Ms. Match Meets a Millionaire

by Pamela DuMond

  I knocked on Grandma’s bedroom door but she was napping. I found my room, crashed for a few hours, but couldn’t sleep. I flipped through cable channels, switched to my iPad and scrolled Netflix. There were too many Christmas movies. Jimmy Stewart was busy in Bedford Falls reviewing his wonderful life, Hugh Grant was falling for his young secretary, and Bill Murray was getting scrooged. What the hell was I doing?

  Daniel had invited a few friends and his new girlfriend over for a catered turkey holiday dinner with all the fixings. Twelve of us gathered around the table and enjoyed the spread. We took a break before dessert and hung out in the living room. The windows looked out onto the mountain, the dark punctuated by LED lights for night time skiing. A fire crackled in the fireplace. It was gorgeous.

  I was suffocating. I felt like I was breaking out in big, red, scratchy hives after donning a stifling wool sweater. Good God, when could I get the hell out of here? I wondered what Harper was doing. I glanced at Marte sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Her feet were up on an ottoman, a comfy throw draped over her legs. “How are you?” I asked.

  “Better than you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”.

  “No. Why? Do I have spinach in my teeth?”

  “Worse. You look like you ate bad nachos. The ones you get at the convenience store late at night when you’re drunkity-drunk.”

  “I’m not drunkity-drunk, Grandma.”

  “I beg to differ. Everything was going just swimmingly. I hired you a matchmaker. You were smiling again. Humming Christmas carols under your breath. Then out of nowhere you went and hired a plane, stuffed me on it, and the left the only other person who really mattered to you behind. What kind of Christmas present is that?”

  “Crap. I left your Christmas presents back in Chicago.”

  “That’s not what I meant. What do you want for Christmas, Ethan?”

  I thought about it. The people around me were pretty, the fire was warm, the skiing awesome—but all I could think of was Harper with her pouty lips.

  Harper with the determined thrust of her chin.

  Harper’s big warm heart.

  Harper laughing at the dog park.

  And Harper whispering my name after I kissed her.

  “I want a second chance, Grandma. I want Harper.”

  “I sampled the apple pie when I was in the kitchen and it sucks. It’s from a frozen food company that’s trying to knock off Marie Callender’s but it isn’t even in the same ballpark. If I were you I’d skip dessert, stop dicking around, and go get Harper. Unlike the pie — she’s the real deal.”

  Chapter 39

  Harper

  *

  It was Christmas Eve, work was over until next Monday, and I’d made the decision to ride out the holiday here. I didn’t want to know that Ethan was enjoying the holiday with Sophia, or Barbara, because in the end it didn’t really matter. He’d made it abundantly clear the other night outside the Mr. Cupid party that he’d never be enjoying a holiday with me.

  I went to afternoon mass at Holy Name Cathedral, strolled around the neighborhood, then took a detour and found myself outside the beautiful Rosseaux Hotel. I stared up at it, all twinkly and gorgeous. I walked ten blocks and visited my favorite Chicago outdoor attraction, Lakeshore Bark Park. I sat on a bench outside the park, watched the pups play, and thought about everything that had just gone down.

  I didn’t know Ethan had lost his girlfriend in such a tragic accident. I had no idea Sean was part of that. But somehow, now, it all made sense. Both our stories were part and parcel of the cycle of abuse. They just played out in different ways. My heart ached for what Ethan had been through.

  I’d survived seeing Sean the first time since that horrible night in the church parking lot. He was tired of waiting, and through my social media feeds and common sense, tracked me down. He called Mr. Cupid pretending to be a business associate and scammed the party’s address from the temp assistant manning the phones.

  He wanted me to give him a second chance but I told him nothing would change my mind. It didn’t matter that he didn’t drink anymore. I didn’t care how long he’d been in the program. I was “done” a year ago when he pointed a gun to my head. Nothing would change that.

  I learned a couple of tough life lessons dating Sean. Abuse starts off insidiously. He demeaned me, put me down. The cuts felt small but they multiplied, pooled together, and the wounds deepened. He gaslit and slut shamed me—making me question everything I did, every interaction with men, everything I wore. How could I make him happy? How could I keep him happy? I walked on damn eggshells every day, my feet getting lighter and lighter as time passed. Then one night he pointed a gun in my face. What would it be next? A bullet in my head?

  Part of going through a horrific life lesson was remembering that once you got some distance, you might see a piece of good that came out of it. Luckily for me, I wasn’t married to the guy, I didn’t have children. It was so much easier for me to leave my abuser than someone who had been in it longer, had deeper ties, was more invested.

  I learned that I didn’t have to stay. I could and would re-invent myself. After I found the courage to leave I moved to Chicago. I went to groups that helped women recover from emotional as well as physical abuse. It took time. It took reflection. I probably learned the pattern when I was a kid, which is why it played out later the way it did.

  This didn’t mean my life would be perfect, or that I wouldn’t hit bumps in the road. Oh, yes, there would be plenty of bumps to smack into, fly through the air, and hit the ground knees first. But after the impacts, I could make the decision to pick myself up and carry on.

  I think the best part of getting out and getting on was realizing in the very depths of my bones that ultimately no one would rescue me if I didn’t rescue myself first. By sticking up for myself, God, the fates, Karma, allowed me to bump into the sinfully delicious Hot Waiter, Ethan Rosseaux, on that magical night at the beautiful Biltenhouse wedding. But now, I’d lost Ethan.

  I closed my eyes as the snow swirled in little flakes around me and I could practically smell his signature scent of cedar soap. When someone started playing “All I Want for Christmas is You” on their phone, I turned and saw him standing in front of me.

  He was wearing a pea coat and holding his iPhone toward me.

  “Marco.”

  “Polo,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “Setting the mood.”

  “For?”

  “Asking you something important.”

  “Are you going to declare your love for me, Hot Waiter?”

  “No.”

  “Bummer.”

  “I need to apologize first,” he said.

  My heart beat faster. “You don’t need to apologize. You were right.”

  “The thing is Harper, we were both right.”

  “We were?”

  He nodded. “I was too caught up to see it. You got out. You handled the trauma as best you could: with energy and movement. I handled mine with fear, depression, and getting stuck.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. I went there too.”

  “I thought I was broken. And I might have been for a while. But I’m not anymore.”

  “Maybe you were bent, not broken.” I stared at his full lips, his beautiful, kind, soft hazel eyes. My Ethan was a keeper. Not to be shared. Certainly not to be matched to anyone but me.

  “I’m in love with you, Cupcake. I don’t know how this will work out. I don’t know how we’ll be in thirty years. I don’t even know if you still want me. But if I don’t have the balls to step up to the plate and find out, then I wouldn’t even be worthy of meeting you. The gods have given me a second chance at love, and I’m taking it. You’re the one, Harper. You’re the match for me. What do you think?”

  “I think yes.” I said, wiping tears away. “I think it’s about time.”

  He sat down next to me on the park
bench, and took my hand in his. “All I really want for Christmas, Harper, is you.”

  And he kissed me.

  Epilogue

  Ethan

  *

  One year later

  *

  I always thought I’d get married at the Rosseaux Hotel, but when the time actually came, I realized I didn’t want to get married there. I craved something simpler, which was fine by Harper.

  And so now, here we were, in the atrium of the Rosseaux Library on a Saturday afternoon surrounded by a hundred wedding guests attired in cocktail finery. Daniel was my best man. Harper’s sister Callie did the honors for her.

  Marte sat in the front row with my parents and her entourage: Luisa Bananas, Beverly, and an assortment of hotel employees. Grandma was dressed in a red silk gown adorned with red elbow-length gloves, and a diamond brooch with flowers in her white, coiffed hair. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so radiant.

  The priest droned, “We are gathered here today—”

  I lifted my hand, respectfully cut him off, and turned toward Marte. “Are you happy, now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Don’t forget the ring.”

  “I won’t forget the ring, Grandma.”

  Harper giggled under her breath and the crowd covered laughter with their hands.

  I smiled at Harper, and nodded my head to the priest to continue.

  Good God, I was a lucky man to be marrying her.

  I said, ‘I take you’, ‘I promise’, ‘in sickness and in health’, and ‘as long as we both shall live’ to Harper and she promised those vows as well.

  I slid Grandma’s second diamond ring, canary yellow, onto Harper’s finger. Grandpa gave her the three carat canary diamond when he screwed up, and she took him back. This ring signified a second chance at love and commitment. Now I stared down into her sparkling eyes. “I love you, Cupcake. Thanks for the second chance.”

  “I love you too Hot Waiter. Ditto.”

  “Kiss the bride!” Marte said.

  I smiled at her, then turned my attention to my bride, tenderly taking her face between my hands.

  The attendees burst into a round of applause.

  “Cheers!”

  “Mazel tov!”

  “Move it, tall guy,” a female voice said from somewhere in the crowd.

  I glanced around for a second, blinked, then looked up and offered up a thank you prayer to my first love.

  I am, Zoey. I am.

  I kissed Harper on her pouty lips and seized my second chance at love. My second chance at life.

  THE END

  Sneak Peek of Part-time Princess

  ROYALLY WED ROMANTIC COMEDY (#1)

  PRAISE for Part-time Princess

  *

  “Why can’t I be a Part-Time Princess?! Amazing, I loved this book!!” ~ London Dreaming

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  “Absolutely Freaking Hi - lar - ri - ous!!!” ~ Avid Reader923

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  “This is a flirty fun read.” ~ Karen’s Book Haven

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  “AHHHHH I LOVELOVELOVE this Book!” ~ Maryam Dinzily

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  “It’s My Fair Lady meets Ms. Congeniality…” ~ Sara Steven at Chick Lit Central Blog

  CHAPTER 1

  I sat tall, posture perfect, practically regal on a cushy, leather seat in the First Class section of British Airlines Flight #1509 to London. My Chanel traveling outfit fit me like a dream: it was casual but screamed money. More money than I earned during the last six months at my previous job.

  I tapped my matching Chanel bag and tote with the toe of my designer shoe and slid them a few inches until they were safely tucked under the seat in front of me. Even though I was inside a plane, I still wore my new designer sunglasses: when my employer slid them on my face and instructed me to look into the mirror—they were so freaking cool! I’ve been called a lot of things in my life and trust me, cool wasn’t one of them.

  A female fight attendant leaned down toward me as passengers jostled past her on their way to the back of this fancy bus. “The flight’s been delayed for a bit, Lady Billingsley. There are tornados in Oklahoma, Iowa and Kansas. We’re waiting for a few passengers from connecting flights.”

  I glanced out the window: storm clouds bustled low in the skies overhead and a brisk wind ruffled the tarps on the baggage carts. “Bad weather,” I said. “So typical this time of year in Chicago.”

  “Can I get you something to drink before takeoff? And, perhaps, a snack?”

  I smiled and tried not to appear shocked as I looked at her nametag. “You are sweet, Kristine.” The one time I’d flown before today the flight attendants practically ripped the water bottle from my sweaty hands prior to takeoff. But that was when I was in coach.

  And that was when I was Lucille Marie Trabbicio—not Lady Elizabeth Billingsley.

  “I’d love a…” What would Elizabeth pick if she were flying? She didn’t seem to be the type to get trashed out of her mind, especially not on long trips. She wouldn’t want to get dehydrated: there’d be too much damage to her skin, her make-up could smudge and possibly damage her outfit. She also wouldn’t want to eat anything too salty as she might retain water. Bloating was a look that Elizabeth would not tolerate.

  “A Pellegrino, please,” I said. “Thank you. Is it okay—I mean might I send an urgent e-mail? It’s for business.”

  “Of course.” Kristine nodded. “Super quick! Captain says we’ll be pulling back from the gate in a matter of minutes.”

  I nodded, reached in my purse for my state-of-the-art iPhone and flipped it open. I logged into my new Gmail account that Mr. Philips had created for my part-time job. I typed a clandestine message to his and Elizabeth’s BFF, Zara, using their secret code names.

  Dear Lady and The Damp:

  *

  Slight delay in departing ORD. Will check in once I’ve landed in London and transferred planes. Excited!! Please wish E good luck on her important mystery mission. And hang in there with the bad back thing Damp. Maybe go see a good chiropractor.

  *

  Fondly,

  Lucy

  Then I remembered to use my code name, deleted Lucy and typed the word Groucho.

  I fiddled with my phone until I found “Airplane Mode,” and turned it on. I tucked my phone in my bag and pulled out a copy of British Vogue. Lady Zara encouraged me to page through the American, British and Italian versions of the fashion rag and familiarize myself with popular designers. I flipped through the magazine, glanced at the pricey clothes, expensive makeup and the pouty models. Pucci. Gucci. Valentino. Oh my!

  I accepted the mineral water from the flight attendant and thanked her. I thought about my cushy signing bonus and couldn’t help but smile. I’d paid my rent, as well as Uncle John’s dues for the month at Vail Assisted Living. Score! I leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes and predicted that this new part-time job that I’d signed confidentiality clauses up the wazoo for would be a breeze. I was already nailing it!

  The flight to London would take around nine hours. Plenty of time for me to review the cast of characters in Lady Elizabeth Billingsley’s life, as well as their names, titles and relationships with her. I had a two-hour layover at Heathrow before my connecting flight to Elizabeth’s home in Fredonia—the small, crown jewel of a country tucked in the mountains between France, Switzerland and Italy.

  When someone squeezed the top of my knee. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley in the flesh. Isn’t this a sweet surprise?” A guy asked as he settled into the aisle seat next to me. My gaze fixed on his muscular hand as he caressed my knee again and then ran his index finger up my inner thigh for a very-long heartbeat.

  One of the reasons I scored this part-time job was because I swore to my new employers that I could roll with the punches and improvise during unexpected events. I planned on that happening when I landed in Sauerhausen, the capital of Fredonia—not on the nine-hour flight from Chicago to London.

  Y
ou’ve got to be kidding me. The First Class section of British Airways had perverts? I smacked him, but only managed to slap my own knee because he had lightening quick reflexes; his hand had already vanished from my thigh.

  “That might leave a bruise, Princess. Which I’ll happily kiss away,” he said.

  “Look, dickwipe,” I hissed. “Who the hell do you think—” Oops. Reboot. I was now Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley from post-card perfect Fredonia.

  Not Lucille Trabbicio—a former cocktail waitress at MadDog bikers’ bar on Chicago’s Southside.

  I cleared my throat and composed myself. “I apologize, sir. I do believe you accidentally bumped my knee and I over-reacted. ”

  “Oh, Lizzie. That was clearly no accident. ‘Look, dickwipe?’ Colorful language. I’m impressed. Apparently your time in the States has warmed your frosty demeanor. I can’t believe my good fortune on running into you again.” He settled into his seat. “How long has it been? Fifteen months?”

  I blinked. This guy not only knew Elizabeth but also had a nickname for her. I combed my brain but I didn’t recognize him from any of the pictures she or Zara showed me.

  Mr. Cocky pushed his leather bag under the seat in front and belted himself in. Slouched back and ran his fingers through his jet-black hair. “Did you miss me love?”

  I looked at his hand that had clutched my knee just moments earlier. It was large, had no ring on the important finger and now rested on top of his thigh—which was muscular, clad in jeans and ended in slightly scuffed leather boots.

  Nice. Very, very nice. Whoa—hold the door… I shook my head. No, he was not nice. This knee-squeezer was an opportunist and obviously depraved. My gaze traveled up and took in his finely cut sports jacket layered over a V-neck T-shirt that exposed just the right amount of black chest hair. Hmm.

  He leaned toward me as his index finger grazed the underside of my chin. “Has anything else warmed up Lizzie?” He tilted my face upward toward his full lips. “Do you remember all the fun and games we played? All the dirty, dirty things that you and I did?” He grinned. “And then—did again. I was done at round three, but you insisted on a fourth.”