The Right Fit

by Daphne Dubois

  Stuart stopped reading and began to flip through the pages. “Where are all these hot, young billionaires in real life?” he asked. “I only meet the gray-haired versions a few bacon sandwiches from having a stroke.”

  “Is she a match?” Westley looked earnest. “That’s the catch, right? Waiting for Fate—what a great title.”

  Maxine looked at her brother. “Wes, you’re such a romantic.”

  Stuart frowned at the book. “I’m not sure if their tissues are compatible, but on page one hundred and two, they’re sharing body fluids behind the hospital curtains.”

  Westley rolled his eyes.

  “Crosby, are you almost ready?” Stuart hollered. He tossed the book to Maxine and said, “It’s going to be crazy if she gets in.”

  Westley changed the angle on one of the lamps. “I don’t want to see Crosby making out with some man whore on TV.”

  “Man whore?” Stuart perked up. “Maybe I should enter this thing?”

  “Stop screwing around,” Westley said, motioning for Stuart to stand in front of the brick wall.

  “You’ve only had the camera for five minutes and you’re already Quentin Tarantino.”

  “I wish,” he muttered. “I hate my job, my boss is an asshole. He messed up the cash yesterday and I had to stay two hours after closing to fix it. Bastard won’t pay me overtime either because he says the mistake was mine.”

  “Sorry, man,” Stuart said. “Is that why you wouldn’t cuddle after the hockey game last night?” he teased.

  Westley snorted. “I told you that winning streak would end. Chicago is number one in the Eastern Conference.”

  A jolt went through Maxine. “Chicago?”

  “Toronto lost the series,” Westley told her.

  “Oh,” she said, deflated. The momentary race of her pulse betrayed her indifference, she’d been practicing. She started thumbing through the book, trying to hide her blush.

  Stuart said, “When one comes in the store again, page me or something. Did you know that statistically speaking, fifty percent of all professional hockey players are gay or bisexual?”

  “Where did you hear that?” Westley asked.

  “From my own mouth just now.” Stuart rolled up his sleeve, making sure to keep the folds even. “If I keep repeating it, it might come true. Equal rights I say, why should all the ladies get to hang outside the locker room? I’d make a great puck bunny.”

  “What’s a puck bunny?” Maxine asked, glancing up from the novel.

  Stuart rolled up his shirtsleeve to match the other side. “Chicks who hang out around the rink to get laid by hockey players.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I’m going to make a smashing puck bunny someday.” He sighed dreamily. “But a high end one with designer clothes, and my own car, and a condo in Miami.”

  Maxine was certain that Stuart was living Ambrosia’s life philosophy to the fullest. She put her attention back on the book, reading where the receipt was randomly placed. Someone was giving the female main character advice on love. Hope? Faith? Whatever you call it, it’s never a waste of time to believe that anything can happen. Letting out a slow breath, Maxine, slipped the receipt back in place.

  “Damn.” Westley frowned. “I wish the brick wall was closer to the window.”

  Crosby finally arrived bringing a wave of perfume. She was wearing a tank top and plaid mini skirt. Her elaborate tattoo swirled down her shoulder disappearing under the scoop of her top. She was all smiles and pink-cheeked optimism. “How do I look?” she asked, spinning around.

  Her unending romantic hope that the sun would eventually come out on even the darkest day made her precious to Maxine. Any bachelor would be lucky to win her heart. “You’re beautiful,” Maxine said, feeling her own gloom push away a bit.

  “Thanks, you did a great job with my makeup. I think the frosted eyeshadow was the best choice,” she said.

  “We’re doing a test shot first,” Westley said. “Just getting the lighting right.” He ushered Stuart to stand in front of the wall, then pointed to let him know he was recording.

  Stuart slipped a hand in one pocket and angled an eyebrow, striking a pose like he was on the front of a magazine. “I’m Stuart Ling. Stock broker and all around sexy devil.”

  “And what makes you think you should be on Marry Me?” Westley asked, watching the filming through the lens.

  He made a face. “Marry Me? I thought the show was called, Screw Me.”

  Crosby let out a laughing scream then pushed Stuart out of the way. She handed him the list of interview questions she’d downloaded from the website.

  Westley continued to record, assuring Crosby they’d edit out any mistakes. She introduced herself and gave a one-minute monologue. Maxine arched her back trying to stretch out an ache. She began to wonder if maybe she should start yoga.

  Stuart asked in an exaggerated announcer’s voice, “What makes you think you should be on Marry Me?”

  Crosby gave a brilliant smile. “Anything is possible when you believe that romance is all around us.”

  Maxine looked at the book then sent a prayer to her silent phone.

  Stuart gave her a thumbs up off camera. “And what do you think love is about?” he asked.

  “Love is how your whole world relates back to one person,” she said. “All your joy and sorrow can’t be fully experienced until you share it with them. You need that connection to them…to feel real, more complete.” Crosby’s voice lost its usual dreamy quality as she snuck a glance at Maxine. “Because romance isn’t about who you should love the most, it’s about who makes you feel the most loved.”

  Stuart pretended to wipe away a tear.

  She’s right! She’s absolutely right! Ignoring their strange looks, Maxine grabbed her phone and made her way to her bedroom, making sure to close the door behind her. She was ready to make choices in her life that were based on her happiness. To feel real, to feel complete. To be loved.

  Antony’s voice mail came on.

  “I know you’re in Chicago,”—she started—“but I need to tell you something. We should never have met…we’re so different, but you spilled that stupid mojito on my dress and my world hasn’t been the same.” She took a breath. “You make me happy. I want that, I need that—I need you.” A few more heartbeats of silence went by then she ended the call.

  “Maxie?” Crosby’s voice was on the other side of the door.

  “I’m fine,” she said, shaking. “Just calling work to check my schedule. Keep filming, okay? I’ll be right out. Hurry before your makeup…”

  Maxine’s phone buzzed in her palm.

  Ace.

  “Hi.” She forgot how to talk for a moment. “How are you?”

  “Not sure,” he said.

  The sound of his voice triggered an elaborate reaction inside Maxine’s heart. Her pulse quickened, then stopped, then sped up again.

  “Do you know the Bloor Street Diner?” he asked.

  She pictured the elegant restaurant in the cities upscale west end. “Yes?”

  “Can you be there…six-thirty?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Oui.”

  “You’re back in Toronto?”

  “Just landed. I’ll be waiting for you,” he said and then he hung up.

  Chapter Twenty

  The waiter placed the glass of cola with a slice of lemon in front of Antony on the white linen tablecloth. Then he lit the candles and handed over the wine list promising to return shortly, leaving Antony the sole occupant of the Billiard Room.

  He straightened his tie and checked his watch for the hundredth time—six-twenty-five. He purposely requested the private room for tonight’s reservation. Luckily, the owner of the Bloor Street Diner was a big hockey fan.

  Antony knew he was taking a risk using his celebrity status, but he’d called Maxine back so quickly after hearing her last message that he hadn’t taken the time to come up with a plan. Bloor Street Diner was the firs
t place he could think of that was nice enough to impress her.

  Panicked, he’d hung up before she could say no and called the restaurant, praying he could secure a private table for six-thirty. It took the promise of an autographed jersey and pictures with some of the staff, but Antony was happy to make those concessions. He had arrived a half hour early to make sure all the fanfare was over by the time Maxine arrived.

  Since he read the wedding invitation last week, everything felt off kilter, like he was constantly walking on slippery wet rocks. When Antony had called her back the day after he’d left her apartment, he wanted to hear her say that she hated the guy, that he was an asshole and that she never thought about him.

  But she never said those things about her ex-lover. She only said they had broken up, and that she was no longer engaged.

  The Chicago trip was perfect timing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from her if he was still in Toronto. Miserable with images of Maxine reuniting with her lover while he was away, Antony’s stomach was in a permanent knot.

  Why did they break it off? Did he have to move somewhere and she’s hoping he’ll come back? Was she still in love with this guy? The endless loop of questions created a constant din of paranoid confusion in the back of his mind.

  Unable to concentrate, Antony was a wreck on the ice and failed his team badly. In the locker room, Coach Foster went ballistic, the veins on his forehead were bulging and purple.

  After the disastrous third game, Luca joined him in the hotel bar for a late night plate of chicken wings, sensing something was off. Antony told him everything, including the guilt he was battling over lying to Maxine.

  “I’m falling in love,” he’d told Luca. “But maybe it’s guarantee of always scoring goals. Is it real or all mixed up in how I need to get contract?” So many things were dependent on him doing well.

  “But your last two games sucked,” Luca said. “Sorry, is true. She is good luck charm for you…for whole team.”

  Antony dropped a chicken wing on the plate; his appetite had diminished the last few days. How can I convince her to forget about the ex-fiancé and choose me instead?

  “You have to tell her truth.” Luca’s face brightened. “Maybe she be happy to date hockey player?”

  Antony mulled over the risk of telling her the truth, but Luca had a good point. The team’s players were rock stars in Toronto. Once she’d forgiven him for lying to her in the first place, he’d be able to take her to the best clubs and restaurants—she could even wear that sexy red dress. And he’d even do what he could to help her get that little shop up and running. Beauty Full, the name was the embodiment of Maxine herself.

  The ex-fiancé would never be able to compete with that. According to Google, Johnny Delong was no one remotely famous or important. Antony prayed Maxine hadn’t done the same thing with his name.

  “Hey,”—Luca slapped a hand on his shoulder—“trust universe. Good things happen when you two are together. It is sign.”

  But Antony had lost all hope the next morning on his flight back to Toronto, certain the next time they spoke, Maxine would confess she was still in love with this other guy and that Antony had just been a meaningless fling until he came back. He’d reasoned that’s why she was so adamant about seeing him in person. She struck him as the kind of girl who always broke up with guys in person.

  When her caller ID came up on his cell phone in the airport, he refused to answer. He stood at the luggage carousel, staring at the notification that he had a voice mail. Antony decided to wait until he was in the cab on the way home before he listened, but then he caught sight of Luca running to hug his wife who had been waiting for him, their two kids in tow.

  He thought of what Luca said about trusting the universe, and took a chance and listened to her message.

  …I need you.

  A shot of hope impaled his chest, making his heart glow.

  Invigorated, he arrived at his apartment, mentally calculating the time until he saw her. Sasha was there to meet him with news that she’d booked a two-day session at the rehab for Marc. She stood with a stern expression and her signature tight bun, chastising Marc for not keeping up with his exercises. She made Antony promise to have the home gym fixed by the time Marc came back home.

  Even though the stint in the rehab was an annual visit, the cost would run Antony several thousand dollars, the insurance only covered so much. And since his shitty run in Chicago, he wondered if his five-million-dollar contract had started to burn from the bottom up. Jax had called after each game. One assist the first night, then nothing after that. To make the situation direr, he managed to rack up six minutes in the penalty box, which resulted in goals for the opposition.

  However, after listening to Maxine’s message again, Antony couldn’t help but think of Luca’s mantra; trust the universe.

  The timing to have the apartment to himself was perfectly advantageous. With Sasha confirming his private room at the Centre, Antony waited until the Acces-A-Bus arrived at the apartment. Marc was sullen to the very end, his mood aggravated by his younger brother’s ‘pathetic hockey’ the last few games. Clearly, he was ready to lecture Antony the whole evening instead of going to rehab.

  By the time Antony had showered and changed, it was already five-thirty. Despite the chilled underground parking garage, he’d started to sweat under his Armani suit.

  Now, waiting in the Billiard Room, constantly checking his watch, Antony continued to nurse his drink. He put the glass of Coke down, then picked it back up, and took another sip. He licked his lips, now smooth and healed. The stitches came out after last night’s game. The thought of being able to kiss Maxine again made him lightheaded.

  It was now six-twenty-eight.

  He stared at the archway that led to the main dining area of the restaurant. His knee started jumping. It banged the bottom of the table, jostling his drink. It felt like a million bees were buzzing underneath his skin.

  I need you, she’d said. He listened to the message again, it was a balm to his frayed nerves. The warm pull tugged deep inside his abdomen. He licked his lips again. Damn it. He was a hot mess.

  And then she was there, walking into the room, following the waiter. Her hair was in waves falling over her shoulders, the white silk orchid was in place on the right side, securing the hair away from her neck.

  On shaking legs, Antony stood. The waiter stepped aside and motioned Maxine toward the chair opposite Antony. She was wearing a black wrap-around dress that tied on the side and ended just about her knees. The deep V-neck exposed the luminescent skin of her cleavage.

  Jesus Christ.

  His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. “You look very much beautiful,” he managed.

  “You too,” she said, taking a seat. Her cautious tone made him sit up straighter.

  After taking her drink order, the waiter disappeared. In the candlelight, she looked like she’d walked off the screen of a classic black and white movie. She was motionless. Then a perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted. “You hung up on me,” she said.

  “I was afraid you’d say no to dinner invitation.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have come.”

  He held his hand to her, palm upward. “But you did.”

  “Even after I left you that message…you still hung up.”

  A burn began to creep under Antony’s skin, heating his neck. He touched the knot on his tie, desperate to find the words, but it was nearly impossible to do in French, let alone translate to English. Finally, he asked, “Your message, is it truth?”

  The stoic expression hardened her features. “I would never lie about my feelings for you.”

  He wanted to smile, but her unyielding tone was less than conciliatory. Confused Antony asked, “Can you explain now in person, about ex-fiancé?”

  The waiter arrived with Maxine’s gin and tonic and a selection of marinated olives and crostinis. He asked if they needed anything else and then whisked out of the room
again.

  Maxine dropped her gaze and smoothed out the napkin on her lap. “What do you want to know about me and Johnny?”

  Antony flinched when he heard his name. “Why you still have invitations and ice cream?”

  “The ice cream is more of a tired symbol, I think. And honestly, who can throw out perfectly good Mayan chocolate flavored ice cream?”

  Antony imagined himself throwing out the tub of ice cream, actually, he thought of nuking it in the microwave first and then putting it in the garbage, but he decided to stay quiet. “And the invitations?” he prompted.

  She touched the edges of the cutlery, making miniscule adjustments. He noticed her nail polish was a wine color with gold flecks. Her checks bloomed with a blush. “They remind me of a time when I was the happiest. Even after everything that happened with Johnny, I’d look at them and pretend I was still getting married and that the affair had been a bad dream.”

  He flinched. “What?” His voice echoed through the intimate room.

  Maxine nibbled on a crostini. “I wished I could wake up and everything would be reset, just like on Dallas when Pam dreamed almost a whole season. It was purely a plot loophole to bring Bobby back, but still, it worked.”

  Antony leaned forward, staring at her intently. “What affair?”

  Her face froze, and her shoulders dropped. “That’s right,” she said, “I never got a chance to tell you. I kind of feel like the whole world knows.” She reached out and finished her gin in one swallow then put the glass down on the table with a thud. “Telling this story never gets easier.”

  A claw reached down Antony’s throat and gripped his stomach.

  “I walked in on them in the afternoon, on my bed, with the light streaming in through the window. Johnny always preferred sex in the dark.” She focused on the candlelight. “But that was only with me apparently. He left my life the next day. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I don’t even know who the other woman was, and in the end, it didn’t matter really. I wasn’t who he wanted.”

  Antony’s hands curled into fists. “How could anyone share your bed and not have sex with you.”