How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker)

by Janette Rallison

  “What are his faults?”

  Flynn shook his head and didn’t say anything.

  “See?” Belle dropped her hand from his arm. “You can’t think of any.”

  “No, I was wondering why I never meet any women like you—completely blind to my weak spots and unwaveringly loyal.”

  “Technically, you did meet me. Then you lied about who you were.” She shrugged. “That’s not the best way to impress women.”

  “You were too far gone to be impressed with me.”

  “Actually, I was very impressed.”

  He made a disbelieving noise. “Only because you thought I was Marco. I could have told you that I clubbed baby seals in my spare time, and you would have overlooked the hobby because you had a crush on Marco when you were eighteen.”

  “You still haven’t come up with any of his faults.”

  “That’s because although I have many faults, badmouthing my brother isn’t one of them.”

  Without waiting for her to say more, he strode to the window and ordered.

  Chapter 14

  As Belle and Flynn leaned against a planter waiting for their food, she told herself she was being ridiculous to worry about what Flynn thought of her. Marco was the man she wanted. Flynn was just…an obstacle to get around. And okay, she’d had fun snorkeling with him. He was interesting, intelligent, and, if pressed, she had to admit he was an amazing kisser. But he’d also tricked her, been dishonest. He’d pretended an interest in her only to keep her from Marco.

  Belle absentmindedly ran her hand against the ledge of the planter. “We should probably get our relationship story straight so we don’t contradict each other in front of your family. Do you come to New York on the weekends to see me? Is that how we’ve been dating?”

  He considered her question. “Every other weekend, you come to DC. That way it’s not one-sided.”

  “Right. Heaven forbid I take advantage of you in our fake relationship.”

  “But I don’t stay at your place,” he added, emphasizing the point. “My parents wouldn’t approve of that. At all. In fact, my mother would cry if she thought we were sleeping together, so as far as this reunion is concerned, you have your own hotel room, and we’re waiting until we’re married.”

  Belle had known Marco came from a religious family. In college, Marco went to church every Sunday. But Belle hadn’t thought that Flynn would be the same in that regard.

  “Your parents don’t know you’re an incurable playboy?”

  He laughed at the assumption. “I’m too busy with work to be an incurable playboy.”

  “You said you come to Cancun a lot. You must find free time somewhere.”

  “Bainbridge does business here, and I’m the only partner who speaks Spanish.”

  She surveyed him, let her eyes drift over the curve of his cheek and the line it made as it formed his sculpted jaw. She supposed it was only fair that God made two copies of that face. A work so impressive ought to be replicated.

  “You can deny the label, but you still give off the incurable playboy vibe. Handsome, rich, kissing women you barely know, and then taking them off on sunrise cruises.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “If I remember right, you kissed me first.”

  “Yes, but you clearly knew how to do it. Really well.”

  He smiled at her, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was flirting with her. “Maybe you inspired me. Probably because you’re an incurable…what’s the female equivalent of a playboy? Partier? Seductress?”

  She shook her head. “I’m neither. I’ve been too busy at Fontaine to date much. Besides, I work mostly with women. And the one straight, single guy I work with…” Thoughts of Sebastien nearly made her shudder. “If you do end up buying my company, let’s just say I know someone who needs a demotion.”

  “Now you’ve intrigued me. What’s his story?”

  She didn’t tell it. She was reviewing the last six years of her life and realizing how few dates she’d gone on. She’d met men at nightclubs who were interested enough in her, but she’d dismissed them without much thought because she didn’t want a relationship with a clubber. She was looking for a hard worker, someone successful and smart. And also someone as kind and charitable as Marco. Someone filled with purpose and a desire to make the world better. Marco had always been her standard.

  Instead of finding someone like him—instead of even looking—she’d made a life that consisted of long hours at the office. When she was at home, she spent her time sketching clothes for the next line. A hundred and twenty percent. That’s what it took to succeed.

  Only right now, all of that effort didn’t feel like success. She felt as if she’d given up her personal life to climb a ladder that hadn’t led where she expected. “Maybe my problem is that I work with too many beautiful women—models, fashion buyers, designers. Everyone in the industry is thin and chic. It’s a matter of too much supply, not enough demand. I should have gone into an industry with more men: construction, politics…maybe NASCAR.”

  “And if you’d gone into NASCAR, the race car drivers would be better dressed.”

  “True. The outfits they wear now make them look like brightly colored astronauts.”

  He laughed, and she enjoyed the sound of it. Deep and rich. “It’s not too late for a career switch.”

  “I already switched once. I was majoring in chemical engineering until Marco convinced me to follow my passions instead.”

  “Apparently you took his advice to heart. You’ve got the passionate thing down.”

  She smacked his arm. “I might have kissed you first, but you kissed me back.”

  “Yes, I did.” He didn’t sound particularly happy about that decision now. “So Marco saved you from the world of engineering and convinced you to design clothes instead.”

  He probably saw it as a mistake. Belle’s mother still thought she’d made the wrong decision, was convinced that people in the fashion world were like the characters in The Devil Wears Prada—where everyone was vain, vapid, and self-important.

  “Does my work seem shallow to you?” Belle asked.

  “No.” Flynn’s tone was more sincere than she’d expected. “People express their personalities through their clothes. I’m glad I can walk into stores and find what I want. If I had to rely on my sewing skills, I’d own one pair of clothes, and they’d look like something off a scarecrow.” He tilted his head, watching her expression. “The question is, are you glad you left chemical engineering? Last night, you seemed pretty frustrated with your job.”

  She had been frustrated. Still was. “I work longer hours for less pay than an engineer, and a few days ago, I nearly threw my plate of foie gras at Sebastien, but…”

  How could she describe the feeling she got from creating beautiful things? The way things came together sometimes was nothing short of magical. She couldn’t explain the satisfaction of seeing a design go from a sketch to stores. “I’ve spent the last five years helping women feel better about how they look, giving them confidence. That’s worth it, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” He wasn’t challenging her; he was asking.

  She hadn’t planned on doing any soul searching during this trip, but the question lodged inside her, and all she could think about was everything she’d sacrificed for her job, including the relationships she’d ignored while giving her career everything.

  “I love the artistic side of my job. I just wish I had more time for…” Everything else. Living life. “For people,” she finished.

  He nodded. “I know what you mean. I love my job, but it’s easy to let it become all consuming. My assistant threatened to stop taking calls from me this week. She thinks I’m missing the whole point of a vacation.”

  Ah, so the mysterious Katrina was an assistant. Belle shouldn’t have cared, but somehow knowing that the woman wasn’t his girlfriend made her glad anyway.

  A server leaned out the window and called Flynn’s name. While he wa
s getting the food, Kennedy and Paige came around the corner of the building, towing small children, all of whom were talking at once.

  Two brunette boys, about four and six years old, saw Flynn and squealed in joy. “Uncle Flynn!” they shouted, and went running to him with outstretched arms.

  “Don’t knock into him!” Kennedy called after them. “He’s carrying food!” The boys ignored her and wrapped their arms around his legs.

  “When are you going to play in the pool with us?” the older one asked.

  Paige held a daughter, a cherubic baby of a year or so. The other girl looked to be about three and wore a pink swimsuit with a ballerina-type skirt. Her time in the pool had turned her blonde hair into messy curls that framed an angelic face. She watched Flynn with the same excitement as her cousins, but her mother kept a tight hold of her hand.

  Belle took the tray from Flynn so he wouldn’t drop it. He immediately picked up both boys, lugging them under his arms. “You want to play in the pool? I can throw you in.”

  “No, you can’t,” Kennedy said. “It’s time for dinner.” She turned to Belle with an apologetic expression. “Now you get to meet the rest of the mob. The two troublemakers attacking my brother are Noah and Gavin. The well-behaved children over there are Raleigh and Zoe.”

  Paige squeezed her oldest daughter’s hand, “Raleigh, this is Uncle Flynn’s girlfriend, Belle.”

  The little girl stopped in her tracks. “Belle? Like in the movie?”

  “Yes,” Belle said. “Except I don’t have any singing dishes with me.”

  The girl kept staring, more excited about this answer than she should have been. “You changed your hair, so now it’s just like mine.”

  Paige laughed, but Belle winced. She should have known better than to give a three-year-old a flippant answer. “I’m not that Belle,” she said. “My name is just Belle.”

  Paige pulled the little girl toward the order window. “I’ll explain it to her.”

  “I love you!” Raleigh said, one hand reaching for Belle. “You’re my favorite princess!”

  Flynn put the boys down, and they ran back to Kennedy. He motioned for Belle to follow him back around the building. “Come on, before they start asking for your autograph.”

  Belle followed, glancing back at Raleigh. She was waving goodbye, eyes bright, ignoring everything her mother said.

  “She’s so adorable. I suddenly want to design kids’ clothes. I’m thinking along the lines of French provincial and poofy princess dresses.”

  Flynn laughed but didn’t comment. Which was a good thing, because another line of clothes suddenly came to her. Maternity wear. Billowing tops, lamb-soft pajamas, and silky dresses that were all curves.

  An unexpected ache filled her. Seeing Flynn’s nephews and nieces made her wonder if she would ever lead a little mob of her own around. She’d always wanted children someday when she found the right guy. Now she wondered when someday would arrive. How could she ever expect to have kids when she barely had time to find the right guy?

  This night was turning into a full blown identity crisis.

  But then, maybe Marco was the right guy. Maybe he would stop being so oblivious where she was concerned. One could hope.

  Then again, maybe Flynn was right, and she had unrealistic expectations about Marco. Had she built up his image, turning him into some impossible ideal? She pushed the thought away.

  Belle and Flynn headed toward the table where his parents sat. Another woman sat with them, Uncle Bob’s wife, probably. She was middle-aged, with short, graying hair, thick arms and an overflowing middle. The type of body shape that made designers weep with frustration because simple clothes looked dowdy, and elaborate ones made them look as if they were auditioning for the part of an eccentric character in a Broadway play.

  Marco was talking with Uncle Bob, oblivious to Belle or the fact that she was ready to start a family with him. Mrs. Dawson and the other woman were flipping through her sketchbook.

  As Belle drew closer, Mrs. Dawson looked up. “Sorry to be nosy, dear. I hope it’s all right that we looked through your sketches. We were wondering what kind of clothes you designed. These are really beautiful.”

  “I’m Aunt Karen,” the other woman said. “You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you,” Belle said, appreciating the compliment. She put the food on the table, and she and Flynn sat down.

  Mrs. Dawson flipped to a page. “My favorite is this one of you and Flynn.” To him she said, “Did you know she drew you in here?”

  She held up the page Belle had drawn of her and Marco. Flynn’s eyes went from the sketch to Belle then back to his mother. “That’s not me.”

  “Of course it’s you,” Mrs. Dawson said. “He’s tall, broad shouldered, and has light brown hair.”

  Flynn should have agreed, but Belle could tell he knew exactly who the sketch was, and he didn’t like it. “I’m not the only man around with broad shoulders and brown hair. I’m not even the only one at the table who fits that description.”

  “Oh, I can tell it’s you,” Mrs. Dawson persisted, “by the way he’s standing—see how he’s folding his arms as though he’s overseeing the creation of the world? That’s how you look when you’re thinking. Besides, the bangs do that curvy thing yours always do.”

  Flynn looked closer at the drawing. So did Belle. She hadn’t meant to mimic the way Flynn stood, but somehow she had. Ditto for the bangs. Flynn’s had a curve. Marco’s hung down.

  Flynn’s gaze went to hers, silently asking what it meant. She didn’t have an answer. She supposed it meant that she’d spent so much time with Flynn during the last two days that she’d forgotten how Marco stood and how his bangs looked.

  Marco craned his neck to see the picture, and Mrs. Dawson turned it in his direction.

  “Definitely you, dude,” Marco said. “I’m much better looking.” He smiled at Belle as though she were in on the joke.

  The smile sent tingles shooting through Belle’s stomach.

  “I hope you make one of these dresses for yourself,” Mrs. Dawson said, still admiring the drawing. “Any of them would go beautifully with the anniversary gift Flynn got you.”

  “Mom—” Flynn started.

  “I didn’t ruin the surprise,” his mother interrupted. “She already knew you were getting her something. I haven’t told her what.” She turned to Belle. “We should celebrate your anniversary on Friday night so the rest of us don’t miss it. I want to see your face when you open the box.”

  Flynn had actually bought her something? No. If he bought something, it was intended for someone else. Some woman back home.

  “Mom,” Flynn started again.

  “Humor me,” his mother said. “It’s nearly my birthday.”

  “And we should be celebrating your birthday,” Flynn said, “not talking about anything that has to do with Belle and me.”

  Belle nodded. She was beginning to wish she’d listened to him and stayed in her room. She felt horrible lying to his mother.

  Flynn’s mother patted his arm. “You can never celebrate too many things in life. Birthdays, anniversaries, reunions. When you’re with the ones you love, every day is a celebration.”

  Aunt Karen wrapped her arm around Mrs. Dawson’s shoulder in a supportive hug. “So true.”

  As Belle and Flynn ate, the conversation went on, with the group chatting about what they’d done that day and what they wanted to do tomorrow. Marco had spent the afternoon golfing with his father, completely missing the point of a beach day. Belle wanted to speak to Marco, but he was sitting by his brothers-in-law, deep in discussion about the Chicago Bulls. Belle had never been one to watch basketball, let alone talk about it. She couldn’t make herself care that much about where a ball went.

  The rest of the group came back with food, and Flynn’s sisters sat close to Belle. “You’ll have to tell us more about yourself,” Kennedy said. “You know how brothers are. They never give details. Seriously, before the
reunion, Flynn kept you a complete secret.”

  Belle laughed as though agreeing that yes, men were that way, and she went on to answer questions about herself. Every once in a while, Flynn added a comment, something endearing or teasing that made her feel horrible all over again. The Dawsons were such nice people, so eager to approve of her. What made it worse, was that she liked them too.

  She’d never been to a family reunion, never had this sort of experience. Her mother had burned bridges with her family long ago. Her grandparents seemed to think that any time her mother contacted them, it was to hit them up for money. Granted, it was probably the truth, but that hadn’t been Belle or her brother’s fault. Her grandparents had given help so begrudgingly—always declaring that this was the last time—that after Belle left home, contacting them never occurred to her. They saw her as a burden, so it was best to let those ties dissolve.

  Sitting among this bustling group, she saw how a family could be, how families were supposed to be, and all sorts of “if-onlys” bloomed in her mind.

  If only her mother hadn’t been an alcoholic. If only her father hadn’t left them.

  She tried to stop herself from going down that road. She’d realized long ago that wishing the past had been different did no good. Life gave you problems. It was your responsibility to rise above them. She’d always done that by working hard. But no matter how hard she worked, how successful she became, money couldn’t buy a family like the Dawsons.

  Raleigh left her mother’s side and climbed on Belle’s lap. “I saw you at Disneyland,” she said. “I waved a lot, but you didn’t see me.”

  “Sorry,” Belle said. “Disneyland is a busy place. I would never ignore you on purpose.”

  Raleigh nodded solemnly. “I got sick on the teacups ride.”

  “Oh dear. That couldn’t have been fun.”

  “Nope,” she said proudly, then without a segue, added, “When I grow up, I’m going to live in a castle.”

  “That would be lovely.” One of Raleigh’s blonde curls had fallen across her cheek. Belle brushed it back. “I hope you do. Maybe I could design some dresses for you to wear in your castle.”