Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire

by Pamela DuMond

  “Been there, done that,” I said.

  “I like a man who’s a bit of a wordsmith. Clever as hell. He not only makes me laugh, he’s also smoking hot in bed. Problem is, a lot of these types are writers or actors. And I promised myself—no more writers or actors.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Male artistic types can be self-absorbed. Stuck in their own little worlds. Look in the mirror too much and like Narcissus, fall into the pool of self-absorption, and drown. And then I’d be widowed and my mom would start nagging me all over again.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. Date one and you’ll find out. Prying them out of their brain cave is a workout, and not the fun kind. But if I could meet someone with those qualities without the baggage, I’d give that guy a test drive. If he held my interest I might even call him back the next day.”

  “Not sure I know any wickedly sexy funny writers or actors,” I lied, as memories of Hot Waiter invaded my brain cells. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  We finished our jog around the lake and ended up, as luck would have it, two blocks from the Rosseaux. I stared up at boutique hotel in all its wedding cake splendor. Steam wafted from a few vents on the roof, making it look moody as hell. And I wasn’t sure which I needed more: to stay away from Hot Waiter Ethan—or to run into him boobs first again.

  Chapter 8

  Ethan

  *

  Harper was on my brain.

  I texted John Biltenhouse on Monday until my thumbs bled. I always suspected he was a wanker. It was confirmed when he never got back to me. I Googled the crap out of the name ‘Harper,’ gorgeous, and society weddings. Not surprisingly my search was unproductive but I was a stubborn man.

  It was 10:30 p.m. and suddenly I needed blood flow. I shrugged on my coat, strode to the Rosseaux and hit the gym. I lifted weights then ran on the treadmill. When I stepped into the elevator at the same time I’d run into Harper a few nights before, I waited expectantly. But there was no pouty-lipped girl, green slime oozing down her face humming a Christmas carol. I returned to my condo, took a shower, and cooled off the old-fashioned way.

  Her name was Harper, but who the hell was she? When I met her at the Biltenhouse wedding I assumed she was a friend of the bride. I’d crossed paths with John at social events and charity gatherings. He was a nice enough guy, if a bit of a dork. I’d run into him in the lobby of the Rosseaux a few weeks prior. He’d told me he was getting married Saturday, invites were already out, but he’d add me to the guest list. Just stop by, share some decent scotch with some old friends, and celebrate his good fortune.

  I was in the process of doing just that when Harper bumped into me with her magnificent boobs, her pretty face, and her earnest desire to make everything right. Delicious, hot, delectable, Harper. Each press of the napkin to her scotch-soaked gown filled my mind with provocative thoughts of what her firm flesh would feel like beneath the fabric. I imagined getting lost under that soaked skirt, my hands skimming up the curves of her thighs. Her breath would catch, her cheeks flush, she’d bite her lower lip in the way she did that was so sexy.

  And then I’d give my head a virtual shake, drag myself back to reality, and stare up into her earnest face as she discussed who owed whom what kind of compensation even though I already knew the only payment I wanted: permission to kiss her, permission to touch her.

  By Tuesday, it was time to stalk her on social media. Ten minutes of scrolling on Instagram led me to a photo of her at the Biltenhouse wedding reception. John kissed the bride and, score, Harper was in the picture’s background, leaning against the wall with that same ‘Holy crap I’m here,’ look on her face.

  Why that expression? Did she feel out of place?

  On Wednesday, I worked at Marte’s penthouse, managing her investment portfolio, and then took her out for fish and chips to The Brit, an English pub she liked on Riverwalk. We sat across from each other at a dark shellacked pine table next to the window. I literally looked down on her. She resembled a white-haired munchkin. In her eyes, I probably looked like a giant. “I updated a few of your mutual funds. Not a big deal.”

  “That’s nice.” She sipped hot tea and nibbled on a chip. “How are you sleeping?”

  “Like I always sleep, Grandma. In a bed.”

  “I assumed that. I mean how well are you sleeping? Eight hours a night?”

  “Sometimes,” I said, no longer hungry. I pushed my plate to the side.

  “Interrupted or uninterrupted?”

  I flagged down a waiter. “Grandma, would you like anything else?”

  “Transparency,” she said.

  “Too personal.” I handed my credit card to the waiter.

  “Too personal my pancake ass,” she said. “You used to run around the penthouse naked when you were three.”

  “Yes, well, that was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Are you dating anyone new? You’re not getting any younger.”

  The waiter dropped off our tab and I signed the bill. “I didn’t know I had an expiration date.”

  “Sadly, I do.” She finished her drink. “Take me home Ethan. I’m tired. I’m thirty plus fifty-three.” She stood up, holding onto the table with one hand for security.

  “A youngster.” I lifted her coat from the back of her chair and helped her shrug it on, one arthritic shoulder at a time. She was slowing down. And I didn’t even want to think about the day she wouldn’t be around anymore.

  On Thursday, I jogged three flights down the stairs from my condo to the Rosseaux Library to receive a delivery of framed antique maps and oversee their installation. Biltenhouse still hadn’t returned my text, so I called his work while I waited for the professionals to hang the new acquisitions. “Look,” I pleaded with his secretary. “I need to contact a guest on the wedding invite list. I already know her first name. Can’t recall her last.”

  “I’m not authorized to give out that information, sir. But I can transfer you to his voicemail. Mr. Biltenhouse instructed me to advise personal callers that he wants to remember the three weeks following his wedding as his honeymoon—not the moon of checking messages.”

  I ground my teeth. “He thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I sighed. “Connect me. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’ve reached…”

  I waited for the beep. “Ethan Rosseaux, here. Come up for air and I’ll make it worth your while at the next charity gig. I need the last name of the pretty blond at your wedding. First name’s Harper. Mid-twenties. I think she’s a friend of your new wife… Linda, Kelly, Minka, Lesley—you know her name. No, it can’t wait for whatever you’re mooning over these days. Give me the last name of the pretty blond girl, Biltenhouse. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  On Friday, I was back at the library for a scheduled tour with St. Patrick’s Elementary School 3rd grade class. It was only the slightest bit uncomfortable when I realized that I’d fooled around with their teacher, Miss Megan McMalley, against the same stacks in aisle five where I now stood with a crop of fresh-faced eight-year-olds.

  “What do we say to Mr. Rosseaux?” Megan prompted her class.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rosseaux.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She leaned in and whispered, “It’s been a while. Why don’t I come back tonight?”

  “I’ve got plans,” I lied. “Bummer.”

  I walked back upstairs to my condo, poured myself a decent single malt scotch, settled back in my favorite chair, and gazed out at the Christmas lights up and down Michigan Avenue. Snow fell, dusting the city, and I wondered where Harper was and what she was doing. My gaze was drawn to a woman on the running path next to Lake Shore Drive. I blinked and pulled myself out of the chair, moving toward the window. She was wearing an orange beanie and talking with a woman. It was too far away to be sure, but she sure as shit looked like Harper. The intercom buzzed. I walked to it a
nd pressed the audio button. “What?”

  “We’re going out to Double D Burgers and Brew,” a man’s voice said. “Stop being such an asshole hermit and join us.”

  “Okay.” I opened the door and stared down at my cousin. I was taller than Daniel by a few inches, but he’d been known to kick my ass when we were younger.

  “Really?” He blinked.

  “Yeah. You caught me on one of those days.” I grabbed my coat from the pegged wall rack and shrugged it on.

  “We are so blessed,” he said.

  “Shut up, asshole.”

  “I thought you were the asshole?”

  “Every family’s allowed two.”

  Chapter 9

  Harper

  *

  18 months ago

  *

  A few months ago I’d scored a job as an assistant at Mad City Wedding Planners in Maple Bluff, Wisconsin. I helped brides and their families decide on venues, color schemes, dates, and pricing. The shop was a small storefront on State Street that had been whitewashed, track lighting installed, murals painted on the walls, and photos of happy, pretty, beaming couples were everywhere.

  Which was how I met Sean Kessler. He was on his way to Madison Planners, asked Siri for directions, and hit the wrong address on his phone. He ended up wandering into our shop.

  “Can I help you?” I asked the cute, muscular, blonde guy who eyed the explosion of prettiness with confusion.

  “Madison Planners? I’m supposed to meet Brad about pricing for a bowling league gig.”

  “Nope,” I said. “You’re at Mad City Wedding Planners. Common mistake. As far as I’m concerned, those Madison Planners look shifty. They probably keep all the marriage-minded people that stumble into their shop. We counter their thieving ways by talking folks into doing football-themed nuptials. You’ve never been to a wedding until it’s mixed with a Green Bay Packer’s tailgate party.”

  He chuckled, checked me out, and smiled in a charming, boyish way. We went on our first date the next night.

  Sean was smart, thoughtful, and funny. His family owned several local manufacturing facilities, commercial real estate, and an auto dealership. They had roots in the town going back a few generations.

  Two weeks passed and at the end of June I moved out of mom’s house in Oconomowoc to be closer to work. I was twenty-three and I’d only moved back in with her six months ago when she’d had a rough patch. Mom watched as I loaded the car, stuffing boxes and three suitcases into the back seat. “You don’t need to leave, you know. I have plenty of room for you here.”

  I jammed a plastic bag of stuffed animals into the trunk and pushed on the door three times until it latched. “No, you don’t,” I said, catching my breath. “Callie’s nineteen. She’s been gunning for my room since she was thirteen. You’ve got a serious boyfriend now.”

  “I’ll always have room for you.” Mom walked around the car toward me with open arms. “Come here, my baby girl. You’re not supposed to get all big and grown up on me.”

  I moved the few steps into her arms and she hugged me tight. I was scared to leave her again. I was fourteen when dad walked out. I babysat Callie a lot and stuck by Mom during the many trips to the doctor’s office until they finally diagnosed her with Lyme disease. I held Mom’s hand every time a boyfriend walked out, and when marriage #2 ended. I didn’t trust she could take care of herself, but it was time for the next step in my life. “I’m only moving forty minutes away. It’s not like I’m going to Alaska.”

  “Maple Bluff might as well be Alaska. Don’t move in with that boyfriend too quickly. Stay with those girls you found on Craigslist who needed a roommate.”

  I saluted her. “Will do.”

  A month passed and the girls who needed a roommate also needed to stop doing drugs and inviting strange men home after late nights at the bar. One night I woke up in the middle of the night and saw a strange drunk guy stumbling toward my bed. I ran out of the room and called Sean in a panic. I moved in with him the next day as a ‘temporary’ solution to my problem.

  I’d been living with Sean at his house in the woods close to Lake Mendota for almost two months now. It was a smaller residence for the neighborhood but still larger than any of the places I grew up in. It was Cape Cod-ish, had three bedrooms, a full basement with a pool table and a flat screen on the wall, and a bar in the corner. The living room had beamed ceilings, a fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back yard, which was the crown jewel of the place—a patch of green that abruptly transitioned into an acre of Wisconsin woods. There was a deck with a grill, and an array of wood stumps at the far end of the yard were chipped and pocked with holes.

  When I’d first seen it I’d asked Sean if he had a woodpecker problem.

  “Target practice,” he’d said, grilling salmon fillets on the barbecue. “My friends come over and shoot.”

  “Oh,” I’d said, nodding sagely.

  “You want me to teach you?”

  “Not for me. Just not my thing.”

  “Me either. Another glass of wine?”

  We didn’t talk about me finding a new place to live. We talked about what side of the bedroom closet was mine.

  Sean and I had been dating for three months. Late in the day on a muggy Saturday in August, I peered into the wall mirror in the living room and fussed with my long hair, twisting it into a loose updo with some decorative clips.

  My handsome boyfriend looked up from his computer and eyed me with a funny look. “Babe, you’re not wearing that to the party tonight, are you?”

  I glanced down at my simple, floral print sundress that fell just above the knees. “Yes. It’s new. It’s cute.”

  “It’s too revealing,” he said. “It shows too much of your breasts.”

  I peered down again and saw a hint of cleavage. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does. It’s practically see-through. Did you get it online?”

  “No.” I fingered the skirt’s fabric. It felt normal. I eyed it a little closer. Was it really see-through? I spotted the faint outline of my bare knees through the skirt. Maybe he was right. “I got it on sale at Montgomery’s Department Store.”

  “They’ve been going downhill for years. No one shops there anymore.” He stared at his laptop, absorbed in Excel spreadsheets.

  He might know a lot about sales but he was wrong about this. Montgomery’s had been around Madison for forty years. It was a household name. “I know a lot of people who shop there.”

  “People have moved on. I heard it’s going out of business. I think a sporting goods store is taking over the space.”

  “Like Madison needs more sporting goods stores.” I said, tugging my bodice up a little higher on my chest.

  “Hah, you’re right.” He patted his thigh. Come here.”

  I walked the few steps toward him. He took my hand, pulled me onto his lap, and kissed me. “Look, Babe. We’re attending the annual summer picnic at the Yacht Club tonight. You need to fit in with the crowd. Look respectable.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling a perplexing mix of confusion and shame.

  Sean probably knew more about this community, their dress code, and all the social mores than I did. The Kesslers were well known in Maple Bluff and had had a membership at the Yacht Club for decades.

  “I didn’t say anything before because everything was casual. The parties, us,” Sean said.

  “What do you mean ‘casual’?” My stomach flip-flopped. The past week I’d felt like there was something off with Sean and me but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “Are you saying we’re ‘casual’? Do you not want us to be exclusive?”

  “No Babe, we’re definitely exclusive. I meant earlier in the relationship. Before we knew that we worked.”

  “Oh,” I said. But my brain was churning, feeling like I was still missing a piece of a bigger puzzle. I stood up. “Was there was a problem with my clothing, you know, before today?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’
t want to mention it. Stop worrying. You’ll wear something classier tonight. More appropriate. You’ll fit in just fine. Now go!” He pinched my waist and turned back to his computer.

  “I’ve probably got something else in the closet.”

  “Good girl. Hurry it up so we won’t be late.”

  “Right,” I said, turning and walking out of the room. I felt confused, uneasy, and my stomach churned. “Of course.”

  Chapter 10

  Ethan

  *

  Trendy burger joints in the Rush Street area were a dime a dozen but I’d hit this one before and it actually served decent food. Daniel had rustled up his usual crew of sycophants and hangers-on but there were a few non suck ups in tonight’s crowd. Rock n roll classics played in the background. We grabbed a table in the back, ordered beer, and a few trays of sliders.

  “Staying in town for Christmas?” Daniel asked, craning his neck toward the front door. He broke into a smile and waved at a group of girls making their way to our table.

  “Yes. Grandma likes the holidays.”

  “Hire a jet, pop her on board, and visit us in Aspen,” he said.

  “She likes the holidays here.”

  “You’ve got to get out and live one of these days, buddy.” He stood, pulled one beauty toward him and kissed her square on the lips. “Ethan, this is Sienna.”

  “The reclusive Ethan Rosseaux. Heard all about you,” she said. “My friends Cindy and Robin are in town for the holidays.”

  The cute girls were interchangeable. “Nice meeting you ladies. Help yourself to beer and burgers.”

  An hour and a half passed and I couldn’t have been more brain dead if I’d been lobotomized. The women chattered about parties, new TV shows streaming this month, and politics. The guys threw down with football, investments, and the best black diamond ski runs.

  I glanced at my watch. “I’m calling it a night.”

  “Don’t,” Daniel said. “The short one has had her eye on you the entire time.”