Miss Match

by Laurelin McGee

  Of course he knew. It was one of the best restaurants in town. He ignored the ridiculous question. “Please get Jane Osborne on the line for me, will you? Her number is…” He pulled the paper he’d written her information on that morning from his pocket. “Here. And I’ll need that back.” He’d noted her address there, too, so he knew where to meet her for his brush-off.

  “Got it, Mr. Donovan.” She took the sheet and hurried out.

  When he was alone, Blake headed to his desk. On his chair he found a small silver bag. Inside was the box with the ring he’d chosen for Drea. He took it out and shoved it in his inside pocket, at once relieved and anxious. Relieved because it had arrived safely—he’d had to leave it to be sized, agreeing only if it were delivered as soon as possible. That it had made it was a load off his shoulders.

  On the other hand, he’d requested it be left only with him. It had a forty-thousand-dollar price tag, after all, and shouldn’t be left lying around. Also, what if Drea had seen it? That would make for a poor proposal surprise.

  He tensed as he explored that idea further. Had she seen it? Was that why she wasn’t here now? Had she gotten overwhelmed? Freaked out? Did she not want to marry him? Oh, God, what if he wasn’t as good a read as he always considered himself?

  The dread building in his chest was interrupted by the buzz of his intercom. “I have Ms. Osborne on the line, Mr. Donovan.”

  He’d have to wonder about the ring later. He pushed the worry down with the TALK button. “Send her back.” Blake removed his jacket and put it on the back of his chair while he waited for the call to come through. After letting it ring twice, he picked it up. “Jane? It’s Blake Donovan.”

  He paused to let her respond, but also because he wasn’t really sure what to say next.

  “Blake. How nice to hear from you. Also, quite a surprise. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, of course not.” But he understood why she’d ask since he’d never bothered to call before. “Actually, Jane, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you about tonight’s plans.”

  “Are we still on for seven? I expected to hear from Andy earlier today about where to meet.”

  “About that. Are you free earlier? Five thirty, perhaps?” His eye caught on a note folded on his desk in front of him. It was addressed simply Blake, but he recognized the handwriting.

  Jane hmm’d as though she was looking at her calendar. “I have an errand to run at four, but I could probably meet you somewhere by five. If we could do something…”

  He’d meant to tell her he’d meet her at her house. Safer than a breakup in public. But that plan disappeared along with everything the woman was saying—he was too engrossed in the letter in his hand.

  This serves as my official notice of resignation. I apologize for not giving more notice, but I believe I’m no longer needed in the capacity I was hired. You may forward my final check to my house. Please do not contact me again.

  Andrea Dawson

  It was short and to the point, yet it took him three times through before he registered its meaning. Andrea had left him. Left him, left him. Not just quit her job, but asked him not to contact her again. Everything in his body seemed to deflate at once. His lungs, his shoulders, his rib cage, his heart—sinking, sinking, sinking. Where had he gone wrong? Had she realized he was about to propose after all? Was she really only there for the sex and the money?

  The idea disgusted him. Sickened him. He could barely sit with it without losing the contents of his stomach.

  “Blake? Are you still there?”

  He didn’t know how long Jane had been calling to him before he registered it. “Just a minute, please, Jane.” He placed the phone on hold and set the receiver down so he could think.

  Andrea had left him.

  He could call her. Or go to her house. If they talked, maybe they could work something out.

  Except she’d asked for him not to contact her, and she hated it when he was a headstrong dick—her words, not his. Employing a tactic she despised wasn’t a way to score points. Besides, if she’d walked away so easily, would he really be able to do anything to change her mind? He’d probably end up begging, and begging was never attractive.

  So he was left with this—a note and no Andrea.

  The disappointment was so great he knew there had to be another term for it. Heartache, maybe. He felt literally broken. He’d planned to ask her to marry him. Planned to spend his life with her. It was one thing if the night before hadn’t meant as much to her as it had to him, but the way she’d left showed that it meant nothing to her. Absolutely nothing.

  Whether she knew about his plans to propose or not, she’d left him. Either way, thank God she’d quit before he proposed. She likely would have laughed in his face. At least he’d come out of this with his dignity somewhat intact, even if it was at the cost of his heart.

  His heart! For heaven’s sake, he’d barely registered he owned one before Andrea had shown up out of nowhere. She’d found it, infiltrated it, become one with it, and then shattered it from the inside out.

  So what did he do now? He was practically paralyzed. Blake Donovan never didn’t know what to do. Or say. But right now—he was an ice statue, not just frozen, but unable to achieve motion. All he could hope for was a fast melt, not to prolong the suffering.

  The phone beeped reminding him that he had a call on hold. Oh, right. Jane. If he’d stuck to his original plan and never broken the rules with his hired help, then he’d probably be proposing to Jane about now. He’d have the life he always intended. Now he had nothing.

  Though he did still have the “ideal” woman waiting on the phone for him. Maybe he shouldn’t break up with Jane. If Drea didn’t want him, he might as well go to plan B. Or plan A, rather, since Jane Osborne—or someone like her—had been what he’d originally intended to end up with. He could keep seeing her. It might keep his mind off his horrid despair, anyway. If only the churning in his guts would listen to his mind.

  With as much energy as he could muster, he picked up the receiver and depressed the HOLD button. “Sorry. I had a business situation come up.” True enough. Ish. True-enough-ish. That was a thing, right? Andy would think it was a thing. “I’m back now.”

  “Not a problem. So five thirty, then?”

  Jane’s enthusiasm should have made him feel guilty. It didn’t, but he grabbed onto it like a lifeline. If she could be happy about being with him, wasn’t that better than the alternative? He couldn’t, couldn’t acknowledge the pit of despair about to swallow him like Luke Skywalker and the Sarlacc. Star Wars. Andy was so far in his head, he couldn’t even create his own analogies!

  He didn’t think about it much further. He just acted. “Never mind. My plans just changed. I’ll send a car to pick you up at six thirty. Our reservations at Menton are for seven.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Her smile carried through the phone. “Menton—that’s quite a fancy restaurant. Is it an occasion?”

  It was an occasion. The worst occasion. The day that Andrea Dawson walked out of his life for good. The last thing he wanted to do was go out with another woman. But he’d been around long enough to learn that tough situations were best met with fortitude. After all, that seemed to be what Jane did.

  “Simply dinner.” He was surprised his voice came out so evenly. “The manager is a client, and I was lucky to snag a last-minute table.”

  “Exciting. I’ve never been there before.”

  Blake stifled a groan as he said his good-byes. It felt like a betrayal—taking another woman on a date with reservations meant for the love of his life. He’d get through it, of course. Still, the way he felt seemed to warrant at least an afternoon of moping. He gathered his things and left the office. Hopefully when he came back tomorrow he’d be able to forget all the memories he and Drea had created there. Replacing a wingback was one thing—it would be awfully expensive if he had to remodel the whole damn place.

  * * *

  “—or Ch
icken Marsala.”

  Blake blinked and looked from the television to his housekeeper. She was standing at the side of the couch, a questioning furrow in her brow. How long had she been there?

  He paused Downton Abbey—he’d barely been paying attention to it anyway. “What was that you were saying, Ellen?”

  She smiled patiently. “I asked what you wanted me to do for your dinner tonight. I could grill some steaks or make my Chicken Marsala.”

  It was his turn to be puzzled. “Those choices sound awfully fancy for just one. Besides, I’m going out tonight.” More and more he regretted his decision to take Jane to Menton. Too late to back out now, though. Maybe he could say he got sick. He certainly felt sick.

  He’d taken some Pepto. An hour later, he was chewing the ginger candies Ellen swore by. It turned out there wasn’t really anything you could take for “heartsick.” Despite his best Google searches.

  “Tomorrow then,” Ellen persisted. “What should the menu be for then?”

  “Leftovers will be fine.” On second thought, eating leftovers from the meal he’d shared with Andrea sounded dismal. “Or I’ll heat a frozen lasagna.”

  “So you’ll be having no dinner guests tomorrow?” Her expression was so hopeful that Blake had to wonder if she was losing it.

  “Do I ever?”

  “After yesterday, I thought…”

  He’d forgotten that Ellen had known Andrea had visited. Actually, he had spent all afternoon trying to forget everything about the night before, though the task had turned out to be near impossible. Memories sat just under his every thought. Flashes would permeate his conscience at the most inopportune moments. Like now when he was listening to his elderly housekeeper, it probably wasn’t appropriate to be picturing that thing Drea could do with her tongue.

  He blinked his eyes, erasing the image from his mind and returning his focus to Ellen, who was still talking. He hoped he hadn’t missed much.

  “… you’ve been going out a lot lately. All those dates at restaurants, what a waste of money. I thought perhaps you might invite Drea here again sometime. I’m happy to prepare a home-cooked meal. Simply tell me the date and I’ll take care of it all.”

  “Invite Drea…?” He furrowed his brow as he attempted to piece together the meaning in Ellen’s statement. “No, no. I haven’t been going out with Drea. It’s Jane I’ve been seeing.” Plain Jane. He ignored the ache of how much he wished it were Drea he’d been seeing instead. Wished it were Drea he was seeing tonight.

  Ellen frowned. “Oh. I thought that … Drea just seemed … well, I suppose it’s none of my business.”

  “I suppose it’s not.” Perhaps he delivered that a little too harshly, but really—discussing his love life with his housekeeper? Not a chance.

  Except, if she had something worthwhile to say …

  “I’ll plan on buying you some microwave meals tomorrow, then.” She started to leave. Microwave meals? Not her frozen concoctions? She must be pissed.

  “Ellen, wait a minute.” He paused to let her turn her attention back to him. “If it were your business, what would you say?”

  She gave an innocent shrug. “I don’t know. I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  Blake peered skeptically at his housekeeper. She always had an opinion. Solicited or not. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Well.” Her eyes looked upward as she pretended to consider. “I guess I’d ask you if you wish that Andrea would join you again for dinner.”

  Yes, he wished it. More than anything. “It doesn’t matter what I wish, so the question’s irrelevant.”

  She scowled at him. “Now, that hardly seems fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair. I learned that one young.”

  “Tough talk is all that is. And you are much tougher than I, if you actually believe that drivel.” Ellen perched on the arm of the couch and folded her hands in her lap. “But if speaking about Andrea is off the table, then I’d ask you about this Jane woman—do you wish that she would join you for dinner?”

  Now Blake scowled. “I’m having dinner with her tonight, aren’t I?”

  “I mean, tomorrow. Here for dinner.”

  What was his housekeeper getting at? “If I’d wanted her here, I’d have invited her.”

  “I see.” Ellen pursed her lips. “Then you won’t be going out with Jane again?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He hadn’t quite decided about Jane, but he had a feeling he’d see her again. Not at his home, but out. Though he wasn’t obligated to Ellen, it seemed she was waiting for an explanation. “I simply—don’t want her with me here. My house is my space. No obligations. My time is my time.”

  “But if you had the choice, you’d spend your free time with Drea?” Ellen didn’t wait for him to respond. “You don’t have to answer. I think I understand the situation now.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “What still confuses me, though, is this Jane woman. If you don’t want to spend time with her, then why are you insisting you are dating her?”

  It was a valid question, one that Blake pondered every other minute. He sighed. “She’s fond of me, I believe.”

  “Fond of you? That’s certainly a nice thing.” Ellen raised a brow. “But how do you feel about her?”

  “She’s excellent dating material. Pleasant. Pretty. She’d make a fine wife.” He’d told himself this so much that afternoon it had practically become his mantra.

  Ellen swiveled to face him straight-on. “Maybe she will, but not for you, Blake Donovan. Please don’t tell me that you’re considering proposing to her.”

  “It had crossed my mind,” he mumbled.

  “Now, that’s just downright mean.” In the many years he’d known Ellen, she’d never spoken so sternly to him. “How is that fair to this Jane? If you don’t love her—and I can tell by the way that you speak of her that you don’t—then you’re nothing but an emotional terrorist. You’re holding her heart hostage. What if she could have the chance to find someone who really cared for her? Someone who adored the ground she walked on? But instead, she’s wasting her time with you, when you’ve clearly already decided she’ll never be that special to you. It’s cruel.”

  Rarely did Blake let anyone school him as his housekeeper had just done. His immediate instinct was to defend his behavior. But there was affection in her scolding and her words were surprisingly not unreasonable.

  He tried the finger steeple, but found he couldn’t keep his fists from balling. “If I can’t be with Andrea, why shouldn’t I be with someone who is fond of me? What else do I have? You’re leaving me, Andrea left me, I just want someone to be with me!” He was shocked at his own petulant tone and words, but his long-suffering housekeeper actually smiled.

  “Just because you can’t be with the person you want to be with doesn’t mean you should take away the opportunity for someone else to find true love.” Ellen’s tone was softer now, reminding him of long years past when his grandmother would correct him on a temper tantrum or similar ill behavior.

  The familiarity of her delivery caused him to really listen. To really consider her words.

  “I should break up with Jane.” It had been his original plan. Now he didn’t trust any of his plans.

  Ellen nodded. “You’re being reactionary. And you shouldn’t date anyone again until you’re over Andrea.”

  “She goes by Andy, actually.” Saying her name in any form caused him more heartache than he wanted to admit. Particularly the one he knew was closest to her heart—the heart he’d thought so earnestly belonged to him. “And I’m not sure that I’ll ever be over her.”

  “Then you’ll be spending the rest of your life single.” She stood and brushed down the skirt of her apron. “Either that or you could try to win the girl.”

  He laughed sharply. “Funny thing is that I thought I had won the girl. Turned out I was wrong.”

  There was no future for him with Andy, but Ellen was right about Jane. He’d thoug
ht that he was a catch because he had money and stability. But what about her? Didn’t she deserve honesty? Fuck, Andrea had warned him about this. If he couldn’t have her, he could accept living the rest of his life in a loveless relationship, but Jane hadn’t been given that option. He had to rethink his decision to continue seeing her.

  “I’ll call things off with Jane.” He could still break up with her tonight at Menton. A breakup over a nice candlelit dinner? It was probably a more gentlemanly send-off. He winced at the idea that Andrea would likely be proud. You didn’t order for her, did you? Her voice was already in his head, telling him how to proceed.

  “I think you’ve made the right decision.” Ellen patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. “And will you give it a go with Andrea? I mean, Andy?”

  His eyes flew to Ellen’s. “I didn’t say that.” He didn’t have it in him to explain that Andy had left him. She was gone from his life entirely. There was nothing to give a go.

  Ellen tsked. “Your generation gives up so easily. Dinner for one tomorrow then?”

  After tonight, every night for the rest of my life. I’m done. “Dinner for one.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Menton’s service was as to be expected—perfect, unobtrusive, and worth the price. The Chef’s Tasting Course option took most of the decisions out of the ordering process. Even the wine was paired for them. If Blake were in a different state of mind, it would have been a very lovely evening. More than once during the evening’s progression he wondered if he should have taken Jane to a less fancy location. If they’d gone to Uni, they’d have finished an hour ago, and he’d already be home with an old Dashiell Hammett novel. Wallowing. He wanted to wallow.

  Notes for his next relationship-ending date, he thought. Though there wouldn’t be any of those in his future if he stuck to his new plan of permanent solitude.

  Blake waited until Jane had pushed away her Foie Gras de Canard before he prepared to deliver his news. His announcement would likely spoil the rest of dinner, and the meal was one price for all seven courses, so he wanted to get the most out of his dollar. Really, he’d meant to hold off until dessert had been served, but by the time he’d finished his own main course, he was too anxious to get the evening over with.