Chapter 6
Ethan
*
Three years ago
*
I was practically storming the castle that summer at the University of Wisconsin. I was finishing my MBA and applying to law schools. By July I’d not only rocked my LSATs, I’d also nailed eighty percent of the hottest sorority girls: under-grad and post.
Instead of traveling back to Chicago and chilling for break, I decided to stay in Wisconsin and pad my ‘community activities’ section for law school applications. In June I served as junior activities director at a memory care senior center. In July I assisted at the Legal Aid Society in downtown Madison. August rolled around and I volunteered at a Camp Big Fish for special needs kids.
At first glance, the facility appeared basic as far as summer camps went. Forty acres of farmland ten miles outside the city on Lake Waubesa at the end of a skinny blacktopped lane that diverted off US Hwy 51. Fat oak trees filled with green leafy branches surrounded a wooden lodge and clusters of mini look-alike buildings built back in the 1940s. A small, refurbished red barn squatted in the distance surrounded by a fence with a few fat chickens scratching around in the adjoining yard. Picnic tables were to the right of the clubhouse and a regulation size swimming pool was surrounded by a sturdy fence to the left.
I’d signed up to be a general assistant at Camp Big Fish, which translated to I’d help wherever doing whatever help was needed—janitor, kitchen duty, gardener, chaperone, tour guide—but my specialty was activities. I loved assisting the kids in badminton, volleyball, crafting elaborate puzzles on large tables in the rec hall, fashioning sand castles on the skinny beach, and acting as lifeguard.
The late summer days were hot and humid with the occasional thunderstorm rolling in and clearing the heat from the air for a half hour or so. It had already rained this morning, but cumulous clouds still puffed across the late afternoon blue skies in that Midwestern summer weather, bipolar kind of way. I walked out of the camp’s clubhouse absorbed in my phone when the sun poked out, beamed down from the heavens, and obscured my vision.
“Hey tall guy, move it,” an irritated female voice commanded.
I glanced up and spotted a pretty blonde wearing jeans and a red sleeveless shirt. She was riding a beach cruiser bicycle and barreling toward me with a book in one hand. She jammed on the brakes with her free hand, but not quickly enough.
The collision was far from epic. The bike struck me square in the legs and I stumbled backwards, somehow managing to stay upright. She, on the other hand, toppled sideways with a thunk. Her book flew out of her hand and landed a few yards away in a shallow puddle.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She shoved back a lick of cropped hair from her face and glared daggers at me with blue eyes that could pierce a man’s soul. “Yes, asshat. But that was my favorite book and you just ruined everything. Why didn’t you move?”
“It’s not like you gave me a ton of time.” I held out my hand to her and couldn’t help but check her out. “What do you mean, ‘I ruined everything?”
She ignored my hand and stood up. “You ruined the moment. You screwed it up. You wrecked the ‘happily-ever-after.’” She brushed off her jeans. She was skinny with sharp elbows and knees, offset by decent curves.
I walked over and picked up her book. “A little wet but it’s not ruined. There’s a couple of ants…”
“Screw the ants. Summer’s unwanted guests at any party.” She marched the few steps toward me.
“I’m sorry.” I brushed them off. “My name’s Ethan. You are?”
“Zoey.” She reached for the paperback and I felt a bit warm, like that brilliant ray of sun was burning a hole through me. I clenched the book, unwilling to let it go. Unwilling to let this feeling go. Unwilling to let her go. But she tugged the book from my hands.
“I was lost in the story,” she said. “The spell is broken.”
“I’ll buy you another book, Cinderella.”
“I’m not Cinderella. I have a decent family. No one’s evil except for my Uncle Bob, and we all just ignore him when he drinks too much and yells political shit at the dinner table on Sundays.”
“Every family has an Uncle Bob.”
“You’re right.” Zoey laughed. She righted her bike and walked it away from me. “Nice running into you, Tall Guy. Got places to go and people to see.”
But I wasn’t ready for her to leave. There was something different about her. Something free and less confined than the girls I was used to. “I work here. Can I help you with something? Come on, give me a second chance.” I stepped into place alongside her and her mint-green Schwinn speckled with rust.
She shook her head. “I know where I’m going. My brother attends Camp Big Fish. I told him I’d hang out with him on my lunch break. Peter Clark. The adorable nine-year-old in the shallow end of the pool. Do you know him?”
I glanced over at the pool situated a dozen or so yards from the rec center. “I know Peter. The dude in the super hero bathing suit dude with the ‘Watch me do this’ attitude.”
“That’s him.”
Peter spotted her and broke into a gap-toothed smile. He whipped his hands up and down, splashing the water.
Her eyes lit up, a grin broke out on her sun-kissed face, and she strode toward him. “Peter Peter pumpkin eater! I want to see you swim!” She leaned the bike against the fence, unlatched the protective gate and kicked off her shoes. She made her way barefoot across the tinted concrete, bent down at the water’s edge and held out her hand to him.
I followed her, took a seat at her side and watched her interact with her brother.
“Ethan Rosseaux,” a camp director hollered at me from across the pool.
I stood up. “Yes, Ma’am!”
“You’re needed on barn duty. Feed the chickens and the goat.”
“A goat? I didn’t know we had a goat.”
“She’s new, a bit ornery, but I have a feeling she’ll take to you, just like all the other girls do.”
Zoey eyed me.
“I’m screwed,” I said, smiling down at her. “The only thing I know about chickens is marinating them in sauce before slapping them on the grill. This goat thing has me quaking in my boots.”
She glanced down at my size twelves and then squinted up, shading her eyes. “You’re wearing runners.”
“I’m quaking in those too.”
“Dork,” she said. “Get to work. Move it.”
“Only if you promise to rescue me.”
“From the chickens?”
“I can handle the feathery bastards. The goat.”
“Screw the goat. If she touches you I will make shish-kebobs out of her.”
“You’re giving me a second chance?”
“Yes, asshat.” She reached out a hand. “Shake on it.”
I shook Zoey’s hand and my womanizing ways were history. My heart was taken. Stolen in an accidental moment, confirmed with a second chance, sealed with her hand clasped firmly in mine.
Chapter 7
Harper
*
It might be fun to fantasize about what Ethan and I would do with desserts, how he’d kiss crumbs off my lips as we played sweeter with our food. But my naughty daydreams were not going to pay the rent or feed Romeo’s fickle addiction to pricey gourmet cat food.
I double downed on my hard work at Mr. Cupid. Oh sure, matchmaking appeared fun and glamorous on Instagram when one posted pics from the occasional party or expensed lunch. But the sad reality was that the job combined an armchair talent for psychological analysis with white-collar grunt work.
I’d made progress and identified three potential hunky matches for Sophia Bardolino, sportswear designer, and rumored Mafioso princess. Bachelor number one was a sexy litigator who was making a name for himself in environmental law. The second contestant was a professional hockey player who was sick and tired of dating bimbos and wanted to settle down. The third guy had invented a popular social media
app that had blown up when it went public last year, skyrocketing his income into the stratosphere. All were cute, all were smart, and none, per my promise, were Catholic.
“Go forth and date,” I texted Sophia late Monday afternoon.
“What if I hate them?” she texted back.
“Then I’ll find you three more. But if you hate all of them I need to know why.”
Finding a match for Jake Brewer on the other hand, wasn’t so easy. Sure, I could, with a few clicks, locate a hundred girls and guys who would have been happy to have their wicked ways with him, but the undertones of his emotional and mental checklist were more complex than I expected. After further conversations with Jake I’d discovered that as much as he liked to flaunt his bad boy persona, he had a kind heart and a sharp brain. So why was he dating losers and bimbos? Why was he so scared to commit? I was researching his social media feeds for clues at 9 p.m. on Tuesday night when Mr. Cupid’s big boss walked past my cubicle on his way out of the building.
“Mr. Brady?” I glanced up from my computer screen. “Can I ask you a question?”
He sighed. “I have a date with fleecy slippers, a British spy thriller, and a neat glass of bourbon in half an hour.”
“Right. Super quick. Taking into account that I’m relatively new to this matchmaking gig, my recent client seems like a cocky piece of work. But underneath his bravado there seems to be a sweetness. A beating heart. I feel like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle.”
“You’re talking about Luke Faulkner?”
“No.”
“Adam Bachman?”
“No.”
“William Fitzsimmons?”
“Nope.”
He scratched his head. “Which cocky piece of work did we assign you?”
“Jake Brewer.”
“Aha. The pretty one all the young girls run after but he’s like Teflon.”
I nodded. “Why is his mom so determined it’s time that he settle down?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
I smacked my forehead. “I can do that?”
“Yes. Don’t re-invent the wheel, Harper. Just put your foot on the gas and drive the car. And remember to brake every once in a while.”
*
I met Jake’s mom for lunch at a café in a converted loft in River North to discuss the dilemma. Wendy Brewer was in her sixties. A curvy woman, she wore a tailored designer suit, her hair styled in an expensive Champagne-colored bob. Originally from the Chicago suburbs, she’d moved back to the city three years ago from Texas after her husband had passed.
“Jake’s a total catch,” I said over lunch. “Why does he need a matchmaker?”
She rolled her eyes and sipped her dirty martini. “That boy could charm the cotton briefs off a convent of singing nuns. I want him to meet someone substantial. He won’t be happy with Tits-on-a Stick no matter how big her boobs are.” She signaled a waiter. “Check, please.” She pulled a compact and lipstick from her Chanel bag and touched up her lips. “Lunch is on me.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for my iced tea.
“You probably wonder why I’m putting the pressure on. Why not give Jake another decade to fool around? Knock up a girl or two. Provide child support for twenty-one years or forever.”
“No judgment.” I said.
“Jake’s father passed away a few years ago and left him a third of his estate. The dollar amount is substantial. I’ve had control of the purse strings this whole time but he comes into his inheritance on his next birthday. After he turns twenty-eight all his financial mistakes are on him.”
“You’ve got a ticking clock on your hands.”
“A very naughty, adorable ticking clock. I bought a cute condo in Paris overlooking the Champs Elysees. I signed up for cooking classes and historic tours of the city. After sixty plus years, Mother Brewer gets to live her own life again. I love my son, Miss Schubert.” She drained the last of her martini. “I want to give him one last push, a little extra help to find a mate with a kind heart and good intentions. But when his birthday hits, and two hundred million transfers into Jake’s name—I’m done. Mama’s pushing baby bird out of the nest.”
“I will do everything in my power to help.”
“I appreciate it.”
*
The hot water rushed as it filled my tub in the bathroom a few yards away from my kitchen. I sat on a stool next to the counter eating a dinner salad as Romeo stared dejectedly at three dishes of fresh cat food on the floor in front of him.
“Number one is canned tuna,” I said, stabbing my fork into a hunk of Romaine lettuce and a tomato with Caesar salad on top, and chomping on it. “Number two: Fluffy Farms organic turkey gelee with sweet potatoes. Three: Chicken broth with shreds of chicken and carrots that I stewed in the crock-pot yesterday. Surely, one must be to your liking?”
He stared up at me, blinked, then turned and stalked away, tail twitching.
“You might be super cute, Romeo. But I’m still the official and only dispenser of cat food at Chez Schubert.” I put the salad bowl in the sink and made my way to the bathroom. “And that’s not changing anytime soon.”
There was something about warm water that soothed me. I sprinkled lavender salts into the bath and selected the ‘Chill’ playlist from my phone. I lit a candle on the porcelain sink with the same reverence I used to light a votive on an altar in St. Bernadette’s Church that I attended with my mom years ago in Oconomowoc. I killed the bathroom lights, stepped into the tub waters and laid back. I closed my eyes.
And thought about Ethan.
Oh yes, I’d Googled the hell out of ‘Rosseaux Hotel staff’. I might have spotted a photo of him years ago but it was so dated it was hard to tell if it was him. I thought about returning to the hotel and wandering back into the kitchen, but that made me feel like a desperate stalker chick. And that felt creepy.
I’d doubled down on my efforts and searched again using his name combined with the keywords actor, tall, handsome, waiter. That was a fun plot bunny to chase after for a few hours. On a productive note, I’d added a few handsome working thespians to my database to contact for potential client matches.
But I could find no solid leads as to the identity of the gorgeous man who’d wiped slime off my face, cooked for me, and nearly kissed me. Which pained me, because I so very badly wanted Ethan to be here.
I wanted him to say my name in that husky voice, lean in and kiss me. His mouth would be firm against mine. He’d taste like peppermint and scotch, and I’d get a contact high from his kiss. I’d gaze into his hazel eyes, lift my hand from the warm bath water, and run my wet fingers through his thick hair. Then I’d trail my fingers down the cords of his neck, smoothing them over his defined shoulders, feeling every cut, admiring every swell of his muscles as my internal temperature began heating up.
A loud ‘meow’ cut through my reverie.
I opened my eyes and spotted Romeo sitting next to the tub looking irritated. “Yes. I know you’re the only handsome man in my life but sometimes a girl can dream.” He turned tail and plodded away.
I sighed, pulled myself out of the tub, toweled off, and threw on a fuzzy robe. I padded into the kitchen and spotted Romeo licking Caesar dressing from shreds of lettuce in my salad bowl. “You’re a weirdo,” I picked up my phone, clicking on a text from Sophia.
Sophia: Need to talk.
I texted back.
Harper: Cocktails?
Sophia: Better idea.
*
“How is running in 15 degree weather on the path around Lake Michigan better than cocktails,” I asked.
“Endorphins,” Sophia said. “Nature’s high.”
“Vodka,” I said. “Potatoes’ high.”
The skies above the concrete running path in the Miracle Mile were gray and cloudy as we ran. The air was crisp but heavy. Light flakes wafted from the skies.
Sophia had messengered a few samples of her signature exercise apparel that Friday to the Agenc
y a few hours ago. Now I was dressed head to toe in Bardwear. The leggings were black, comfortably snug, and triple-weave. The long-sleeved T had a sturdy built in bra that supported my girls. The jacket bore her trademark design. I looked the part of a runner. If only my body could figure that out.
I stopped, pausing to catch my breath. “Talk to me.”
Sophia jogged in place a few feet away. “Don’t take this the wrong way. All the guys you picked were hot. The lawyer’s brilliant. The hockey player is sweet, and my good god, who wouldn’t want to spank that fabulous ass?”
“Everybody wants to spank that fabulous ass!” We high fived.
“The app inventor is wicked brainy,” she said. “But…”
“What’s the problem?”
“No chemistry. With any of them.”
“Not even the hockey player?”
“I suspect after the spanking’s over, I wouldn’t call him the next day. Come on,” she said, gearing up to run again. “Let’s hit it. I need my daily endorphin fix.”
“I’m not as hard core as you, Sophia. Please don’t kill me,” I said, as we resumed jogging.
“I leave that to my relatives. Hah! I see that look of horror on your face. I’m just kidding!”
“Sadly, no one would really care except for my mother who would hunt you down and revenge kill you,” I huffed alongside her. “And then everyone would end up in the slammer and it would just be a huge mess.”
“I hate when that happens,” she said. “Please add ‘No murdering’ to my contract. No Catholics and no murdering.”
I scribbled in the air. “Done. I’ll find you better matches. But maybe my picker was off? I need more clues. More insight as to what makes Sophia Bardolino tick. What floats your boat? Money? Exotic vacations?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Perhaps you need a sensitive soul? A poet or a musician.”
“I like tall, dark and handsome. Wicked funny. Likes to play games—but the good kind—not evil mind games.”
Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire Page 5