Miss Match

by Laurelin McGee

  Andy was getting pissed. Blake had said the search process was up to her and he was taking that away. She told him as much.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not taking anything away. I’m simply telling you when you’ll be in the office and when you won’t.”

  “But … but…” She couldn’t think of what should follow that but. He had made some valid points, and if it weren’t for the fluttering and stuttering that he seemed to provoke in her, she’d have volunteered for that schedule herself. Just discussing the time she’d be spending with him made her throat tight and her palms sweaty.

  Another excuse flickered through her mind and she grabbed onto it like a life raft. “Don’t you meet with people in here? I’ll be in your way.”

  Blake straightened a stack of papers that already seemed straight to Andy. “Don’t be silly. I’ll schedule meetings when you’re not here. Or I’ll use the conference room.”

  Andy teetered on the line between acceptance and full-out fuck no. She chewed on her lip as she evaluated her choices. No matter what she said he was going to have a counter. She knew that about him this early in their acquaintanceship. It was part of his egotistical, narcissistic nature. And arguing with her employer probably wasn’t the best way to start a new job.

  “Fine,” she snipped, conceding but not without a huff. “You’re the boss.”

  “I am the boss. And you’ll do best to remember that.” He waved her over to his desk, as if she were a pet. “Let’s start, shall we? Come have a seat and I’ll give you a history of myself.”

  “Fine.” She was saying that word an awful lot. Ironically she felt far from it. “Just let me grab another cup of coffee from the lounge and I’ll join you.”

  * * *

  Blake watched Drea’s hips swing as she walked out of the office. Stomped out was more like it. He couldn’t really blame her. He was shocked at the way he was acting himself. Normally he was rigid and on-task, never deterring from a preset plan. Today he was changing things on a whim.

  The desk for Drea? He’d come up with that at seven that morning. Before that, he’d planned to set her up in a cubicle somewhere. After several phone calls and a hefty sum of come-in-early-bribes, he located an extra desk in payroll and was able to get the janitor to move it in his office pronto.

  Now, why on earth had he done that?

  He also hadn’t originally intended his matchmaker to be in the office on specific days. He expected that the job would require networking on and off the computer, and he certainly didn’t need to be present for either. But the moment Drea suggested she wouldn’t be in the office at all, he panicked.

  Oh, and that remark he’d made about warming her up—whatever had made him say something as arousing as that? Thank God he’d recovered.

  He had to stop going off book. Yes, the woman had the cutest little dimple when she scowled and her lips were so damn kissable that he couldn’t stop staring at them, but she was obstinate and ballsy—both major turnoffs. The semi he’d been sporting since she pressed against him in the elevator was merely a standard male response. That it had only seemed to grow more uncomfortable when she got feisty meant nothing, either.

  This was about taking back control. She would do what he told her to. He, Blake Donovan, was the boss. He needed to behave like one. Even if it meant behaving like kind of an ass. He squared his shoulders as she reentered.

  “Here’s a pen and paper,” he said, handing her his desk pen and a pad of legal paper. “You’ll want to take notes.”

  He watched as Drea sat and adjusted her short skirt. She certainly had delightful legs. Long and lean, her calves shapely. How had he not noticed this before?

  “I’m ready,” she said when he hadn’t spoken.

  He blinked, looking up to find her poised and ready to write. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. Stop doing that. “Very well.”

  Blake settled into his leather chair, the new position making it harder to see Drea’s gams, and thus easier to concentrate. “I was born, thirty-five years ago, to Ralph and Sylvia Donovan in Fall River. My mother passed away when I was three. My father and I moved to Boston when I was seven. He remarried when I was eight. They both passed in a car accident when I was seventeen, leaving me nothing but a handful of debts and a beat-up Chevy. Not the one they wrecked, obviously. Fortunately, I earned a scholarship to MIT or I wouldn’t have been able to afford school. I got my bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering and computer science and followed that with a master’s in business from Boston University.”

  Blake continued to recite the details of his life, highlighting the building of his company and his rise to the top of the IT industry. While telling her about the Hyland industry award he’d won three years running, he noticed she’d stopped writing in her notebook. He halted midsentence. “Drea, you aren’t taking notes.”

  She took a deep breath as if she might be counting to three before speaking. “I don’t need to write this down, Blake.”

  He tried not to bristle. “This is my life story. It’s relevant. Are you planning on memorizing it?”

  She shrugged. “I could regurgitate any of it if I needed to. But I don’t need to. You’re giving me a résumé. I can find most of it online. The rest is superfluous. And it’s boring.”

  “I beg your pardon?” And he’d let her use his prized Montblanc. The nerve!

  “I didn’t say you were boring. Necessarily.” Her addendum drew a frown to his face. “But this information is definitely boring.”

  He didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all. “It’s not intended to inspire you. It’s intended to attract a potential wife.”

  “But this”—she pointed to the few notes she’d taken—“doesn’t attract anyone. Except maybe the author of Who’s Who in America.”

  Blake pursed his lips and leaned forward, his eye threatening to tic. “You need to get to know me, Drea. Did you think that you’d simply sit at your desk and learn about me through osmosis?”

  “Kinda, yeah.” She shifted in her seat, her skirt riding up a centimeter—yes, he noticed. “How about we try something else? Let me ask some questions for a while, will you?”

  “Uh … sure.” He didn’t know why the idea of her questioning him made him uneasy. What could she possibly ask that was so difficult to answer? “Go ahead.”

  “Okay, we’ll start easy. What kind of music do you listen to?”

  This was why he was uneasy. There was no way he could answer this question truthfully. He swallowed, as he straightened a pile of papers for the second time that morning.

  “Music?” He was stalling for time, trying to come up with an artist that wasn’t as embarrassing as the Whitesnake CD he currently had loaded in his player. A slew of other favorite bands ran through his mind: Def Leppard, Poison, Guns N’ Roses—each was as humiliating as the last.

  “Yes, music. You know that sound coming from my sister at the bar the other night? That’s called music.”

  He narrowed his eyes but didn’t verbally acknowledge Drea’s sassy statement. He was too busy focusing on the thickening of his tongue and the sudden dryness of his throat. And was it hot in here? He adjusted his collar and tried to swallow back the panic.

  Why was he panicking anyway? It wasn’t as if he were attached to a lie detector machine. He could tell her whatever he wanted. He could lie. Maybe he could say he listened to jazz. But with his luck, Drea would be a fan of the style and would want to compare favorite artists.

  Finally, he said, “I don’t listen to music.” That was a good answer. “I listen to NPR. And the BBC. Sometimes I’ll put on the classical station.” Yes, that was very good indeed. No potential match was going to take him seriously otherwise.

  Drea frowned. “Okay. How about movies? What kind of movies do you like?”

  Another question he didn’t want to answer. He’d never admitted to anyone his love of sweeping historical dramas. He’d snuck into the last one he’d seen, Anna Karenina, hiding in
the back row in case anyone he knew was in the theater.

  Drea was waiting for his answer.

  “Documentaries,” he lied. “And before you ask, I don’t watch television. Ever.” That should keep her from discovering his addiction to Downton Abbey. God, he’d never paused to consider how much potential humiliation resided in his personal life.

  Again, Drea scowled. “There has to be something interesting about you,” she muttered. “Do you read? Besides the Wall Street Journal and the Boston Herald, I mean.”

  “Of course, I read. Biographies, mostly.” Which was true. He read those as well as other things. But he wasn’t about to tell her about the stack of old detective books he had next to his bed.

  “Biographies?” Her dull tone said that she was unimpressed.

  “Yes. Understanding the great businessmen of our time is very beneficial to my job.”

  “Of course.” She let out a slow breath of air, but wrote down his answer. “Do you have any pets?”

  “No.” Blake shuddered at the thought.

  She looked up from her pad of paper. “Why? Are you allergic?”

  “Not that I’m aware.” He’d wanted a pet once. A rabbit he’d seen at the local pet store. He still remembered the extreme softness of its fur and its adorable nose that constantly sniffed and wiggled. His stepmother had put her foot down at the request. It was her words he spouted to Drea now. “Pets are nasty creatures. They’re time-consuming and expensive.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?” he repeated. The hum in her throat had vibrated through Blake. The almost pleasant sensation irritated him. Particularly when he realized it was likely a form of judgment. “What does hmm mean?”

  “Nothing. Just…” She twisted her lips as if considering if she should share whatever was on her mind. With a reluctant sigh, she said, “My nana used to say, ‘Never date a man who doesn’t know how to care for a pet. If he can’t love a simple animal, how could he possibly love someone as complex as you?’”

  Their eyes met, and he remained captured in her gaze for several long seconds. A strange sequence of emotions overcame Blake. First, he was moved by the tenderness in Drea’s tone as she spoke of her nana. Then he felt a stab of interest, as if he wanted to stop talking about himself and listen to more about her complexity. That led to confusion, because he’d never felt anything like that before. Finally he was pissed—he didn’t like to be confused. Or moved. Or interested.

  And did she basically say he wasn’t good enough for her because he’d never owned a hamster?

  Screw that. It didn’t take a pet to know that he was good enough for her. He’d be the best damn thing she’d ever known if they were together. Which they weren’t. And wouldn’t be.

  Why did that cause a wave of disappointment?

  The latest emotion renewed his fury. No matter that the fury was with himself and not her. With gritted teeth, he said, “It’s a lucky thing then that you aren’t dating me, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s a lucky thing indeed.”

  Is my disappointment mirrored in her eyes?

  No, of course not. That was ridiculous.

  Whatever it was he’d seen, it flickered away as quickly as it had come. In its place was resignation. “Look,” she said, “this isn’t working. You’re right that I need to get to know you. Not like this. This is not genuine. I need to spend time with you where you aren’t showing off what you have. I need to observe on my own.” She held up her hand as if he might interrupt. “You said you recognized that I had skills. I can only use them in my own way.”

  “Fine. I understand. How about you spend the rest of the day working with my secretary on the new-hire paperwork? There are a few orientation videos to watch as well, about teamwork and sexual harassment, and all that.” He wasn’t sure why he mentioned the sexual harassment video. Perhaps because the thoughts that kept entering his mind every time Drea crossed her legs in that short skirt of hers did not comply with the company’s code of conduct.

  Then, for the umpteenth time that morning, he went off plan. “And tomorrow, we can spend the day together. You can observe whatever you’d like.”

  Her forehead crinkled in confusion. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Yes, it is. You can take off a day next week in exchange. You need to see me in my home environment. It’s the perfect opportunity.” Or maybe he just couldn’t stand the idea of two days before seeing her again. Infuriating as she was, he sort of liked her company.

  It was another reason why it was imperative he found a wife. He was lonely. Why else would he choose to spend any time with a woman such as the maddening one in front of him?

  Chapter Six

  “Ms. Dawson?” The pale-faced elderly woman who answered the door must have been prepped on Andy’s arrival. “Mr. Donovan is expecting you. He’s upstairs in his office.”

  “And you’re…?” Andy suspected she was facing an employee of Blake’s, but something about her grandmotherly air made Andy question her assumption.

  “His housekeeper, Ellen.”

  So her first guess had been right. She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ellen. You can call me Andy.”

  The housekeeper’s gentle features crinkled into confusion. “Oh, I thought he said it was Drea.” Andy swallowed back a curse as Ellen turned and called over her shoulder. “This way.”

  Ellen led her through the foyer past a large living area toward a sweeping staircase.

  “Do you mind if I just…?” Andy didn’t finish the question, afraid that permission to look around would be denied if she asked, and instead peeked into the living room before heading to the stairs. A shiver ran down her spine. It felt as cold and industrial as the office at Donovan InfoTech. She’d hoped that was only the spirit of the front entryway, but it continued to the main room. There was no sense that anyone actually lived there. It was pristine and perfect and sterile.

  And this was what she had in her arsenal to attract a bride?

  Forget it. The place was like a museum. Except museums at least had gift shops with cheerful volunteers. There was no cheer here, and certainly nothing she’d like to bring home. The Donovan Mausoleum, that was more accurate.

  She felt Ellen come up behind her. “Does Mr. Donovan spend much time here?” Andy gazed at the expanses between couches in the massive living room. Blake definitely didn’t entertain much. People would be shouting from one distant seat to another, too afraid to sip their wine in case a stray drop of red landed on the immaculate marble tile. The mental image made her smile. She caught the housekeeper’s eye and quickly dropped the cheer.

  “Most of the time he’s in his office, though occasionally I think he reads down here after I’m gone for the day. He often leaves a book perched on the side table.”

  Those boring biographies of businessmen and dead presidents seemed to fit the environment. Andy had known she’d get a better picture of her boss by seeing his house but also had hoped that it would be a prettier picture.

  With the sweetest of smiles, the housekeeper asked, “Are you ready to continue up?”

  “Of course.” Andy frowned as she trailed behind Ellen. Each step farther into the house felt drearier and drearier. At least Ellen was a ray of sunshine. Otherwise, Andy feared the place would collapse from the weight of the drab.

  They continued up the stairs. At the top, the hallway extended in both directions. One side ended in a set of closed double doors. Andy looked the other way and found another set of double doors—this time with Blake Donovan standing in front of them.

  “Drea, you made it.” His tone suggested that he’d been waiting for her, as if she were late. “Thank you, Ellen. I’ll take her from here.”

  Andy nodded to the housekeeper then checked her watch before starting down the hall to meet her boss. Nope. She was totally not late. Maybe early was Blake’s preferred time of arrival. When she reached him, she opened her mouth to ask, but he spoke first.

  “Here we are.” He thr
ew open the double doors and gestured for Andy to step inside.

  She sucked in a breath and immediately forgot all about her plans to harass him into opening up as she took in his inner sanctum. It, like the rest of the house, was way too freaking big, but—

  “Thank God.” Oops. That was out loud.

  “What does that mean?” When they’d entered the room, Blake had seemed calmer, but now he was glaring again.

  She placed a hand to her chest, in somewhat dramatic fashion. “Honestly? I was wondering how I was supposed to convince any woman who saw your fortress of solitude here that you were human and not some sort of business-droid. Then I was wondering if I was actually convinced of that myself. And then you showed me your office, and—thank God.”

  He looked as surprised as her at the giggle that came out of his mouth at that.

  He brought the back of his hand to his mouth, recovering quickly. “You like it, then?”

  Like it? She loved it. Huge windows took up the far wall of the office, filling it with soft sunlight. The desk was overlarge, but it was beautiful. An antique, Andy thought, but that was as much as she could guess. There was an actual rug on the floor, and it didn’t even look expensive. It just looked warm. There was a cushy chair by the window, and a decanter of amber liquid on the table near it. A spider plant—probably the perfect plant for a man like him—hung from the ceiling.

  In short, there was some humanity in here. This she could work with.

  “Yes, Blake. I like it.”

  His smile held an air of satisfaction. “Good, I like to work here better than the office, so we can plan to set you up in here as well.” He was definitely relaxing now, striding over to his desk with looser limbs than had greeted her.

  He sank into his office chair that creaked with the sound of long use. “So—you really think my house is like an ice palace?” Blake kept his eyes downcast, as if he were completely uninterested in the answer, but the fact that he’d asked at all meant he was in want of her opinion.

  Andy was flattered.