My cabbie pulled up to the curb as another text buzzed on my phone. Geez. I was gone for a few hours and all hell was breaking loose.
Wait. Wait. Wait just a minute. Did he say what I thought he said?
I looked up into his gorgeous eyes—and maybe I was reading into this—he appeared hopeful. “Hot Waiter, you know we can’t date. Marte cut Mr. Cupid a thirty thousand dollar down payment, you signed a contract, and you’re my client. It is strictly forbidden to date clients.”
“Maybe I’m not ready to get married right away,” he said. “But maybe I’m finally ready to date. I already have my eye on someone. I’d like to take my time and do things slowly, and the old-fashioned way. Get to know her better. Go to the movies. Put my arm around her when the lights dim. Take it from there.”
I looked up at him and he reminded me of that Bernese Mountain puppy—big and earnest, good hearted and sweet. But unlike the puppy, sexy as sin. What did he mean by being ready to date again? Note to self: find out about his last girlfriend.
A new text came in and this one had photos.
Mr. Brady: See attached regarding your new client.
Maybe Mr. Brady had tracked down some information that I could add to Ethan’s profile. I glanced down at my phone and nearly fell over. It was a picture of a diamond ring that had to be worth a small fortune. I quickly pulled myself together and turned back to Ethan. “In a perfect world that could happen. But I learned the hard way it’s not a perfect world, and then of course, there’s this.” I handed him my phone as I stepped into the back seat of the car.
He leaned in and eyed the photo. “Ah, my grandmother sent you a picture of the ring she’s giving me to gift my future wife?”
“Yes. It’s spectacular. She also posted it on Instagram.”
“She’s hard core, man. She always gets what she wants.”
“Figured as much. Look at the second picture.”
He tapped the screen and his face paled. “Oh, crap she did not.”
“Oh, crap she did.”
Our heads bumped together as we both leaned in to stare at the image on my phone.
Marte Rosseaux sat in a wheelchair in the lobby of the Rosseaux Hotel, her injured ankle encased in an orthopedic boot and elevated on a foot rest. Her hair was coiffed, and she wore a festive Santa hat. Uniformed employees surrounded her: Beverly from Housekeeping, Luisa from the Beauty Shop, Tony Serrano the nighttime concierge, Chef Mikey, and others. They were all grinning mischievously. A large banner behind their heads read:
“Dear Santa: We haven’t been naughty. We’ve been extra nice. All we want for Christmas — is Ethan’s perfect wife.”
Chapter 23
Ethan
*
Three years ago
*
I was twenty-five years old, had been accepted to Harvard Law, and I was going to ask Zoey Clark to be my wife.
My grandmother Marte had allowed me to pick one of her diamond rings that grandpapa had given her. The first had a smaller diamond. The setting was simpler but I chose it because it felt pure.
I had the stone polished, the ring fitted to Zoey’s size, and drove down to Chicago to pick it up. It was tucked in a black velvet box in my jean jacket. I drove the two plus hours back to her place that was now basically my place as well. I stuck the box with the ring in the back of a dresser drawer and waited for the right time. The weeks rolled by. In the meantime, I also had to get a lot of stuff done.
It was a chilly, drizzly autumn Saturday afternoon in November. Thanksgiving holidays were fast approaching but there was no rest for the wicked. I lay on Zoey’s living room couch, laptop propped up on my knees, as I vomited words onto my French Lit paper due the following week. The flat screen resting on her antique sideboard was turned to the football game: University of Wisconsin Badgers against Penn State.
Assholes beat us last year in the Big 10 Championship and this was a no-holds barred grudge match. It was the third quarter and second down. Penn State was six points ahead with five minutes remaining in regulation time. It was that time in the game where anything could happen. My attention flipped between the TV and my paper when Zoey popped up in front of me in her running gear.
She bounced up and down on her heels. “Pull your butt off that couch, Tall Guy, and let’s hit the trail. We need to get some blood in our brains. Move it or lose it.”
“Not feeling it, baby.” I craned my neck to stare around her at the game. “Third quarter. If the Badgers don’t complete this drive we’re screwed.”
She dropped to her knees in front of the couch, obscuring my view of the game, and planted a soft kiss on my lips. “This week sucked. I got a C on a test. An important test that I studied very hard for. Peter had a nuclear sized meltdown at school and my manager at the restaurant screamed at me for not pushing the spinach dip harder. I need to clear my head. I desire your tall, hot, manly company. Be my guy, Ethan.”
“Temptress.” I looked into her blue eyes, grabbed her hand, pulled her on top of me, and kissed her. She tasted like the crisp fall apple she’d eaten earlier. Audience screams and shouts blasted from the TV, and I peered around her. Crap! Penn State just pulled off an interception. “Can’t. I’m stuck finishing this paper.”
“You just want to watch the rest of the game.”
“Give me a pass. I’ll make it up to you next time.”
She squirmed off me and scrunched her nose. “You’re only stuck because you want to be stuck. You’re in charge of your actions, your decisions, your life. You make your own choices, Tall Guy. You can move mountains if you want to. Right now, you’re the mountain and you’re lying on my couch. Move it.”
“I’ll move it when it matters.” I thought of the black jewelry box tucked in the back of my designated sock drawer. I took her thin, pale hand and kissed it. “I’ll move it soon. Promise.”
She yanked her hand away and strode off. “This is what I don’t understand about you. What if it matters now?” She grabbed her phone from the side table. “What if the only thing that matters is what we’re doing right here, right now?”
“That’s not true.” I pulled my laptop back onto my lap. “People make plans. We prepare. Put things in place for a day in the future. Besides, you’ll always matter to me, Zoey Clark.”
“Whatever, Ethan.” She left the apartment and slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 24
Harper
*
Sarah and Giles converged on me as I entered Mr. Cupid’s office. They both had panicked looks on their faces. “Jesus, I was only gone a couple of hours,” I muttered under my breath.
A silver-haired dapper man in his sixties rose from his chair in our shabby chic waiting room and extended his hand.
He had to be Sophia’s mobster uncle. The famous Vincent Bardolino. “Hello, Mr. Bardolino. Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand. “I can’t wait to talk with you about your concerns regarding your niece, Sophia. Walk with me to my office, yes?”
“Perfect,” he said. “Lovely to make your acquaintance as well.”
“Miss Schubert,” Sarah said. “We’re still re-modeling your office, remember?”
Ah yes. My office. The cubicle.
Sarah waggled her eyebrows and pointed in the opposite direction toward the chic conference room.
A few moments later I sat across the distressed white stained, recycled barn wood table from Sophia’s uncle. I tried to look sensible because I didn’t think I could pull off powerful, or ‘boss.’ “How can I help you today, Mr. Bardolino?”
“I hear you’re the matchmaker in charge of finding suitable men that might be an appropriate mate for my niece.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I know my first three choices didn’t yield positive results for your lovely niece, whom I adore, by the way—”
“She is adorable,” he said. “That’s a detriment.”
“No. Adorable is good. I’ve got a few more choices for Sophia that I’m lining up. Narrowing d
own more suitable matches for her.”
“You can stop that as of right now.” He pulled a checkbook out of his suit coat, tossed it on the table, and ripped off a single check. “Who do I make this out to? You?”
“Sorry?”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want to not find the right man for my niece. Name your price.”
“I’m confused.”
“Look. I’m a busy man. Your business is charming, really. Pretty. Sweet. Picture perfect. I get the whole lovey-dovey ‘matchmaking’ vibe. My sister-in-law wants to marry Sophia off so she can have more grandbabies. But there’s a problem.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Sophia Bardolino is already promised in marriage to a man who will never be on your list.”
“Huh? What?”
“Ms. Schubert. I thought we might help each other out.” He scribbled out a check. “Do each other a professional kindness. Sophia is off the market. She’s already taken. This will refund the deposit that has been made and give you and the agency a nice bonus.” He slid the paper across the table.
I took it from his outstretched finger. Sixty thousand!
“Thirty to refund Sophia’s retainer and thirty to split as a commission between the agency and you.”
My hand trembled as I slid the check back to him. “Unfortunately, I can’t accept this. Matchmakers are held to a professional standard, Mr. Bardolino. If we can be bought off, what’s to stop all sorts of nefarious things from happening? That said, I thank you for your kindness.”
“Sophia told me you’d say that.” He tore up the check.
I looked at him confused. “She did?”
“I had to try.” He stood up. “I’m her favorite uncle.”
“And try you did.”
“There will be hell to pay if she doesn’t marry the man she is promised to.”
“You’re not going to, you know, do anything rash if I continue to set her up with new men. Right?”
“Sophia said I wasn’t allowed to murder anyone. There’s a clause in her contract.”
I coughed. “Yes.”
“Joking! Do your job. I’ll handle everything on my end. Nice meeting you.” He shook my hand and glanced at his Rolex. “Places to go, people to see.” He turned and left the conference room.
I walked into the hallway and stared at Giles, Sarah, and Mr. Brady. “Sophia Bardolino is promised to another man.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Brady said. “Need help?”
“I’ve got this.”
“Thank God someone does,” Mr. Brady said. He turned and walked away.
“That’s a lot of drama, mama,” Giles said, and followed on his heels.
“Does this mean you can’t set her up with Ethan?” Sarah asked.
“It means I’ll find out.”
*
I texted Sophia. She responded that she was out of town on business and wouldn’t be available to talk until Thursday.
I had a few phone conversations with Jake, finally meeting up with him at a microbrewery. We downed some beers, ate some skins, and I talked him off the dangerous cliff of pursuing the eighteen-year-old girl from the fame-addicted family that had three television shows.
I spent hours paging through information, magazine articles, and recommendations. I made phone calls, talked to people, and set Jake up with an assortment of available, appropriate matches: a super cute singer who would soon be crushing it as a pop star, a fashion photographer who was hitting the big leagues, and a well-respected sommelier.
It had only been a few days, but I missed Ethan Rosseaux. Yes, I knew he wasn’t mine to have, but every time I mentioned this to my heart it told me to shut up. One night, in a desperate moment, I went jogging, strangely running the same route I’d taken with Sophia, ending within a few blocks of the hotel. I removed my orange beanie and stared up at the gorgeous building. I wondered if he was inside or in his apartment only a few blocks away.
I called Marte to check up on her. She invited me to a last-minute holiday get-together Friday night at her place. Her sprained ankle was still healing and it was too soon for her to go back to anyplace slick, like the spa, where her footing felt unsteady.
“What should I bring?” I asked.
“Your fabulous attitude. And some cheese. I have plenty of crackers.”
“Will Ethan be there?”
“This is a girlie party,” she said. “Think of it as the holiday spa experience that’s not held at the spa.”
I Facetimed with mom. She’d had a Lyme disease flare-up and asked if I’d changed my mind and would come home for Christmas. Or course I wanted to be there for her, but I still felt apprehensive about going back to Oconomowoc. It had been a year since that messed up night. The memories might have faded but they hadn’t disappeared.
I filled in more details on Ethan’s intake form, and Googled around, searching for ex-girlfriends, but none showed. His Instagram page was pathetic. I didn’t want to set him up with Sophia or anyone else for that matter. Not until I’d cleared it with her first.
I day dreamed about him. Maybe he’d gone back to Whole Foods and pursued the long-haired redhead with the perfect ass. I hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble if Bruno came home and caught them together. And then I realized that I was being a total moron, projecting my own insecurities.
As promised, Sophia got back to me on Thursday at 8 p.m.
Sophia: I hear you met Uncle Vincent.
Harper: You’re taken? What gives?
Sophia: Blood $ mumbo jumbo contract from the old country.
Harper: Per our contract – no murdering. That’s still good – right?
Sophia: No murdering. No Catholic boys. I have ethics.
I smiled.
Harper: You still want to be matched?
Sophia: Yes. I REALLY don’t want to marry some rando guy from Sicily.
Harper: ’K. I’ve got someone for you. He’s great.
Sophia: Perfect. Set it up. Xo
Harper: He’s super great.
Sophia: Got it. What’s the problem? Is he a serial killer or something?
Harper: I don’t think so.
Sophia: Check on that, ’K?
Harper: ’K. No worries whatsoever if you change your mind.
Sophia: No mind changing. Back in town middle of next week. Let’s get this show on the road.
I clicked the ‘End’ button, stared at my phone morosely, put it on the desk and sighed.
“What’s the problem, kiddo?”
I glanced back up. Mr. Brady was standing next to me.
“I feel like I’m taking two steps forward and three back. I don’t know if I’m any good at this line of work. My feelings are all over the map. Sometimes I think I should just move back home. Or maybe I should just get a job as a barista and call this matchmaking thing a day.”
“Aha,” he said. “Do you think you’d be happier if you went back to prepping coffee for the masses?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It might be simpler.”
“Not really. Someone always complains that their mochaccino was supposed to be peppermint, not pumpkin.”
I smiled. “And then some other asshat says that they wanted a Venti not a Grande.”
“Ask me your real question, Harper.”
I sighed. “I think I should set up Ethan Rosseaux with Sophia Bardolino.”
“What’s stopping you?”
I shrugged. “Other than her uncle killing him?”
“I see,” he said. “It’s complicated.”
“It is.” I bit my lip. If only he knew…
“You’ll figure it out. That’s what real matchmakers do. It’s like a mystery, a grand puzzle. You’re just putting the pieces together. Soon you’ll see the bigger picture.”
“I hope so.”
“Don’t forget Mr. Cupid’s Christmas party next week. You weren’t around for last year’s. It’s not just employees but also clients, friends, biz associates, and general ne’er do
wells. We write the whole thing off because we are desperately hoping a few of our regulars might spark to each other. Perhaps we’ll luck out, and true love will blossom on this blessed night and bring us a much needed commission check.”
“Cool,” I said.
“And Harper?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve been looking a little glum lately. It’s almost Christmas. Go forth and find your holiday cheer. I have a feeling it—as well as your answers—are out there, quite possibly wearing a big bow and looking for you.”
Chapter 25
Ethan
*
I stood next to Marte’s Christmas tree in the corner of her penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Michigan. The sky was cloudy blue and gray. The city lights never really let the downtown night sky get too black. Even in the darkest of hours there was always a soft glow illuminating downtown.
Grandma sat on a cushy chair behind me, her leg elevated and resting on an ottoman. She wore a dark green velour tracksuit with a red velvet throw draped across her lap. Daniel rattled around in the kitchen, rustling up something he could reheat or microwave. I’d just spent a half hour stringing Italian lights on the tree. Now I was hanging ornaments. Grandma was running a bit behind schedule after her accident and was anxious to get this done. Holiday traditions were important to her. “Grandma, where do you want the Star of David to go?”
She squinted and pointed with one knobby finger. “A little to the right. I don’t want it overwhelmed by the baby Jesus manager or the Kwanzaa tiger ornaments. You know I’m pantheistic now, right?”
“Yes.” I tucked the Star of David ornament a little to the right of the manger. “How about the crocheted Santa?”
“Bottom of the tree on the larger branches. He’s a bit on the heavy side. Whoever knitted him made his pants awfully wide.”
Daniel came into the room holding one of Marte’s silver platters. “Goat cheese pizza and drinks,” he said and walked to her first. “This one has pepperoni and sausage,” he pointed. “And this one is meatless.”
“Thank you, Daniel,” Marte said. “Could you put one of each on a little plate for me? Put the rest on ‘Warm’ in the oven? Pull out a bottle of chilled bubbly and some glasses. Oh, and place the nice crackers on a tray. Not the stale ones.”
Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire Page 11