by Lucy Farago
“In her defense, three died.”
“Still. Although I can understand wanting to find love.” She sipped from her glass.
“Says the matchmaker. You know, if we’re not going to bed…”
She choked on the wine but managed to recover before he noticed.
Monty dropped his feet and slapped his knees. “I want something to eat. How about you?”
She dared him to say that five times really fast. “What do we have that isn’t canned?” Remove mind from gutter, remove mind from gutter. The mantra wasn’t working.
“I was going to see what you’d come up with for breakfast…before telling you we have pancake mix. Want pancakes?”
The shithead. “Are you cooking? Or should I say, adding the water?”
“I’ll have you know,” he stood with a cocky grin, “no one pours water like me.”
Or had an ass like his. From her vantage point on the couch, she was only too happy to watch him cook. He really was a beautiful man. Not overly thin, muscled in the right places.
“And about my mom,” he said, “I think it was more about finding someone to take care of her. She was needy. In my opinion, if you don’t get it right the first time, why try a second?”
“I didn’t get it right the first time.”
“You were married?” he said. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t you match yourself?”
“I was twenty-one, naïve, and stupid.” And on the path to self-destruction. It had been a farce of a marriage.
He retrieved a bowl from one of the cupboards and a whisk from a drawer. “Young and foolish?”
“Something like that.” It had been a pattern with her. “You, have you ever been married?” She hadn’t seen a ring on his finger and was ashamed to think she might have had dirty thoughts about someone else’s husband.
“When you grow up the way I did…” He pulled a large Tupperware container from the top of the broom closet and set it on the counter. “…marriage gives you a rash.” He popped open the lid, then withdrew another container and repositioned the larger one on the floor to give himself workspace. “We keep supplies like flour and sugar in sealed containers to prevent mice from helping themselves,” he explained.
“Mice.” She yanked her feet off the floor.
Monty laughed. “Are you forgetting you slept outside for two days? I can guarantee you—”
“Nope. Don’t.” She pointed a finger at him. “I don’t want to know.” She didn’t mind mice…in a cage…in a pet store. But the idea of them crawling over her while she slept made her queasy and brought to mind all kinds of horror movies.
“Not knowing doesn’t change things.” He grabbed a water bottle, poured some into a measuring cup, and brought it to eye level.
“You need to measure? Can’t you do it by sight?”
“Chef’s create recipes for a reason.”
“Yes. To sell books. And anyway, this isn’t beef bourguignon. It’s pancakes…from a mix.”
“And I want to get them right.”
“It’s kind of hard to muck up pancakes. Too much water, add more flour mix; not enough, add more water.”
“Do you want to do this?”
“And give up the opportunity to watch a master work? Not a chance.” She eyed the floor warily. “So, is it a problem? Mice, I mean.”
“Only in the spring.” He began to mix in the water, focused like some scientist with an important experiment. It was cute. He was cute.
“I remember this one time,” he continued “Dozier—think Darth Vader, big, dark, and scary—he screamed louder than a roller-coaster car on the down slide. Funniest thing you ever saw. A man his size afraid of mice.”
Want to bet her scream would be louder? “Well, at least they’re seasonal.”
With a match, he lit a burner, then slid a large pan over the heat. “That’s not what I said. They’re a problem in the spring. The rest of the time they scurry in, they scurry out.”
“Scurry?” She drew her legs into a tight ball.
“This won’t take long. Why don’t you come on over here and grab a couple of plates?” He splashed water onto the pan and nodded when it sizzled.
“I-I changed my mind. I’m not hungry.” She was being silly, but she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t a fan of the furry little demons.
“I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you on that couch tonight.”
Wait. What? She blinked. How did they go from pancakes and mice to sex?
Monty looked up from pouring batter into the hot pan and smiled. “But you shouldn’t drink any more wine. We’re fresh out of diapers.”
“You’re gross,” she said, now having to shake yet another image of Monty going at it… on the sofa—with her.
“Hey, I’m just saying. I may have carried you out of the water, but I’m not carrying you to the toilet.”
She scowled, which only made him laugh. But she hadn’t seen any mice. Maybe they’d gone elsewhere. She slammed her boots on the floor. If there were any four-legged creatures around, they’d hear her coming and disappear. Right?
“Do we have maple syrup?” she asked, after she’d brought the plates and forks she’d taken from the kitchen to the table.
“Should be in the cupboard beside the sink. If not, in the supply room.” He flipped the pancakes.
Taylor found syrup, along with a jar of peanut butter, while Monty slid the cooked pancakes onto a dish and poured two more in the pan.
“So, how long were you married?”
“It’s embarrassing.” It had been a foolish thing to do, a self-loathing thing to do. She’d succeeded in what she’d set out to do, but what good had it done her?
“Being stupid at twenty-one is less embarrassing than jumping on the furniture because you’re afraid of a little mouse,” he said, using the tip of the spatula to peek under the pancakes.
“A good chef knows when to flip, and I didn’t jump on the furniture.”
“Questioning my genius won’t get you fed, and you’d think the floor had been on fire the way you hauled your feet up. So how long?”
She sighed. He wasn’t going to let this go. “Four months.”
“Oh, a Hollywood wedding. My mother had a few of those. Were you drunk? Did you get married in Vegas, a spur-of-the-moment thing? It couldn’t have been an elaborate affair or it would have been all over the papers.” There was a quiet sizzle as he turned the pancakes.
“Alcohol played no role in my decision to marry Gage,” but it had helped during the ceremony. “And it was kept very quiet.” Her father had made sure of that. “I eloped in Paris. It was very romantic…and very stupid.” She’d known that before the I dos and still she’d gone through with it. Gage, well, he had his own reasons and none of them had anything to do with love. She’d succeeded in giving her father something else to bitch about, and had the added benefit of proving to herself how much of a screwup she was. All because she hadn’t had faith in the one person who’d actually told her he loved her.
“Do you still see him?” He stacked the serving plate and brought them to the table.
“About six months ago at his son’s christening.” She’d learned that weekend that their marriage had been both their faults. Frankly, it had been a relief to find out she wasn’t entirely to blame.
“He remarried?” Monty said, surprising her by holding out her chair. He hadn’t done that earlier.
“Let me get my wine.”
Monty put a hand on her arm. “I’ll get it. Sit.”
“Thank you.” She made a mental note to make sure breakfast would surpass his expectations. She didn’t know how she’d do it, but Monty deserved her returning at least one of the many favors she owed him. It didn’t compare, but the least she could do was prepare a nice meal.
When he joined her, she told him how sh
e’d matched Gage with his wife.
“You’re kidding? Your ex hired you to find him a new wife?”
“Our divorce was mutual, and we stayed in touch. I get you have this thing about marriage. But most people don’t try it seven times.”
“You said it yourself, over half of marriages fail,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but did you know eighty percent of arranged marriages succeed?”
“You’re making that up.” He opened the syrup bottle and handed it to her after putting a pancake on her plate.
“I’m not.”
“Are you talking about where the parents get involved? ’Cause that’s not the same thing you do.”
“It sort of is, if my clients are willing to change how they view marriage.”
“This I have to hear.” He took a bite of his food, not bothering with the syrup.
“You don’t do syrup?”
“Too sweet. What’s with the peanut butter?”
“I like peanut butter.” She spread a thin layer onto her pancake, then drizzled a small amount of syrup over it. “I’m a big of fan of romantic love, but it has its place. However, it’s not all about what turns you on.”
“It isn’t? Do you sleep with people who don’t turn you on?” he said, deliberately being facetious.
“We’re not talking about casual affairs. We’re—”
“So, you do sleep with people who turn you on? Casually?” He slipped another forkful into his mouth, waiting expectantly for her reply.
She ignored him. Mostly because she didn’t want to think about sleeping with a certain man who turned her on, casually and certainly not otherwise. “When responsible parents,” not like hers “want what’s best for the kids, they take in to account many important factors.”
“How fast they can unload their kid? How much money the dude makes?”
How much money the kid could make them. “They know their child better than anyone, and yes, financial accountability is part of it. They don’t want to be responsible for an unhappy marriage. Western societies pick partners on appearance mostly, when they pick at all, and the actual decision as to when to choose is one of the problems. Instead of spending so much time thinking about what or who they want, people are better off relying on gut feelings. It’s a proven fact those types of decisions are more successful.”
“Gut feelings?” he said, staring at her mouth. “Hmmm.”
“Yes.” Was he simply not interested in what she had to say or was he amusing himself by trying to make her squirm? “It’s…like spending hours searching for the right dress. You end up leaving the stores unhappy and when or if you actually bought one, you’re always doubting your choice. Plus, arranged marriages begin with lower expectations. They don’t know the person. So, there’s only one way to go—up. They’re more likely to meet and even exceed low expectations. And more weight is given to compatibility and financial security than romantic love, so there’s no honeymoon phase.”
“How un-Western of you. Does that mean you encourage your clients to practice abstinence while they’re dating?”
“I didn’t say that, but I caution against jumping into bed too soon. There’s a difference between lust and love, and that line tends to blur.”
“But it’s okay when you’re not looking for a life mate?”
“That’s not what we’re talking about here, is it?”
“So, then you are okay with causal sex?” He pointed a fork toward her plate. “Eat before it gets cold. We can talk about having sex later.” He picked up the syrup bottle and studied it. “Did you notice if this was the real or the fake stuff?”
“Real.” He was doing that on purpose. She was certain of it. “Are you not interested in what I have to say, or are you knowingly trying to throw me off for your own amusement?”
He set the bottle back on the table. “Throwing you off how?” He wore such an innocent face she wanted to smack him. “Please, continue,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. “You were saying…”
Considering his mother, she guessed he had every right not to take the topic of marriage seriously. Or was this his bizarre way of flirting with her? “I’m not against romantic love, but that shouldn’t be the only reason people get married.”
“Got it. No Cinderella love story for you.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m all for romantic gestures, and if you find a Prince Charming who’s willing to sweep you off your feet, cool. But we’re talking about people who are seriously searching for a partner. They’re not waiting for Prince Charming and the lost glass slipper to come along.”
“My mother was never satisfied with the men she married. At least, from my perspective.”
“People get married for the wrong reason. And, more often than not, they end up hating what it was that made them fall in love in the first place.”
“Like if you love that someone is always agreeable, later you hate it because they avoid confrontation?” He pointed to her plate. “Eat.”
“Something like that.” She couldn’t see that happening with Monty. Keeping her grin to herself, she ate. “The physical part of a relationship is all good, but it’s not enough. Marriage is a contract. I don’t mean when people married for money and titles, but a promise to take care of each other. Money might not be important in our twenties, but when children come along, that changes. I’m not saying people have to have money when they get married, but you have to look at the potential to earn and sustain a family as a couple.”
“Money is the number one stress in marriages.”
Given how he grew up, she shouldn’t be surprised he knew that. “Yes.”
“And you use all that and help couples determine if they truly want to be together?”
“I get them to take a good hard look at each other. It works the other way too. Some couples who had originally rejected each other, changed their minds. I know this isn’t very analytical, but I think the couples who make it on The Bachelor franchise, do that.”
“I don’t watch the show. Reality TV isn’t my thing,” he said, then filled his mouth with pancake.
“Do you know the premise of the show?”
“Sure. One guy, twenty hot women to dick around until he finds the one.”
She let his comment go because in some cases, Monty was right. “They go on these romantic dates that most people wouldn’t have the opportunity to. These bigger-than-life experiences, where it’s hard not to have a good time. When filming is over, and they return home, most break up.”
“Because they never looked at the big picture?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s all fun and games until reality sets in?”
“Are you getting this because of your mom? Or a few crappy relationships of your own?” She could see Monty’s looks attracting women, but he was controlling, and it would take a special woman to accept his quirks and love him anyway. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be in love with him. His always wanting to be right would literally drive her insane. Her father was like that. But she suspected there was more to it than Monty wanting to be right all the time. Anxiety could make someone a control freak, and on occasion people like that had self-esteem issues. Monty was bright, but maybe the confidence he exuded was all for show.
“I’ve had a few breakups. One I was invested in. But you have to understand something. My mother was married seven times, but each man she married was different. She didn’t fall in the rut of falling for the same type of man over and over again, only to keep getting her heart broken. She was like the woman you talked about trying to find the right dress and never being happy. I got to see all kinds of relationship dilemmas. My mother was a beautiful woman. Men dropped like flies at her feet. She had her pick but was never happy. Those she didn’t drive away, or drove to their death, she tired of. I f
or one plan to never go through that because I agree with you on one fundamental element. It’s the expectations that screws with marriages. Low…high…whatever, we all have them. Unless you remove the idea of romantic love from Western society, you’ll always have the same problems.
“If you grow up accepting your parents will make the decision for you, any relationships you might have prior to that are never for anything permanent. It’s The Bachelor each and every time—enjoy it while it lasts, then move on. The only way to fix it in our culture is to cut along the dotted line and float romantic love out to sea. That ain’t ever going to happen. I for one don’t intend to have a lawyer profit from my misery.”
“You’re never getting married? Or falling in love?”
“Most definitely on the first. And on the second? Yup.” He shoved his empty plate forward with a smug smile. Like he was master of his destiny and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
She laughed. “You honestly think you can control falling in love?” She ate another bite and returned his smugness with a haughty smile of her own. “Love isn’t something you can control.”
“What about those arranged marriages?”
She sipped from her glass and grimaced. Maple syrup, peanut butter, and wine? She shrugged. It wasn’t half bad. “Love isn’t being manipulated, only the circumstances in which the couple interacts.” She polished off her wine. “They either fall in love or don’t. It’s not really up for consideration. It happens or it doesn’t. But, as you pointed out, you’re a westerner. Are you saying if you meet someone perfect for you, you’re going to be able to stop yourself from falling in love? Bullshit.”
“There it is, the magic word. Perfect. Like you said, no one is perfect. So, who the hell is perfect for me?” He took her plate and stood. “These are cold. I’ll make you a fresh batch.”
The man had issues. “Wow. You want to know whose perfect? Someone who’ll look past your good looks and tolerate your OCDs.” She raised her empty glass and made a point of looking directly at his crotch. “Liquid courage in case…” She languidly trailed her gaze up his body to linger at his mouth before giving him one of the sexy smiles she reserved for cops who pulled her over for speeding. “In case…I meet a mouse.”