilting my face toward his. “You’re right. Magical moments should not be ignored. It might invite bad karma.”
I closed my eyes and shivered in anticipation. Then his lips crashed onto mine, soft at first, slow, like he was enjoying every moment, like he had all the time in the world. His tongue slipped inside my mouth, exploring it. His kiss grew stronger, more wilful. He tasted like fine, expensive liquor. His hand cupping my chin felt strong and protective.
He needed.
He wanted.
He claimed.
Tingles raced down my spine as he pulled me flush against him. An ache grew in my pelvis, a throbbing built in my groin. He was making me wet.
I needed.
I wanted.
I went for it.
“Come home with me?”
He pulled away, leaving the safety of the mistletoe doorway, walking a few yards toward the street. He turned and stared at me.
Why had he pulled away? This was a perfect moment.
Those eyes. Those lips.
“Tempting. But then I’d have to do more than just kiss you.”
“That’s the point, Aiden.”
He shook his finger. “You’re being wilful and naughty. That wasn’t on your White Glove Agency intake form, Ms. Accardi.”
I walked toward him and swayed my hips exaggeratedly like a movie siren. “You have no idea what else isn’t on the form. I’m a genuine bad ass.”
He laughed.
“Do you want to know why I’m such a bad ass? I’ll give you one free question. The rest I’m making you earn.”
“I want to know,” he said.
“Come closer and I’ll tell you….”
There was a loud screech as a car jumped the stoplight and tore past, dousing us in wet, sloppy snow. I shuddered and stumbled in my stupid high heels, but Aiden grabbed my arms, held me tight, and stopped me from falling. I gazed down at my pretty dress plastered in dirty slush. Adrenaline coursed through my body, and I burst out laughing.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Totally wet.” I pointed at his trousers that were splattered as well. “You too, Cuoco.”
“Indeed,” he said, glancing down. “‘Cuoco?’” He held his hand up in the air and hailed a cab the old-fashioned way. One veered to the curb a few yards up the street from us.
We walked toward the ride. “Cuoco’s Italian for chef.”
“Chief or chef?”
“Both, I guess. You’re bossy,” I said, “and you like to cook.”
“I see.” He opened the car door for me. “Your carriage awaits, Grande Formaggio.”
“Did you just call me Big Cheese?”
“I did,” he said, smiling.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“401 Illinois Street,” I said.
“As much as I would love to continue our evening,” Aiden said, “sadly I have pressing work to finish tonight. What are you doing tomorrow?”
I felt disappointed, but covered it. “It’s my last push before the holidays. December 23rd, and everyone’s shut down except for me. But I need to send out samples, confirm orders, finish the books for the accountant. If I don’t get the work done…you know the drill.”
“I do.”
“Hey, my family’s going to five p.m. mass on Christmas at Cathedral Basilica,” I said. “Do you want to join us? Just some folks to hang out with, sing carols, and light candles. Grab a bite to eat afterward. If you’re at all interested in that kind of thing.” Hope coursed through my veins.
“That sounds great, but I’ve already got plans.”
Right. What was I thinking? Everyone had plans for Christmas.
“Of course. Right. Family?”
“No, they’re out of town.”
Why had I doubled down on the questions? Now I felt even more stupid. He probably had plans with a woman. An old girlfriend. A new girlfriend?
The driver pulled curbside in front of my condo in the eleven-story brownstone. “Thanks for the awesome party.” I stepped out of the cab, smoothing my skirt down my legs. “It was great meeting you, Aiden.”
“You too, Violet. Maybe we should…”
“Gotta run.” I tried to smile convincingly. Not the easiest thing to do when one felt ridiculous. What had I been thinking? “Work doesn’t rest for the wicked, you know. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Violet.”
His lips. His determined chin. His eyes.
I turned, stumbled for a second, and walked away. Heading into my building, my heart cracked just a little, tumbling in bits and pieces into my stomach. No matter how much I tried to get everything right, it all seemed to go spectacularly wrong.
Chapter Three
Aiden
I closed the door to my more than decent one bedroom apartment in the modern high rise that overlooked the lake, shrugged off my coat, and sighed. I’d sweated all the details over White Glove’s holiday party. I’d even given the restaurant two of my own recipes. The event appeared to have been a huge success and then I’d gone and screwed things up by kissing Violet Accardi.
I should probably thank God that we’d been interrupted, literally doused with cold water, because I think that was the only thing
that brought me to my senses. It stopped me from going back to her place and opening up a bigger can of worms.
I knew better. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t her matchmaker; she was still a White Glove client and it was completely unprofessional of me to break my own non-fraternizing rule.
The problem was I wanted to do more than just kiss her. But my conscience wouldn’t allow random hook-ups and my life wasn’t set up for a girlfriend. I simply wasn’t available. I don’t know what I was even thinking going down this fork in the road. Undoubtedly it was the dangerous combination of a holiday party, a gorgeous, smart, funny girl, too much adrenaline, and that damn mistletoe.
I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a short, neat bourbon, and made my way to the living room. I moved past the stacks of paperwork on my desk practically screaming my name, and for a change ignored them. I leaned against the window and stared out at all the multi-colored Christmas lights twinkling from the boats in the harbor.
Five years ago I’d left my old life behind. I moved to Chicago and spent half a year slumming in dark bars, drowning myself in the frenetic energy of nightclubs, and playing all night poker games. Anything to distract me from my guilt. The memories of how I’d screwed things up in a spectacular way. Anything to distract me from the pain.
I ignored my sister’s barrage of texts until she arrived unannounced in town and pounded on my door in the shitty apartment I’d rented across town. She cooked for me, pulled me off the couch, and dragged my ass to therapy. After a few months of counseling I admitted that I had a problem. I also realized my compulsion could not be cured. I wasn’t addicted to booze, drugs, or sex.
I, Aiden Black, was addicted to helping people.
Yeah. It sounded so innocent. People liked to call folks like me ‘enablers.’ We were the ‘kind’ people. Those that could be counted on. Those that showed up when you needed a friend or someone who genuinely cared. We were also the perfect targets for predators.
The Matchmaker Page 2