by Kelly Myers
Laurel bursts out laughing and claps. “Perfect,” she says. “Okay, I’m uploading your picture and send me that so I can add it to your page.”
I forward the bio and take another sip of wine. A minute later, she throws me a triumphant smile. “Congratulations, Leigh. You’re now active on PerfectMatch.com.”
“Oh, great,” I say and down the rest of the wine in my glass. Nevertheless, I pull up the newly-installed app and check it out. “Um, Laurel,” I say and make a face. “This looks nothing like me!”
“What are you talking about?” She leans over and checks out my picture.
Modesty aside, I admit I’ve been blessed with good genes. My hair is thick, naturally streaked with highlights and lowlights, my brows are darker for a nice contrast, my eyes are a changeable shade of bluish-green like the sea and I’m 5’7’’ with some decent curves and legs for days.
But, I am not drop-dead, supermodel gorgeous like the picture I’m looking at right now. If Laurel had CGI’d a pair of huge wings and lacey lingerie on me, I would be that stunning Victoria’s Secret model. “You made me look ridiculously...beautiful,” I say and scoff.
“All I did was run your picture through a filter to enhance what’s already there. You are beautiful, silly.”
“This doesn’t even look like me,” I argue.
“Sure it does.”
“No, really, Laurel, it doesn’t.”
“Who even cares? No one looks exactly like their picture. Trust me, you’re going to get a ton of messages.”
I cringe. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
“Oh!” she says. “My dad has a friend over at some company and they said to have you send your resume over.”
“Are you serious?” This is amazing news. Especially since I have a stack of overdue bills on the table that I’ve been avoiding. “What’s the company?”
She thinks for a moment. “Um, Car and Company? Something like that?”
I grab my laptop and type Car and Company into the search engine. “I don’t see anything. They’re here in San Francisco?”
“Yeah. I can text my dad and ask.” She begins typing and I keep searching. Then, “Carson Industries,” she announces.
I waste no time entering the name Carson Industries and, in seconds, thousands of pages pop up. “Looks like they do M&A’s.”
“Huh?”
“Mergers and acquisitions,” I clarify. At least I can say I learned something after four years as a business major at San Francisco State University. Well-worth the $30,000 in student loans I owe, right? Go, Gators.
“Sounds exciting.” Her tone couldn’t be any more sarcastic.
“It’s business-related. It’s a paycheck.” I jump up, imagining all of my debt disappearing. “I’m going to send my resume over right now.”
Laurel laughs and googles Carson Industries. She scrolls for about twenty seconds before I hear her swift intake of breath. “Holy shit,” she swears, dark eyes wide.
“What?”
“Did you see the owner?” She enlarges a photo and turns it so I can see.
My heart gives a little kick as I look at the CEO, Drew Carson. He has black hair, dark blue eyes and a chiseled jaw that would leave any woman breathless. “He’s...attractive.”
Laurel lets out a half-laugh, half-snort. “That’s an understatement. Good lord, Ash, he’s like ten times hotter than Chris Hemsworth in Thor!”
Laurel judges every man against Chris Hemsworth, her Hollywood crush. But, I’d never heard her describe a man as ten times hotter. “I don’t know. He’s good-looking, obviously, but he probably knows it. I mean, just look at that smirk,” I say and point at his picture. “He oozes arrogance. And, he is definitely older. Late 30s maybe?”
In a minute, Laurel pulls up his bio. “He’s 45 and a self-made billionaire.” She clarifies that last part in case I didn’t hear her the first time. “Not just some lousy, second-rate millionaire. I’m talking Billionaire with a capital B.”
I blink and bite my lip. Way too intimidating. I hope to God that if they call me in for an interview, it will not be with him. I’d shit twice and die.
“Wow, this man sounds like a real shark. He has a ruthless reputation. In business and with the ladies,” she says with a wicked smirk. “You know the socialite, Tabitha Banks? They were married, but it looks like that’s over. I bet she took him for half.” She checks out article after article. “Damn, the dude’s dated everybody. Look! Remember that song we used to love by that pop star, Sabrina? He dated her.”
I roll my eyes. “Good for him,” I say. I could care less about the man’s dating history and slew of conquests. “I’m sure he’s wildly happy with his billions of dollars and endless women. But, all I want is a job.”
“Well, let’s hope Big Daddy gives you one. And, FYI, if you start working there, I’m coming to visit. Like every day,” she says.
“You’re crazy!” I can’t help but laugh.
The idea of interacting daily with a man who makes Brad Pitt look homely makes me a little uneasy. But, then again, maybe he used the same filter that Laurel used on me, I think, and can’t help but smile.
No one looks like their picture.
I have to remember that.
Chapter Four
Drew
Who the fuck took this picture? And how did I not notice?
I shake my head and shut my laptop. I can’t look at the gossip site with the image of me and James Douglas throwing punches and wrestling around on the ground like a couple of drunken frat boys in front of the Pacific Club any longer. And, thanks to him, I have quite a nice bruise on my lower jaw. Maybe if I don’t shave, the scruff will help hide it.
Because which 45-year old man gets into brawls outside his club and then shows up at work to run his billion dollar company looking like riff-raff? Not a good way to impress potential clients.
With a sigh, I run a hand through my dark hair, stand up and stretch, and then wander over to the edge of the outdoor terrace. I lean against the glass railing and clasp my hands over its edge, five floors above the street corner, and look out at the view of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. It’s truly stunning. Pacific Heights has the best view in San Francisco and worth the $30 million dollars I forked out for the 9,700 square foot house.
Originally built in 1912, I’ve had the entire place renovated to modernize it, but also maintain its vintage aspects. With six bedrooms, 8.5 bathrooms, marble and walnut floors and an amazing living room with a retractable ceiling, it sometimes seems a little much for one bachelor. I even have a finished basement that I made into a theater room. Basements are a Midwest thing and unheard of in California because of earthquakes, but the renovations included a seismic retrofit and all five levels are connected by steel to the bedrock. Call me sentimental for my Chicago roots.
Sometimes the house feels too big, too empty. I drop my head between my shoulders and feel a wave of loneliness wash over me. It’s been happening more and more lately. I work like the Devil and have amassed a fortune. That used to fulfill me and give me great pleasure. But lately, I’m beginning to wonder why the hell I still work so hard. My mom died ten years ago and I’m an only child. Tabitha and I never had children, so I have no one to leave my company and money to after I die. Kind of a depressing thought.
Deep down, I guess I know the reason why I work so hard. But, I don’t want to think about that right now. I left that ghost in Chicago.
Tabitha Banks, on the other hand, is something I have to deal with and too soon, unfortunately. Carson Industries’ main philanthropic endeavor is the National Prevention of Child Abuse and we both serve on the Board of Directors for the local organization. The annual charity benefit is coming up shortly so that means Tabitha and I have to work together.
Fuck me, I think. Between the hostile takeover with Douglas and the charity ball, the next couple of weeks are going to be hell.
I wish I had something else to focus on. Something good. Like a n
ew woman. But, I know that won’t help. Not really. Shit, I’ve had nothing but a string of new women for the past three years. It’s great in the beginning and then it always goes south. They get too clingy and I’m far too busy for that. And, I think it’s more about being able to brag to their friends that they’re sleeping with Drew Carson than having any actual feelings for me.
I wasn’t always Drew Carson, billionaire and bachelor extraordinaire.
A long time ago, I was just Andrew Carson. Andy to my mom and friends in Chicago. They liked me for who I was, not for what I had. Because back then, I had shit. My mom and I lived in a rough neighborhood on the South side in a crappy apartment. I’ll never forget when we would flip on the kitchen lights and the roaches would scatter. We had to keep everything in the refrigerator or those fuckers would get in it. Crackers, cookies, chips, cereal. If there was an open box in the cupboard, you can bet they’d find a way inside and feast on what little food we had.
Even though we struggled, believe it or not, I have a lot of fond memories of growing up there. My friends and I rode our bikes everywhere, ate at each other’s houses with our families, crushed on older sisters and got into brawls with our enemies. But, no matter what, we always had each other’s backs. We were family.
I don’t have that anymore. I have everything money can buy, including a legion of servants, drivers, assistants and even a pilot on the payroll that takes care of all my needs, wants and last-minute flights. But, that’s different. It’s their job to help me and do what I want. I’m pretty damn sure if I stopped paying them, they’d stop coming over.
Today is Sunday so the office is closed and I’m spending way too much time thinking dark thoughts. I need a distraction. Something to lift my spirits. I can’t take a trip because I have way too much work to do. Maybe I could splurge on some big purchase. But, I already have enough toys-- artwork, luxury cars, motorcycles, a plane.
A hobby? Most of the men at the club play sports or fish or just drive their yachts around the bay, showing off. Some collect guns while others accumulate expensive whisky or cigars. I can’t help but sigh. I’m not interested in any of that, I think, and wander back over to the couch and flip my laptop back open.
All I’ve ever been interested in is working and making money.
And, now even that has lost some of its appeal.
I pull up the internet, google my own name and fall down a rabbit hole. Sometimes I like to do that and read about all my success. Especially when I’m feeling down. And, other times, I stumble across some pretty unflattering depictions and stories about myself.
One thing leads to another and suddenly I see an ad on the side of my screen for PerfectMatch.com. It’s a dating site and I’m about to hit the “X” and get rid of it when a crazy thought enters my mind.
I could post a fake name and profile and see if anyone bites. See if anyone is genuinely interested in talking to me, Andy, a normal guy from the Midwest. Not Drew Carson, San Francisco royalty. Or, SF shark. Depends on who you asked. One time, I saw someone had even called me the Devil. It made me laugh at the time, but now I don’t think it’s very funny.
I click on the link and an instant later I’m whisked over to the dating site and read the top: Lost? Lonely? We can help you find your soulmate. Your Perfect Match.
I’m not sure about all that, but I am curious if anyone would want to talk to me. I hit “set up profile” and the first thing they want is a picture. I instantly think of the photo of me and James fighting. Bet that would get some interest. I roll my eyes and realize that I can’t possibly post a current picture or some woman would recognize me. It’s inevitable.
I open up a folder of pictures and scroll down until I find what I’m looking for-- an old shot of me when I was 25. I had just got my MBA from the University of Chicago Booth School of Business. I remember my Mom was so proud. Chicago Booth is the second-oldest business school in the United States and its MBA program ranks fourth-best in the country. It was challenging and the program was for risk-takers, people who believe in challenging the status quo and for dreamers.
I fit right in.
I look down at my computer screen and study the picture. It’s 20 years old. I look happy and have that glow of youth that inevitably fades as you age. But, I still have the same dark blue eyes and dark brown hair. Now, the only difference is there’s a touch of silver at my temples and when my beard grows in, it’s sprinkled with gray. And, now I have smile lines around my mouth and eyes.
But, I still work out and eat healthier now than I ever did thanks to Pierre, my personal chef.
Okay, I upload the picture and now it wants me to write something about myself.
Huh. What to say?
After thinking about it for far too long, I post something that I think Andy would write.
Let’s face it. This is probably me having a mid-life crisis and I have no intention of actually meeting anyone on this site. It’s more of an experiment really to see if anyone reaches out and wants to connect. Because if I say who I really am, I’d probably have a thousand messages pour in by tonight.
So, let’s see if anyone wants to chat and get to know Andy, I think, and hit enter.
In the meantime, I decide to take a look at the available women. I scroll through endless profiles and pictures. Whatever you want, really. It’s a smorgasbord of ladies all looking for their soulmate.
Blondes, brunettes, redheads.
Young, middle-aged, mature.
Some looking for a serious relationship, others a fling.
It’s kind of exhausting and just as I’m about to sign out, a picture of a blonde in a red dress catches my eye.
Leigh.
Wow. I’ve always been partial to leggy blondes, but this girl takes it to a whole new level. My gaze moves down to read her bio: “With me, it’s the little things that make me happy. Strong, black coffee from the cafe by my place. A bouquet of daisies from the farmer’s market. Binge-watching my favorite show and that includes anything that involves organizing. I’m kind of a neat freak. My guilty pleasures are mint chocolate chip ice cream and pizza. My friends would say I’m fun, passionate, a bit of a loner and horribly addicted to ketchup. I put it on everything and I’m not even kidding. If you’re nice, maybe we can share some fries. As long as they’re drowning in ketchup.”
I let out a long, low breath and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m sending a message to Leigh.
I’m ready to shake things up and this might be the perfect way to get out of my slump.
Chapter Five
Ashley
“Leigh, honey, can you hand me that pot holder?” my Mom asks.
It’s Sunday so that means dinner with my Mom and brother. It’s a weekly tradition that’s been going on ever since I can remember. It’s one of the reasons I look forward to the last part of the weekend so much while everyone else probably dreads it because that means Monday is right around the corner.
I hand her the pot holder and she takes a vegetable casserole out of the oven. “Your brother said he might be a little late. He’s been working so hard lately.” My Mom swipes a loose strand of blonde hair from her eye and I still think she is so pretty. She could have been a model in her younger days.
Instead, Eileen Monroe and her high school sweetheart found out they were going to be parents at 18. They married and after my brother was born, things didn’t last. I don’t think anyone expected it to since they were so young.
So, suddenly my Mom was a single mother struggling to raise a child all by herself. And, she did a damn good job. Then, when she was 25, Eileen met John Monroe, my Dad and the love of her life. They married and I was born a few years later. Everything was wonderful until cancer took my Dad when I was only five and my brother was 15.
My Mom misses my Dad and sometimes I worry that she’ll grow old alone, but she says she’ll never marry again. John Monroe was her one, true love. Then, however, she likes to tell us that she is open to dating eligibl
e men her age.
You’re a corker, Eilene. A real corker, my Dad used to say, referring to her family’s Irish heritage. And, she really is. An absolutely excellent and astonishing person.
I set the table and my Mom starts to bring in the food. Looks like my brother is going to be late after all. As we sit down, I fill her in on my upcoming job interview. “So, Laurel’s Dad helped me get an interview tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s great, honey. Where?”
“Carson Industries.”
She tilts her silver blonde head and frowns. “How do I know that name?” She taps a finger on the table then her eyes light up. “Isn’t that the company run by that billionaire? What’s his name?
I feel my cheeks flush as a vision of his tall, lean body enters my mind. “Drew Carson.”
“Right! He’s always in the society section and on TV and in all the magazines. Quite attractive, but what a playboy. Every time I see him, he’s with a different woman.”
“Well, I don’t want to date him, Mom, just work at his office.” Even though I say that, my mind conjures up his midnight hair and blue eyes. He reminds me of someone…
David Gandy, I realize. That ridiculously beautiful male model.
“Honestly, the company is so big that I’d probably never see him anyway. HR will tuck me away in some office to crunch numbers.” But, if I’m lucky, maybe I’d see Drew Carson on the elevator or walking down the hallway.
It was silly to even think about. I didn’t even have the job yet.
“How are my two favorite girls?” a warm voice asks.