Miss Match

by Laurelin McGee

  Hannah Wang, the radical feminist and PETA activist who frankly scared the shit out of the entire firm with her zeal to prove women could work harder, faster, and better than their patriarchal oppressors—she was hungry.

  Each time Bert Thornton’s name was raised, Andy had recommended one of the others instead.

  So the great family guy, avid Red Sox fan, and two-time winner of the HOA lawn award was left behind as the younger, angrier, more driven associates moved up. It sucked, but that was the culture at Max Ellis. And everyone knew that culture was bolstered, if not built entirely, on Andy’s suggestions.

  Now here it was to bite her in the ass.

  “I’m afraid, Ms. Dawson, that with your lack of real credentials and real-world skill set, I can’t offer you any positions in a corporate environment.”

  Fuck. Okay, get a read on her and figure out how to make it work. Deference. She’s in charge here, just take a little abuse and let her get it out.

  “That’s fine, Denise. Mrs. Thornton. I’m willing to work my way up. I can start in an administrative assistant capacity, it’s something I’ve done before … how are your boys, by the way?” She received a cold stare in response.

  “Jason and Steven were both accepted to Ivy League schools. Due to financial concerns, they both chose to attend community college for their first two years and deliver pizzas to help bulk up their college funds for their undergraduate studies. It’s also helped to have them contribute to the household.”

  Andy had no idea what to say that wouldn’t make this situation even more uncomfortable, so she wisely said nothing. She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. Never, ever during her time at Ellis had she considered the real-life ramifications of her recommendations.

  Maybe it wasn’t Max that was to blame for her bad karma, but herself.

  “As I was saying,” Denise continued, “I do have two positions open at current that would suit your résumé. The first is at Skybar.”

  The exclusive Pierce Industries club downtown? It’s not an office, but I could hostess for a bit, if I get to hobnob with the clientele they pull.

  “Their second-shift bathroom attendant is on maternity leave.”

  It was impossible for Andy to keep the look of contempt off her face.

  “No? All right, the only other position I need an unskilled laborer for is with a local landscaping company. You would be required to do a moderate amount of physical labor, as well as work unusual hours and weekends. Is that something you could handle?”

  Andy took a deep breath. She could quit her hot yoga classes and save that money while still getting a workout in. Maybe learn a thing or two about growing plants instead of just killing them. “I believe I can handle that, ma’am.”

  “Wonderful.” Denise Thornton smiled a wolfish grin, and played her trump card. “Mataya Landscape and Design’s primary client is Ellis Investments. You can report to the building at four a.m. tomorrow. Won’t it be nice revisiting your old stomping grounds? I imagine you’ll run into quite a few former co-workers. Wear blue jeans, you’ll receive a company T-shirt as well, the cost of which will be deducted from your first paycheck.”

  Andy’s eyes widened. This woman was good. Would have far outranked her husband, if she’d worked for Ellis, in fact. Unfortunately the balance of power was rather different right now.

  “If neither of these options feels … suited to your profile, of course you are welcome to take your résumé to another temp agency. I have personally taken the liberty of sharing what I know about you with every staffing solution business in town that caters to Boston’s high-end firms. We are a very supportive community, you know.”

  Andrea was not at all happy to discover that Blake Donovan’s Order-a-Bride offer had suddenly become her most appealing option, and yet it was a relief to be able to assure Ms. Thornton that she had decided to accept a different offer, and could see herself out. Not that anything was going to make her feel any better about herself at this point. She’d always thought Max Ellis was a shitty human being. It had never occurred to Andy that she was as bad as him. It was only out of love and respect for Lacy that she was able to keep the tears in as she called her sister to report back.

  That lasted right up until she heard her sister’s voice, then she lost it.

  “Andy, calm down. I can’t even understand you. Did you not get in with the agency?”

  “I have twenty emergency dollars in my purse. I’m buying french fries and ice cream,” she sniffled in response.

  “How could things possibly have gone that badly, good God! We practiced. We practiced all fucking night. What the hell did you say to them? Wait, did you say french fries?”

  * * *

  Halfway through the best meal the girls had enjoyed in a week—the handfuls of crispy fries perfectly salted, cherry ice cream eaten straight from the tub—things started to look up.

  “Look, Andy. You know how desperate this is. But it hasn’t been totally fair of me to ask you to start supporting us with no notice, either. I can look for something else part-time, too. I still remember how to bartend. It’s been the lot of musicians forever, not to mention good song fodder.” This time Andy’s tears were of gratitude.

  “No, Lace, I’m not going to let you work multiple jobs while I sit around. I can suck it up and take the Donovan job.” Ouch, it hurt to say that.

  “No way … From what you told me, you’re way too good for him. Just because we need the money doesn’t mean you need another Ellis in your life. No one treats my big sis like that. Well. Not anymore.”

  “Thank God, you agree.” She detested the idea of working for that man. Thinking about it made the fries and ice cream in her stomach want to come back up. She would have taken the position, though, if Lacy had insisted.

  But she hadn’t.

  “Hey, remember how you got our rent lowered the time you told the landlord he was taking his divorce out on the female inhabitants of our building?”

  “Yeah.” That had been a gamble, but one that had been worth it. The landlord in question has postured big, but when Andy read him like a book—a heartbreaking book, but a book nonetheless—he’d teared up, apologized, and, instead of raising the rent by thirty percent as threatened, lowered it by a hundred bucks a month. That paid for two weeks’ groceries, with no more work than a simple Freudian analysis.

  “Or when you convinced Mom and Dad to let us spend that spring break in Florida without them?”

  “Probably my finest moment, Lace.” That one had been inspired, Andy had to admit. Knowing how adamant their parents were on college, Andy had woven a story about self-reliance, common sense, and adventure that had their strict parents practically falling over themselves in their haste to send the girls off to Panama City Beach.

  That they had spent their vacation vomiting and wishing Mom was there was beside the point.

  So Lacy wasn’t going to force the Donovan job, thank goodness.

  Andy would take another one of the less desirable options before her, which, compared with working for Blake Donovan, seemed like an exec position at The Boston Consulting Group. “Then I can wait tables while I look for something permanent.” She squirted some mustard into her ketchup and stirred it into an orange puddle with a burnt fry. “That might work better anyway. We need cash before two weeks from now if this isn’t going to be our last hot meal until then.”

  “Sad days when a couple cones of fries becomes a hot meal, isn’t it? Tell you what. I’m playing backup for Lua Palmer tonight at the new hipster wine bar place that opened up across from the studio. It’s all trendy and young and too cool for school. Why don’t you come with me? We can split my comped drinks, and maybe talk to the manager about picking up a few shifts. We haven’t worked together since high school. Remember the good old days at the Steak Buffet?”

  Andy flicked the end of her fry at Lacy’s face. “Oh, I remember that all right. I remember doing all your side work while you flirted with the tattooe
d cook, what was his name—Olaf? Bjorn? Something as Scandinavian as it was fake. I served his mother one night, and she told me it was really—”

  “Georgie!” Lacy shrieked. “I totally stopped flirting with him after you told me that. Besides, he sucked at guitar, and that was so not hot.”

  “But then you immediately transferred your attentions to Salvadore, the buffet attendant who didn’t even speak English. So I was still bussing your tables and refilling steak sauces while you batted your eyelashes and pocketed the tips.”

  “Salvadore taught me Spanish guitar, and that music is a universal language,” Lacy said primly.

  “So is French-kissing, judging from the scene I witnessed in the walk-in.”

  “Passion is a key requisite of flamenco, sis. I was merely seeking authenticity.”

  It was a breath of fresh air to see Lacy’s smile reach her eyes. Andy couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her sister relaxed and genuinely happy besides when she was onstage. Since before Lance died, for sure. Which was why she rarely missed Lacy’s gigs, even when she’d rather be home soaking in the tub with a glass of wine.

  The fact that she couldn’t afford a cheap bottle of Beringer played in Lacy’s favor.

  Lacy licked the fry salt off her finger. “So we’re decided, then? What are you going to wear tonight?”

  “Don’t think you’ll catch me doing your side work these days, little sis. What does one wear to a hipster wine bar, anyway?” How sad was it that she wasn’t even thirty and she had no idea what was in? The Ellis bubble hadn’t left much time for real life.

  “How about keep the pencil skirt, and wear my gray sequined tank? I have a pair of oversized lensless glasses and a fedora you could wear, too.”

  If that was what was in these days, no wonder she hated going out. “How about you wear that, and I’ll find something else. I think I’m too old for hipster chic.”

  * * *

  Blake stared at his monitor, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was well aware that the pose made him look slightly villainous, and had cultivated it to keep unwanted visitors from popping into his office and interrupting him. The ad had been taken down nearly as soon as Andrea Dawson had closed the door, overly firmly, behind herself. Yet the email account he’d set up to receive answers was still getting messages, 242 and counting. He could have delegated it to his secretary, of course, but this was a delicate matter. Best to handle it personally. Blake wanted to delete them all, but since Drea had left a message with his secretary an hour before politely declining the job, he knew it wasn’t wise.

  Maybe he should forget the whole damn bride idea. Except that would be admitting defeat, and Blake Donovan never admitted defeat. When he’d hit his thirty-fifth birthday nearly a year before, he had achieved everything on his five-year plan except marriage. He firmly believed then—and still did now—that a wife was necessary for various reasons, such as hosting social engagements, appealing to clients who were more family-centered, and having an automatic plus-one at all the charity and business functions he attended. Also, the sex would be more convenient than his current method of cruising the local bars. And though he’d never say it aloud, he found returning home after a long day at work to an empty house was lonely. Silly, yes, but true.

  He’d thought finding a wife would be an easy enough task. First, he went to his colleagues to set him up. But after several horrible blind dates and with his next birthday approaching quickly, he felt a professional was needed to find the woman for him. So Blake had joined Millionaire Matches online. That turned out to be another big fat failure. Perhaps Blake made a mistake by sleeping with and then dumping the CEO. Her parting words to him as she closed his account were, “You couldn’t pay someone enough money to find a bride for you in this town.” He couldn’t let that challenge go undefeated, now, could he?

  Blowing air through his pursed lips, he considered.

  Drea was his choice for the job, hands down. Who else had the precise background and skills to seek out and vet his future wife? By and large, the other candidates who had shown up in his office wearing too much makeup and perfume were only interested in wedding him themselves. And the few serious inquirers had résumés filled with skills such as “social media ninja.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? He wasn’t about to hire someone like that to perform the most important task he was going to assign this year.

  And there was that something else about Drea. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her brash approach was usually a turnoff in an employee. Perhaps it was that she’d turned him down—no one said no to Blake Donovan, after all. It couldn’t be that, though—he’d sensed the something even before that.

  He struggled to put a name to it. Underneath her obvious dislike and disrespect for Blake and the job he was proposing, he sensed … what?

  A connection, that’s what. An understanding that few people had of him.

  It was both terrifying and thrilling.

  He had to explore it further. Completely in a working relationship form, of course.

  So how to convince her to change her mind? He was willing and able to up the starting salary. Calling her to tell her that would make him look desperate, though, and Blake Donovan would not be seen as desperate. His shoe tapped the floor rapidly. He pulled up Google and typed her name into the search field. Several hits came back from various society pages, photos of Drea in evening gowns on the arm of Max Ellis.

  He noticed two things immediately. The first was that for a girl who had absolutely nothing in common with his ideal, she looked more stunning in each photo. The second was that in each picture, Drea was leaning slightly away from Ellis, while he was either leaning closer to her or gripping her waist. Blake smiled. He’d bet money he had just discovered the root of her tight-lipped silence on the subject of her former employer.

  That was a relief, because in truth he was a bit disconcerted about her lack of a referral. That it was due to an unwanted attraction was something he could deal with.

  Among the glamorous pictures of charity balls and banking events was one he almost overlooked. Drea in jeans, grinning widely at the camera, arm around a taller, blonder version of herself. The caption indicated that the tall girl was named Lacy Dawson, an up-and-coming singer-songwriter. Had to be her sister. Intrigued, Blake changed the name in his search field.

  Lacy came back with a lot more hits than her sister. Although far from successful, she had tons of gig listings, studio bios, and even a Facebook fan page. Blake felt most musicians were fairly shiftless, but he could tell this was a girl who worked hard. That reflected well on Drea. The proud, supportive sister. The type to show up to all of Lacy’s shows.

  Blake clicked on a link listing Lacy’s upcoming performances, and wrote down the address he found there. He smiled for the first time all day.

  Chapter Four

  “So is it mandatory that I wear a trucker hat?” Andy asked her new boss, Zeke. They were at a corner table in the brick-lined bar discussing terms of employment.

  “The thing about trucker hats is that they are so out that they have become ironic all over again. So you’ll probably want to hit a thrift store and grab a couple. We love irony here at Irony and Wine. It’s sort of our thing, as you may have gathered. You have no idea how hard it is to stay up to date on facial hair trends for our male staffers.” Zeke sipped his Malbec and glanced around the still-calm early-evening bar.

  Lack of confidence leading to overcompensation in beardage. Andy loved being able to comfortably work out people’s issues. She could do this.

  “Your bar is obviously super successful. I can’t wait to be a part of it.” She played to the strength she perceived: his ego.

  His lip quirked beneath the thick coating of ginger hair. “You know, Andy, I think you’ll be a nice fit here. Why don’t we plan the rest of the night to be a working interview. Are you comfortable sliding behind the bar and helping Brax out this evening?”

  So her in
itial read had been correct. Thank goodness. As unmarketable as her skills may be most of the time, she relied on them to guide her through social interactions as much as business. She still had it.

  “I can’t say I’m much of a sommelier”—she was impressed with herself for knowing the correct wine term—“but I’d love to learn more, and Brax seems like he knows what he’s doing. Thank you, Zeke.” One of those sentiments was genuine, anyway.

  Who cares? New job, new Andy. Trucker hats and thrift stores, okay.

  Brax the Waxed Stache, as she immediately dubbed him in her head, grinned at her as she flipped up the partition that divided staff from customers. His handlebars were amusing enough to keep the smile on her face even as he began his rundown on the wines she ought to be suggesting to various patrons. Evidently Chardonnay was the first suggestion to be made to women, unless they were wearing graphic tees, which entitled them to Cab Sav. Then with couples, they were to be talked into obscure German blends because they’d spend extra to have a bottle they couldn’t pronounce. Dates always spent a lot to impress each other. Men alone were to be Italian-ed.

  Andy’s head was spinning at the wine details, but her heart rate kicked up a notch at the psychology. Good Lord, this job had written itself for her. Meet people and determine what they’d like? She couldn’t work out why bartending hadn’t made her list of life options previously. Who cared that she didn’t know the difference between a Merlot and a Zin? She could fake that. It was perfect.

  You could call literally any wine at all “well balanced,” or mention the “nice finish.” She realized pretty quickly that telling customer their glass of white had notes of pear, or apricot, or apple would never get her called out. You just picked a fruit and watched them nod in agreement.

  “Hey, baby, I’d like a glass of red, with a shot of you on the side.”

  Oh, no, no. The proposition came from a guy in a plaid button-down and Brax was at the opposite end of the bar—typical.

  She wasn’t about to fall for that shit on her first non-shift. She took a deep breath, trying to recall what wine Brax recommended for overly aggressive flirts. “We have a lovely Cabernet on special tonight, almost as spicy as I am.” Cabernets can be spicy, right? “You’d like a glass, but love a bottle.”