Miss Match

by Laurelin McGee

  Now, though, her mood brought in another kind of thoughts—the rage-filled kind. It wasn’t her who’d been wrong. It was Blake. Stupid, douchey Blake. How much of an ass was he not to realize what was right in front of him? He thought he was in love with Jane? He wasn’t.

  Andy knew that as surely as she knew Blake hated reality television. So he’d been on more than a handful of dates with Jane. That meant shit. His reports had been pleasant but lackluster. She’d seen him more engaged when he played with Puppy. She’d seen him more excited when he’d beaten his top score on Spiderman Pinball. She’d seen more light in his eyes when he’d locked them on her own during a passionate round of office sex.

  Apparently, personal happiness was not on the list of Blake’s lifetime musts. She should have known that. He’d asked for specific qualities in a wife—not once had he said that she needed to be someone who brought him joy. Didn’t he realize what he was missing out on?

  And now he was going to ask his dream woman to be his bride. His drear woman. What a miserable existence.

  Andy glanced at the clock above the stove. It was almost nine thirty. He’d probably already asked.

  Goddammit. How could he?

  She had to stop herself from kicking the appliance. A broken toe was no way to help a broken heart. Though it might be worth it to get some of her aggression out.

  Lacy clomped into the kitchen behind her. Andy imagined she was trying to be quiet, but it was impossible in those boots.

  “You should come with me tonight.”

  “No,” Andy said, reaching for the pain pills. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not? It will get your mind off things.”

  “I cannot be with people right now. Even you. Sorry.” She was so worked up, she couldn’t get her fingers to open the bottle.

  “Okay. But what are you going to do? I’m worried you’re going to spend all night drinking yourself into a stupor.” Lacy held her palm out toward Andy, silently asking for the bottle.

  “That was this afternoon. And I’m not drinking anymore.” With a heavy sigh, Andy handed the medicine to her sister. “I’m actually planning to do nothing but sit on the couch and watch some sad chick flick and probably eat a whole carton of Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “Equally destructive behavior, but I guess you’re allowed a day of that.” Lacy dropped two pills into Andy’s hand.

  Andy closed her fist around the ibuprofen and snatched her hand away. “Allowed? Damn right, I’m allowed. Not all of us can bury our heartache like you.” She swallowed the pills in one gulp that she pretended also removed the horrible thing she’d just said.

  She closed her eyes tight. Stupid, stupid, stupid. When she opened her eyes again, she looked to her sister, whose head was down. “Lacy, I’m sorry. That was really uncalled for.” God, she was such a bitch. She had no reason to take her anger out on Lacy. “See? I’m not suitable company.”

  Lacy brought her face up, her expression blank, giving nothing away. “You know what, though? You’re right. I don’t deal with my emotions well. I’m working on it, in my own way, and I’ve so appreciated that you haven’t pushed me.”

  Now Andy felt like an even bigger bitch. She hadn’t pushed Lacy to deal with her grief because she was lazy and self-centered—not because she was trying to be thoughtful of her space. Tears pricked at her eyes. “I’ve been a horrible sister.”

  “Nope. You’ve been exactly what I needed. So. Whatever you need to do, do it. I’ll respect your methods of dealing with this. And I’m here for you if you need me.”

  Andy pulled her sister into a giant hug. “God, I love you, Lacy. So much.”

  They held each other for several long moments before breaking away. Though it didn’t fix everything—or anything, really—it did make life seem just a bit more bearable. Assuming, of course, her sister meant what she said. The guilt could almost overwhelm the pain if she thought like that.

  “You’re going to be good then? I could call and cancel if—”

  “No,” Andy said, cutting her off. “Go. Have fun. Take a cab home if it gets too late. My phone’s off, but I’ll check it later if you need to text or leave a message.”

  “Got it, Mom.”

  Andy stayed in the kitchen until she heard the front door shut behind Lacy. Then she grabbed a can of diet soda from the fridge and headed to the living room. Despite the heartwarming moment she’d shared with her sister, Andy was still angry. And her rage was snowballing. So much so that she couldn’t sit still. She paced the apartment, wanting to punch something, kick something. The feeling was so strong, she imagined she could hear her anger taken out like hailstones pelleting against her window. Plink, plink, plink.

  Maybe that wasn’t her imagination.

  She froze, listening. The sound came again. Plink. There actually were hailstones pelleting against her window. Or some sort of stone anyway. Cautiously she approached the windows and peered out. The sight that greeted her pulled at her heartstrings, melting her ever so slightly.

  Then, she remembered … everything … and she hardened again. So far she’d managed to leave Donovan InfoTech with her referral intact. But Blake Donovan was outside her apartment. If he didn’t leave soon, she wasn’t sure she could maintain that status.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Blake searched for another handful of stones from the landscaping around the building. He knew this was a childish method of reaching Andrea, but her phone was going straight to voice mail and the front door was locked. It was only when he’d seen her pacing back and forth in the windows above that he’d resorted to throwing pebbles at her window.

  If he was going to feel like a middle schooler in the throes of first love, who cared if he acted like one? Plus, there was something so satisfying about each little ping that he’d never gotten from an email ping.

  He was preparing to pelt another round at her darkened window when he realized she was already watching him. “Andy,” he called, both desperate and excited. “Andy Dawson.”

  She lifted the window up and yelled down to him through the crack of screen she’d exposed. “Go away, Blake Douche-ovan!”

  Well, that wasn’t the greeting he’d hoped for, but he hadn’t expected her to be welcoming, either. Not after the way she’d walked out on him that afternoon.

  That was fine. He was in this for the long haul. “I’m not going anywhere until we talk, Andy. Let me up.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Are you sure about that?” He got his answer when she pulled the blinds down. Dammit. Not the answer he’d assumed. “Come on, Andrea.” Then the blinds in the next set of windows went down. “Andy!”

  “Hey,” a voice said from the apartment below the Dawsons’. “Could you hold it down out here? Some people are trying to—Blake Donovan? Are you fucking serious?”

  Blake squinted at the woman. “You!” No wonder the area had seemed familiar. It was where one of his dates lived. He always Google Earthed, even if it was in private. Joey, was it? Or Joy?

  “I’m Jaylene,” she said, with a roll of her eyes.

  “Right, right.” Stupid name, anyway. “Don’t you live—” He glanced at the next building, confused. He was good with addresses, and he was sure that on the night of their horrid date he’d dropped her off one house down.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m next door. I’m … visiting someone.”

  Blake saw a man behind her. And he was missing his shirt. Ah, well, maybe there really was someone for everyone. Even though he was certain there was a woman for this one.

  “Anyway, it’s kind of late. Could you keep it down?”

  He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t yet ten. What was she talking about kind of late? City ordinances wouldn’t even fine him until eleven. He was about to argue it when he realized instead that she was his key into the building. “I’ll stop my shouting if you’ll buzz me in. I need to see And
rea.”

  “Buzz you in?” She seemed confused.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other trying to stifle his impatience. “Through the main door.”

  “There’s no buzzer. It doesn’t lock.”

  She was crazy. He’d tried it when he first arrived and it was most certainly locked.

  “Wait there a moment, will you?” He hurried up the stairs, twisted the knob, and pushed in. It wouldn’t budge. “See? Locked.”

  “It’s a pull, not a push.” She said something else that he couldn’t quite hear, but he sensed it was along the lines of, You idiot.

  Blake gritted his teeth before he let out a string of his own insults and pulled on the door. It opened. Well, that was dumb. Didn’t outer doors always open inward? And why wasn’t the door locked? That didn’t make for a secure environment. He’d be sure to call the building’s owner and get that fixed tomorrow. Whatever happened between him and Andrea personally, he still wanted her safe.

  For the moment, though, he was happy to be inside. He took the stairs two at a time and found her door. He pounded loudly. “Andrea. Let me in.” No sound of movement came from inside so he pounded again. “Let me in. Please, Andy.”

  The sound of a door creaking open drew his attention downstairs. Great. The femi-Nazi again. He noticed now she was clad only in a tank top and yoga pants. She leaned against her door frame, watching him, her arms folded across her chest.

  The woman was infuriating even when he wasn’t on a date with her. He felt sorry for the man she was “visiting.” Bearding, likely. He muttered under his breath and tried to block out his audience of one as he pounded again. Still, the door didn’t open.

  “They have a hide-a-key box, you know.”

  He peered down again at the woman below, his brow raised.

  “Under the railing there.”

  Uncertain whether to trust her—their date together had been one of the most miserable of his life—he swept his hand under the railing. Sure enough, there was a small metal box secured to the bottom. He removed the lid and out fell a key.

  Well, how about that. He met the eyes of the woman downstairs, wondering why she was helping him.

  As if she could read his mind, she said, “I owe Andy. Or, rather, Andy owes me. I hope tonight goes … exactly as it’s going to.” She smirked, and turned back to the door she’d emerged from.

  He had a feeling that paybacks for being set up with him were the underscore of her aid. Nevertheless, he shouted down, “Thank you, JayLo.”

  “Jaylene, shithead!”

  Right, Jaylene. But he didn’t really care about his error at the moment. Right then the only thing he could think about was getting inside that apartment and working things out with Andrea. Though she hadn’t seemed very warm at the window, he hoped she’d be more amiable to him when they were face-to-face.

  He took the key and slid it in the lock. Then he breathed out a silent prayer, turned the key, and twisted the knob.

  The minute he opened the door, an orange cross trainer came at him. He ducked and it flew past him into the hall, just missing his shoulder. He looked back at Andy. Her eyes were blazing mad, her nostrils fuming. In her hand was the matching shoe. She drew her hand back and fired it at him.

  Maybe it was going to take more work than he thought.

  * * *

  “Why are you throwing things at me?” Blake cowered behind the front door, yelling at her through the open crack.

  She had to admit she got some satisfaction from the situation. Not enough, though. She wanted more. She wanted to seal all the cracks in her shattered heart with blood, sweat, and tears from Blake “Fuckshovel” Donovan. She was so mad, she’d even think that word, though maybe not say it aloud.

  “Because you’re an idiot.” She’d already rolled up a magazine from the coffee table, preparing to launch it next.

  “I don’t disagree in the slightest.” He actually sounded sorry.

  But she was too wound up. Besides, she was sure he didn’t know what he was sorry for, and violence seemed much more satisfying than explaining it to him.

  She waited until he poked his head around the door to fling the magazine. She narrowly missed his cheek.

  Dammit. Why was she such a bad aim?

  He flung the door open. “Jesus, Andy. That was close.”

  “Not close enough.” She scoured the room for something else to throw and settled on her soda. “You’re also an egotistical, chauvinistic, self-centered ass-hat.” She double-checked she’d slugged down the last drop, then heaved it across the room. It landed a whole foot in front of her target.

  A flash of a smile crossed Blake’s lips, but he recovered quickly. “You’ve always known these things about me. You didn’t seem to mind before.”

  “Didn’t seem to…?” She was absolutely incredulous. She minded. She’d minded since she met him.

  Hadn’t she?

  Considering that she fell in love with him despite all his flaws, maybe she hadn’t minded as much as she thought. But she wasn’t telling him that. Plus throwing stuff felt really, really good. And who the hell did he think he was, absolving her of being pissed? She had every flipping right to be pissed. And defensive.

  She swiped the TV remote off the couch and readied for the pitch. “You’ve broken into my house. I’m defending myself.”

  She let the remote go.

  Blake caught it midair.

  Dammit all to China!

  “Andrea, please stop.” He held his hands up, palms out in front of him as if to halt her from further bombardment.

  “Fine.” She was out of things to throw anyway except couch pillows, and what kind of weapons were those? “Why are you here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  She shrugged, though honestly she’d rather have him come in than have Mrs. Brandy hear all her business. Also, she’d lost enough shoes to the man. Also, he was pretty even when he was groveling. She decided to stop also-ing.

  Blake ventured in and shut the door behind him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and flicked his eyes around the room. Luckily Lacy had done a quick pickup that afternoon or Andy might be embarrassed. Andy was not great at pickups. Double entendre intended.

  Actually, no. She wouldn’t be embarrassed. Because she didn’t care about the asshole’s opinion. Not everyone was lucky enough to have a housekeeper and money and a perfect, petite soon-to-be bride.

  Blake’s presence was certainly not helping her temper. Best to get him of her house—out of her life—as soon as possible.

  She folded her arms over her chest and repeated her earlier question more pointedly. “Why. Are. You. Here. Blake. Mister Donovan.”

  He caught her eyes and for half a moment she was falling into him again, losing herself in the dizzy chaotic trance he always put her in.

  But then he spoke. “We need to talk.”

  Yeah, they needed to talk at seven thirty that morning. Where was he then? Now she was past talking. “There is nothing that needs to be said.”

  He cocked his head. “Obviously there is. You’re angry, and I’m not sure why.”

  That pissed her off more than anything. Not only had he completely wrecked her in every way a woman could be wrecked, but he didn’t even have a clue. And if there was one thing a woman didn’t do it was explain her emotions to a man who should understand anyway. “My anger is my business. It wasn’t what brought you here in the first place, anyway. So whatever you came here for, spit it out.”

  “All right.” He hesitated as if trying to decide exactly what to say. Which was odd. He’d come all that way to see her—didn’t he have an agenda?

  Finally he said, “I have questions about Jane.”

  “Seriously?” Her fury ticked up another notch. No, not a notch. It went a notch at a time, until it exploded the freaking meter. He came to ask about inane, stupid, usurping Jane? “I’m not your matchmaker anymore, Blake. You can find out anything you need to know about your girlfriend
by asking her yourself.”

  He removed his hand from his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not what … she’s not my girlfriend.”

  Oh, yeah, fiancée was the term now. The word made her want to throw things again. Or puke. Or both. “Whatever she’s called. Talk to her yourself. I’m no longer your go-between. Now get out of my house. You shouldn’t be here.” She started toward him, ushering him out.

  “Wait!” He threw his hands out again to stop her.

  She scowled but nodded to indicate he could go on.

  He began pacing in the confined space she was allowing him. “It’s not … I mean … There’s a lot to say and…” He stopped suddenly and pinned her with his interrogative gaze. “All the things that went wrong on our dates—that was you, wasn’t it?”

  She scoffed. “No.” But inside she said, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  Blake shook his head. “The missing wallet—you took it that afternoon, didn’t you? And the reservations—they weren’t lost—you never made them.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Also, she had no idea how she’d ever get a job in town again. She bit her lip. She was so screwed.

  “You know you’re the worst liar.” Strangely, he didn’t seem all that mad.

  “Look, Blake, I don’t … I didn’t … I’m not…” His lack of annoyance threw her balance. How should she address this? Come clean? Then he’d want to know why and that would be one big mess of humiliation. Maybe she could just dodge the whole thing.

  She plastered on the sweetest smile that she could muster. “Does it matter now? Everything worked out between you two, so no harm, no foul.” Speaking of Jane … “Where is she anyway? Shouldn’t you be with her tonight?”

  “She’s probably home by now,” Blake said dismissively. “I’m not sure. I put her in a cab.”

  “You didn’t drive her home?” It pleased her more than it should to realize he hadn’t followed up his proposal with a sleepover.

  It also pissed her off again. That exactly was her point about him and Jane—he wasn’t even into her enough to do the deed after he popped the question. If it had been her that he’d asked to marry, Andy would have been all over him. Like the brainless sex-obsessed woman she’d apparently become reduced to in his presence.