Match Me if You Can (23 page)

He frowned. “Cut the crap. You were crystal clear about mixing business and pleasure, and you were right. We both know that. But Krystal threw her porn party, I don’t like having people say no to me, and the rest is history. I’m the one who took advantage. The reason I haven’t called is that I still haven’t figured out how to make it up to you.”

She hated the idea that he was seeing her as a victim. “Not by running, that’s for sure. Smacks a little too much of the boss who sleeps with his secretary and then fires her for it.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing him wince. “I’d never do that,” he said.

“Great. Block off every evening starting tomorrow. We’re kicking off with a brainy econ professor who looks a little like Kate Hudson, finds Adam Sandler at least mildly amusing, and knows a wineglass from a water goblet. If you don’t like her, I have six more lined up. Now are you back in the game or are you wimping out?”

He didn’t let her bait him. Instead, he wandered over to the windows, sipping his coffee and taking his time, no doubt thinking over how complicated this had gotten. “Are you sure about going on?” he finally said.

“Hey, I’m not the one who got all worked up. Of course I’m sure.”
What a lie
. “I have a business to run, and frankly, you’re making that difficult.”

He shoved his hand through his hair. “All right. Set it up.”

“Perfect.” She gave him a smile so big her cheeks ached. “Now, down to business…”

They made their arrangements, setting up days and times, and she escaped as soon as they were done. On the drive back home, she made a promise to herself. From now on, she’d seal her emotions away where they belonged. In an internal Ziploc bag—extra heavy duty.

T
he next afternoon, Heath followed Kevin between the tables in the hotel ballroom as the quarterback shook hands, slapped backs, and worked the crowd of businesspeople who’d gathered to eat lunch and hear his motivational speech, “Throwing the Long Ones in Life.” Heath stayed just behind him, ready to intercede if anyone tried to get too up close and personal, but Kevin made it to the front table without incident.

Heath had heard his speech a dozen times, and as Kevin took his seat, he returned to the rear of the ballroom. The introductions began, and Heath’s mind wandered back to Annabelle’s ambush yesterday morning. She’d burst into his house, filling up the place with her sass, and despite what he’d said, he’d been glad to see her. All the same, he hadn’t lied when he’d told her he’d needed time to think things over, including how he could torpedo that infantile crush she had on Dean Robillard. If she didn’t come to her senses soon, Heath was going to lose all respect for her. Why did women leave their brains behind when it came to Dean?

Heath pushed away an uncomfortable memory of a former girlfriend saying exactly the same thing about him. He intended to have a pointed conversation with Dean to make sure Golden Boy understood Annabelle wasn’t another bimbo he could stick in his trophy case. Except Heath was supposed to be courting Robillard, not antagonizing him. Once again, his matchmaker had put him in an impossible situation.

Kevin made a self-deprecating joke, and the crowd laughed. He had them right where he wanted, and Heath slipped into the hallway to check his messages. When he saw Bodie’s number, he returned it first. “What’s up?”

“A buddy of mine just phoned from Oak Street Beach,” Bodie said. “Tony Coffield, remember him? His old man owns a couple of bars in Andersonville.”

“Yeah?” Tony was one of a network of guys who fed Bodie information.

“So guess who else just showed up to catch some rays? None other than our good buddy Robillard. And it seems he’s not alone. Tony says he’s sharing a blanket with a red-haired chick. Cute, but not his usual type.”

Heath backed against the wall and clenched his teeth.

Bodie chuckled. “Your little matchmaker sure knows how to keep herself busy.”

A
nnabelle lifted her head from the sandy blanket and gazed over at Dean. He lay on his back, muscles bronzed and oiled, blond hair gleaming, eyes shaded by space-age sunglasses with bright blue lenses. A pair of bikini-clad women made their fourth pass, and this time it looked as though they’d worked up the nerve to approach. Annabelle caught their eyes, pressed her index finger to her lips indicating that he was sleeping, and shook her head. Disappointed, the women walked on.

“Thanks,” Dean said, without moving his mouth.

“Does this job pay?”

“I bought you a hot dog, didn’t I?”

She propped her chin on her fists and dug her toes deeper into the sand. Dean had called her yesterday, a few hours after she’d left Heath’s house. He’d asked if she could squeeze in a trip to the beach before T-camp started. She had a million things to do to get ready for the dating marathon she had planned, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to feed the story of her infatuation in case Heath still had doubts.

“So explain it to me again,” Dean said, eyes still shut. “About how you’ve been blatantly using me for your own nefarious purposes.”

“Football players aren’t supposed to know words like
nefarious
.”

“I heard it on a beer commercial.”

She smiled and adjusted her sunglasses. “All I’m saying is this. I got myself into a little jam—and, no, I’m not telling you who with. The easiest way to wiggle out was to pretend I’m smitten with you. Which, of course, I am.”

“Bull. You treat me like a kid.”

“Only to protect myself from your glory.”

He snorted.

“Besides, being seen with you raises the profile of my business.” She laid her cheek on her forearm. “It’ll get people talking about Perfect for You, and free advertising is all I can afford right now. I’ll pay you back. I promise.” She reached over and patted one very hard, sun-warmed bicep. “Ten years from now, when we know for sure you’ve made it through puberty, I’m going to find you a great woman.”

“Ten years?”

“You’re right. We’ll make it fifteen just to be safe.”

A
nnabelle had a crappy night’s sleep. She dreaded the start of Heath’s dating marathon, but it was time to bite the bullet and hit him with everything she had. She arrived at Sienna’s first. When he walked in, her heart gave a dopey little kick before it plunged to her toes. He’d been her lover, and now she had to introduce him to another woman.

He looked as grouchy as she felt. “I heard you played hooky yesterday,” he said as he sat down.

She had hoped word of her outing with Dean would make its way back to him, and her spirits lifted. “Nope. I’m not saying a word.” She made a zipping motion across her lips, turned the lock, and threw away the key.

His irritation deepened. “Do you know how juvenile that is?”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“All I said was that I heard you’d taken the day off. I was making conversation.”

“I’m allowed to take a day off now and then. And Wind Lake doesn’t count because I had to entertain a client. Specifically, you.”

He got that sexy half-lidded look, the one that signaled he was about to say something raunchy. But then he seemed to think better of it. “So how is the course of true love progressing?”

“I think he’s attracted to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not clingy. I could be clingy, but I’m forcing myself to give him plenty of room. Don’t you agree that’s the smart thing to do?”

“You are not sucking me into this discussion.”

“I know he has gorgeous football groupies hanging all over him, but I think he might be growing out of that stage of his life. I get the sense that he’s maturing.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“You think I’m being stupid, don’t you?”

“Tinker Bell, you’ve redefined stupid. For a woman who’s supposed to have a head on her shoulders—”

“Shhh…Here comes Celeste.”

Heath and Celeste had a boring discussion about the economy, a topic that always disheartened Annabelle. If the economy was good, she felt as though she wasn’t taking proper advantage of it, and when the economy was bad, she couldn’t see how she’d ever get ahead. She let the discussion drag on for the full twenty minutes before she put an end to it.

After Celeste left, Heath said, “I wouldn’t mind hiring her, but I don’t want to marry her.”

Annabelle didn’t think Celeste had liked Heath all that much either, and her mood brightened. Unfortunately, only temporarily, because her next candidate, a public relations executive, showed up right on schedule.

Heath was his normal charming self—respectful, interested in everything she had to say, but unwilling to take it any further. “Great taste in clothes, but I make her nervous.”

For the rest of the week, Annabelle pulled out the stops, introducing him to a filmmaker, a floral shop owner, an insurance executive, and Janine’s editor. He liked all of them but wasn’t interested in dating any of them.

Portia got wind of the dating blitz and sent two more socialites. One drooled all over him, which he hated but Annabelle got a kick out of. The other disliked his lack of pedigree, which infuriated Annabelle. Next Portia insisted on setting up an introduction at the Drake for morning coffee. Heath finally agreed, so Annabelle took advantage of the time slot to schedule a former classmate who taught adult night school.

Annabelle’s candidate was a dud. Portia’s wasn’t. Portia had insisted on the morning meeting, Annabelle discovered, because she’d lined up WGN-TV’s newest evening anchorwoman, Keri Winters. Keri was gorgeous, accomplished, and polished—too polished. She was Heath’s female counterpart, and together they were slick enough to float an oil tanker.

Annabelle tried to put an end to the agony after twenty minutes, but Heath shot her the evil eye, and Keri didn’t leave for another half hour. When the coast was finally clear, Annabelle rolled her eyes. “That was a waste of time.”

“What do you mean? She’s exactly what I’m looking for, and I’m asking her out.”

“She’s as plastic as you are. I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. If you ever have kids, they’ll come out of the birth canal with Fisher-Price stamped on their butts.”

He refused to listen, and the next day, he called Ms. News at Nine to set up a dinner date.

T
wo weeks passed. Between getting ready for her wine and cheese party and brooding about Heath and Keri Winters, Annabelle lost enough weight to zip up the periwinkle blue mini she hadn’t been able to wear all summer. “Go put some clothes on,” Mr. Bronicki growled the night of the party when she came downstairs wearing the mini, along with a slinky ivory top.

“You’re the hired help,” she retorted. “You’re not allowed to criticize.”

“Showin’ yourself off like a hussy …Irene, come out here and look at this.”

Mrs. Valerio poked her head in from the kitchen. “You look very nice, Annabelle. Howard, come help me open this olive jar.” After she’d started seeing Mr. Bronicki, Mrs. Valerio had dyed her hair Woody Woodpecker red, which matched the crimson sneakers she wore tonight with her Sunday best black dress.

Mr. Bronicki, spiffy in a long-sleeved white shirt, followed her into the kitchen. Annabelle moved to her office, where she’d converted her desk into a serving table with Nana’s blue-and-yellow-plaid tablecloth and a gorgeous centerpiece of garden flowers Mrs. McClure had donated. Nana’s charming pottery plates from the 1960s held the cheese and fruit. Mr. Bronicki had volunteered to answer the door and pour the wine while Mrs. Valerio kept the platters replenished. By shopping carefully and soliciting help from her seniors, Annabelle had managed to bring the evening together on budget. Even better, she’d picked up two more male clients through her new Web site.

Focusing on business didn’t do much to erase the images of Heath in bed with Keri, but she did her best. The news that the WGN anchorwoman and the city’s top sports agent were an item had recently hit talk radio, including the morning’s top drive-time show, where disc jockeys Eric and Kathy had begun running a Name Their Weird Baby contest.

The doorbell rang. “I hear it,” Mr. Bronicki grumbled from the kitchen. “I’m not deaf.”

“Remember what I told you about smiling,” Annabelle said as he shuffled past.

“Haven’t been able to smile since I lost my teeth.”

“You’re funny as a box of Depends.”

“Respect, young lady.”

Annabelle had been worried people wouldn’t mix, and she’d asked Janine to help. Her friend was the first to arrive, followed by Ernie Marks and Melanie Richter. Within an hour, Annabelle’s tiny downstairs rooms were packed. Celeste, the University of Chicago economist, spent a lot of time talking to Shirley Miller’s godson Jerry. Ernie Marks, the quiet elementary school principal, and Wendy, the vivacious Roscoe Village architect, seemed to hit it off. Annabelle’s two newest clients, discovered through her Web site, clustered around the stylish Melanie. Unfortunately, Melanie seemed more interested in John Nager. In light of Melanie’s having once married a man with a fetish for disinfecting doorknobs, Annabelle didn’t think John the hypochondriac was her best match. The evening’s most interesting development, however, came from an unexpected quarter. To Annabelle’s surprise, Ray Fiedler latched onto Janine right away, and Janine didn’t do one thing to shake him off. Annabelle had to admit that Ray’s new haircut had done wonders for him.

By the time the last of the guests left, she was exhausted but satisfied, especially since everybody wanted to know the date of the next party, and a stack of her brochures had disappeared. All in all, Perfect for You had enjoyed a very successful night.

A
s Heath and Keri’s courtship entered its third week, Annabelle stopped listening to talk radio. Instead, she followed up on the connections her clients had made at the party, tried to dissuade Melanie from seeing John, and signed another new client. She’d never been busier. She only wished she were happier.

A little before eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, the doorbell rang. She set aside the book she’d been reading and went downstairs to find Heath standing on her porch, looking rumpled and travel weary. Although they’d spoken on the phone, this was the first time she’d seen him since the night he’d met Keri.

He took in her loose-fitting white cotton tank—no bra— and blue cotton drawstring pajama bottoms printed with pink martini glasses holding tiny green olives. “Were you asleep?”

“Reading. Is something wrong?”

“No.” Behind him, a taxi pulled away from the curb. His eyes were red-rimmed, and a hint of stubble clung to his tough guy’s jaw, which, sicko that she was, only made him more ruggedly attractive.

“Do you have anything to eat? Nothing but pretzels on the plane, even in first class.” He was already inside. He set down his carry-on suitcase and a laptop. “I planned to call first, but I fell asleep in the cab.”

Her emotions were too raw for this. “All I have is leftover spaghetti.”

“Sounds great.”

As she took in the lines of fatigue in his face, she didn’t have the heart to turn him away, and she headed for the kitchen.

“You were right about Keri and me,” he said from behind her.

She bumped into the doorjamb. “What?”

He gazed past her toward the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t mind a Coke if you have one.”

She wanted to grab him by his white shirt collar and shake him until he told her exactly what he meant, but she restrained herself. “Of course I was right about you and Keri. I’m a trained professional.”

He loosened the knot on his necktie and unbuttoned his collar. “Refresh my memory. Exactly what kind of training have you had?”

“My nana was a superstar. It’s in my blood.” She was going to scream if he didn’t tell her what had happened. She grabbed a Coke can from the refrigerator and passed it over.

“Keri and I were too much alike.” He propped his shoulder against the wall and sipped his Coke. “It took half a dozen phone calls just to schedule lunch.”

The gray cloud that had been following her for three weeks swept off to spoil somebody else’s life. She withdrew an ancient powder blue Tupperware container from the refrigerator, along with what was left of the lunchtime Whopper she hadn’t felt like finishing. “Was the breakup tough?”

“Not exactly. We played phone tag for so long we had to do it by e-mail.”

“No broken hearts, then.”

His jaw set in a stubborn line. “We should have been great together.”

“You know my opinion about that.”

“The Fisher-Price theory. How could I forget?”

As she cut up her leftover hamburger and mixed it with the spaghetti, she wondered why he hadn’t phoned her with the news instead of showing up in person. She slid the plate into the microwave.

He wandered over to inspect the yellowed diet plan she’d stuck to the refrigerator when she’d moved in. “We didn’t sleep together,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on a low-carb fish dinner.

She reined in her joy. “Not my business.”

“Damned right it’s not, but you’re nosy.”

“Hey, I’ve been too busy building my empire to obsess over your sex life. Or lack thereof.” She resisted the urge to do a little soft shoe as she grabbed a pot holder, pulled out the plate, and set it on the table. “You’re not my only client, you know.”

He found a fork in the silverware drawer then sat down and studied his plate. “Is that a french fry in my spaghetti?”

“Nouvelle cuisine.” She reached into the freezer for the carton of Moose Tracks ice cream she hadn’t felt like touching in three weeks.

“So how is business?” he asked.

As she pried off the lid, she told him about her party and her new clients. His smile held genuine pleasure. “Congratulations. Your hard work is paying off.”

“It looks like it.”

“So how are things with you and lover boy?”

It took her a moment to figure out who he was talking about. She dug into the Moose Tracks. “Better all the time.”

“That’s funny. I saw him at Waterworks a couple of nights ago in a lip-lock with a Britney Spears wannabe.”

She excavated a ribbon of chocolate sauce. “All part of my plan. I don’t want him to feel suffocated.”

“Trust me. He doesn’t.”

“You see. It’s working.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “This is only one man’s opinion, but I think you were better off with Raoul.”

She grinned, stuck the lid back on the container, and returned the ice cream to the freezer. While he ate, she washed a saucepan she’d left soaking in the sink and answered more of his questions about the party. Considering how tired he was, she appreciated his interest.

When he finished eating, he brought his plate over. He’d devoured everything, even the french fry. “Thanks. That was the best meal I’ve had in days.”

“Wow, you have been busy.”

He retrieved what was left of the Moose Tracks from the freezer. “I’m too tired to go home. Do you have a spare bed where I can crash?”

She banged her shin against the dishwasher door. “Ouch! You want to stay
here
tonight?”

He looked up from the ice cream carton with a slightly puzzled expression, as if he didn’t understand her question. “I haven’t slept in two days. Is it a problem? I promise I’m too tired to jump you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course I’m not worried.” She occupied herself pulling the trash can out from under the sink. “I suppose it’s okay. But Nana’s old bedroom faces the alley, and tomorrow’s garbage day.”

“I’ll survive.”

Seeing how tired he was, she really couldn’t understand why he hadn’t waited until tomorrow and called with the news about Keri. Unless he didn’t want to be alone tonight. Maybe his feelings for Keri went deeper than he was letting on. Some of the air leaked out of her happiness bubble.

“I’ll carry that out.” He stuck the ice cream back in the freezer and took the trash bag she’d just bundled up.

It was all too domestic. The late night, the cozy kitchen, shared chores. She in her pajamas with no bra. The mood-swing roller coaster she’d been riding for weeks took another dip.

When he returned from trash detail, he locked the door behind him and nodded toward the backyard. “That car…Let me guess. Nana’s?”

“Sherman’s more a personality than a car.”

“You actually drive that thing where people can see you?”

“Some of us can’t afford a BMW.”

He shook his head. “I guess if this matchmaking gig doesn’t work out, you could paint it yellow and stick a meter on the dashboard.”

“I’m sure you amuse yourself.”

He smiled and headed for the front of the house. “How about showing me my bedroom, Tinker Bell?”

This was too weird. She flipped off the light, determined to keep it laid-back. “If you happen to be one of those people who doesn’t like mice, pull the sheet over your head. That generally keeps them away.”

“I apologize for making fun of your car.”

“Apology accepted.”

He grabbed his suitcase and climbed the steps to the small, square upstairs hallway, which was cut up with a series of doors.

“You can take Nana’s old bedroom,” she said. “Bathroom next to it. That’s the living room. It was my mother’s bedroom when she was a kid. I sleep on the third floor.”

He set down his suitcase and went over to stand in the living room doorway. The outdated gray-and-mauve decorating scheme looked hopelessly shabby. A section of yesterday’s newspaper had fallen to the sculpted tweed carpet, and the book she’d been reading lay open on the gray sofa. A pickled oak armoire holding a television occupied the space between two rattly double-hung windows, which were topped with poofy valances in faded gray and mauve stripes. In front of the windows, a matching pair of white metal stands with curly legs held more of Nana’s African violet collection.

“This is nice,” he said. “I like your house.”

At first she thought he was kidding, but then she realized he was sincere. “I’ll trade you,” she said.

He gazed toward the open door in the hallway. “You sleep in the attic?”

“It’s where I stayed when I was a kid, and I kind of got used to it.” “Tinker Bell’s lair. This I have to see.” He headed for the narrow attic stairs.

“I thought you were so tired,” she called out.

“Making this the perfect time for me to see your bedroom. I’m harmless.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment.

The attic with its twin dormers and sloping ceilings had become the repository for all of Nana’s discarded antiques: a cherry four-poster bed, an oak bureau, a dressing table with a gilded mirror, even an old dressmaker’s mannequin from the days when Nana had kept herself busy by sewing instead of matchmaking. One dormer held a cozy armchair and ottoman, the other a small walnut desk and an ugly, but efficient, window air conditioner. Annabelle had recently added blue-and-white toile curtains to the dormer windows, a matching toile bedspread, and some French prints to complement the miscellaneous landscapes that had drifted up here.

She was glad she’d tidied up earlier, although she wished she hadn’t overlooked the pink bra lying on the bed. His eyes wandered to it, then drifted to the mannequin, currently outfitted in an old lace tablecloth and a Cubs hat. “Nana?”

“She was a fan.”

“So I see.” He gazed up at the sloping ceiling. “All this needs is a couple of skylights, and it’d be perfect.”

“Maybe you should concentrate on decorating your own place.”

“I guess.”

“Honestly, Heath, if I had that gorgeous house and your money, I’d turn it into a showplace.”

“What do you mean?”

“Big furniture, stone tables, great lighting, contemporary art on the wall—huge canvases. How can you stand living in such an amazing house and not doing anything with it?”

He looked at her so strangely that she grew uncomfortable and turned away. “Nana’s bedroom has a temperamental window shade. I’ll go fix it and get you some towels.”

She hurried downstairs. The faint scent of Avon’s To a Wild Rose still clung to Nana’s room. She turned on the small china dresser lamp, put away the extra blanket she’d left at the foot of the bed, and fixed the shade. In the bathroom, she stowed the Tampax box from last week and draped a clean set of towels over the old chrome rod.

He still hadn’t come downstairs. She wondered if he’d spotted her old Tippy Tumbles doll propped on the bureau. Even worse, what about the sex toy catalog that she hadn’t gotten around to throwing away? She rushed up the stairs.