by Kate Meader
My cockiness might throw off a certain kind of woman. But this woman? She’s into me but something—her wise old grammy or a still hurting heart, perhaps—is telling her she needs to put up a show of resistance.
“No, thanks,” she says.
“No, thanks, what?”
She waves a hand between us. “You’re not my type.”
“You sure about that?”
Her luscious lips form an O. “I don’t have time for this. I’m really looking for something a bit more…compelling.”
I’m tempted to say that she’ll never have a more compelling time than when she’s screaming for me to do her harder, when I hear, “Max,” in my brother’s voice. Reluctantly I drop my arm, which places the goddess’s perfect profile in James’s sight line.
“Charlie!” James steps in—between us, mind you, which requires I move back—and hugs her. Hmm. A bit more than I’d expect of a relationship between business associates. Maybe they chat about geek code over the water cooler at Chase.
And Charlie. Short for Charlotte? It suits her. Hitchcock would be proud.
How does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?
My brother is speaking to her and ignoring me. “I saw you earlier, and I was going to come over and say hi, but—” He looks at me and cocks his head, that amusement back. “I see you’ve met Max.”
“Max Henderson.” I offer my hand, and she hesitates for a split second, but then takes it.
“The brother.”
Uh-oh. Apparently I’m on her radar and have already failed the big test. I’m confused now, so confused that it takes a moment to realize I’m still holding her hand.
I let go, annoyed with myself. I’m usually a lot smoother than this. Hell, I was ten times smoother ten seconds ago.
“I just told Max about the engagement,” James says, again in a tone that makes me think I’ve completely mischaracterized their relationship. This isn’t business-casual. These two are friends.
Two questions bubble up. Why the hell have I never met her, and why the double hell is my brother warning me away? My curiosity about her is pounding at my insides and I look at him, only to find he’s smirking. I don’t like being at a disadvantage around anyone, especially not my baby brother who seems to have the jump on me in all things today. Prepare to be nuggied later, little one.
I don’t care that James thinks she’s not my type, but I do care that she’s in agreement. I want those honey-skinned thighs around my hips, to feel those perfect breasts on my cheek, and to taste all her smart mouth has to offer.
“So how do you two know each other?” I ask, super casual.
“Charlie’s helping with the wedding.”
I nod, working my head around that. If she works with him at Chase, then maybe…“You fronting the cash for the wedding of the millennium?” It’s a joke because I know she’s not but I’m waiting for someone to clue me in.
“Oh, I don’t front cash. I spend it.” She winks and it’s a beautiful thing. “I’m their wedding planner.”
James laughs because he knows what I think of weddings. Just as he knows what I think of parasitic, blot-on-society, spend-other-people’s-money wedding planners.
Oh, I’m not enjoying this at all.
Chapter 3
“I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.”
—Rita Rudner
Charlie
“So how did he take it?”
Initially James rocks a careful neutrality on hearing my question, and I wonder if maybe I’ve misjudged his relationship with his brother. When I sat down with him and Gina last week, I asked about family members. It’s standard on my intake because I like to know if I’m dealing with evil stepmoms or squabbling parents who need to be seated in different zip codes, and the first person they mentioned was Max.
The divorce lawyer who I’ve been warned is not a fan of weddings. Or marriage. Or love, it seems.
And who is now sitting across from me in the booth I’d decided to visit for a round of drinks at James’s invitation. After that little flirtation in the hallway—you let him fondle your foot!—I really should be out of here. But there’s something about Max Henderson that ticks me off. He’s far too hot, too cocky, too everything. I want to seriously mess with his—uh—mind.
“I’m right here, you know,” he mutters before James has a chance to answer. He’s annoyed, and while any number of reasons could be to blame, I’m going to hazard a guess at three. (I like lists.)
I threw his Cary Grant North by Northwest line back in his face. (God, was I impressed, though. Really impressed.)
I made sure he knew I was onto him and his player ways.
I represent everything he despises—i.e., belief in the lasting power of true love.
Of course, a cynic like Max Henderson will say I believe in the cost of true love, the more expensive the better. I refuse to apologize for making a living, not when people are willing to pay highly for the services I offer.
I am excellent at what I do.
“He took it about as well as I expected,” James says with a grin that includes his hot brother. The hot brother doesn’t grin back, but the scowl really works for him.
“Pulled out his hair in clumps?” I assess his dark hair, which is pretty perfect and could do with a thorough mussing. “Crumpled his bespoke suit while on the floor throwing a tantrum?” The suit is impeccably pressed and distinctly uncrumpled. I take a few seconds to consider my next words. “Oh, I know. The lawyer is more of a verbal guy. He probably made a few snide comments about—”
“Gina being knocked up,” James says cheerfully.
I shake my head in mock disapproval, which makes Max frown even deeper. There’s an intensity about him that I imagine works to his benefit in a courtroom. Or a bedroom.
“That’s not very nice,” I chide.
James is laughing now. “No, it’s not, but that’s my brother. He doesn’t pull his punches.”
“I was just surprised, that’s all,” Max says begrudgingly.
James rolls his eyes affectionately and turns back to me. “How’s the hunt for Mr. Right going? Was that a date you were on earlier?”
I’m amused and a little touched that he remembers our conversation from a few days ago. Gina is in my book club, which is how we connected, and when I met her and her fiancé—who are so damn cute together, by the way—we hit it off. Later, the subject of dating came up. My dating. Particularly how I’d decided to get serious about it now that summer was almost upon us.
No one can truly enjoy summer in Chicago without a little arm candy. If he owns a boat, all the better.
Truth be told, I’m looking for more than a casual dalliance. Constantly surrounded by happy couples in my job, I see love in all its forms, both obvious and subtle. From the attentiveness of a guy touching his fiancée at every available moment to the willingness to compromise over “band versus DJ.” She wants the band—give it to her! Happy wife equals happy life.
I’m ready to be a happy wife.
I came close about eighteen months ago, and that experience taught me a lot about what I need and shall we say, the parameters of the husband hunt. I won’t settle but neither will I shoot for the moon.
“Tonight was not the one.” Tonight was a guy who clearly wanted to bypass the dating phase for the bedding phase, as his wandering hands affirmed. And that was before I let Max Henderson play sexy podiatrist in that hallway.
It might be worth it for the foot rubs…
“Maybe Max can help you out.”
“I doubt it.” This comes off ruder than I intended, mostly because I’m annoyed at my apparent willingness to compromise my pr
inciples for a semi-decent massage of my tired arches.
“Oh, I don’t mean personally,” James says with a sly look at his brother. “But he knows where all the newly single guys are—and their net worth.”
“So a recently divorced guy with a shitload of baggage who feels his ex has screwed him into the grave? Sign me up.” Charlie, what is wrong with you? Do not bait the bear.
Max doesn’t look affronted but then a divorce lawyer must be used to slings and arrows about his job. For a moment I feel sorry for him. He’s forced to deal with all that negativity on a daily basis.
Any sympathy I possess leaves the bar in a flouncing huff when the man speaks. “I’d probably advise my clients not to jump into a relationship so quickly. Especially not with someone who appears so desperate to get hitched.”
My pulse spikes. “Ready is not the same as desperate.”
He circles a finger around the rim of his glass and remains silent. This is likely some trap to make me defend myself and look like an idiot in the bargain.
I tumble right into it.
“Just because a woman is looking for a serious relationship, she’s automatically labeled as desperate?”
Instead of answering, he poses a question. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Your parents married at what age?”
“Dad was twenty-six; Mom was twenty-four.”
He nods, filing that away. “And you see all your friends from college and your current circle pairing off for the long haul?”
I squirm in my seat, not especially enjoying the cross-examination. At the end of whatever this is, he’ll likely wow me with some learned conclusion about how I worry I’m a slow starter. How my parents are constantly hinting that I need to settle down. How my two closest friends are married. To each other.
So what if it’s true. I don’t need to hear an argument I can make so cogently myself.
“I know where you’re going with this. Yes, I come from a family that values marriage and children, and they want that for me. Yes, I’m ready to find a man who’s not a commitment-phobe and who holds similar ideals and values. And yes, I’m tired of the dance, and I’m ready for something deeper than casual dating and one-night stands, no matter how amazing the penis on offer. Does that count as desperate in your world, Mr. Henderson?”
He maintains that aloof cool I’m starting to despise. “Mr. Henderson is my father. I merely wanted to point out that you can enjoy yourself while waiting for Mr. Right.”
Ah, still miffed at being rejected. I wink at him. “I’ve enjoyed myself plenty.”
“Enjoyed” might be a stretch but I have had three semi-decent lovers in the last two years. Ready for another list?
Gaston Ramirez (Yes, his name was actually Gaston.): A player, just like Max, though he exuded nowhere near as much confidence as this streak of handsome sitting across from me.
Jase Colfax (Sounds like an international spy, doesn’t he?): Finding him getting bendy with my yoga instructor had hurt, no denying it, but I’d never considered him serious husband material anyway. Bonus fact: hair-trigger dick.
Jeremy Craven: the closest I came to saying “I do.” I’ll admit the end of this relationship sent me into a funk from which I’ve only recently emerged.
The take home here? I don’t have time for guys who aren’t ready to game up (or don’t have the stamina to stick with me in the bedroom). Besides I promised my dad I’d find the one.
Max is assessing me with crystalline blue eyes, so sharp I feel them cutting into my body like lasers.
“So while you wait for the one”—get out of my head, playah!—“you live vicariously, setting up lavish matrimonial monstrosities and selling people an impossible fantasy. Overcompensate much?”
“Maxie,” James says. “Play nice.”
I’ve met this guy before—not Max specifically, but the guy who would prefer to focus on the worst life has to offer. They call themselves “realists,” which we all know is code for “cynical assholes.” I get it. Humans are hardwired to dwell on negative experiences, which are more likely to shape us, stick with us, and shut us down to the possibilities.
I refuse to be sucked into that vortex.
“You know what, Mr.—”
“Max,” he interjects.
“You know what, Mr. Max? I’m putting together a wedding for two lovely people in the space of twelve weeks. It’s going to be a lot of work but it’s also going to be a blast because nothing thrills me more than giving a couple the day of their dreams.” I turn to James, who’s grinning up a storm. Evidently, he enjoys when his brother’s worldview is challenged. “Screw this guy and the apocalyptic horse he rode in on. This is about celebrating you and Gina and how fucking awesome you are.”
I refocus on Max, whose eyes have darkened so much that they’ve swallowed all the blue. A slight muscle tic is hammering away in his jaw. I wonder how it would taste.
Like do-me-against-a-wall sex and morning-after regrets, I bet.
“I’m guessing that a busy guy like you won’t have time to worry about the finer details of wedding planning,” I continue. “Just show up for your tux fitting and stow your hate at the chapel door.”
Booyah! That’s a pretty great exit-stage-left line so I stand to leave. But I should have known that a guy as verbal as Max Henderson would have to get in the last word.
“That sounds like a challenge, Charlie.” He says it quietly, like he’s issuing the challenge. My name on his lips is sex in two syllables. “You think I can’t be the supportive brother here? That I can’t put aside my concerns to make sure James’s marriage gets off to a great start?”
“I doubt it. Your cynicism is bone-deep, and you can’t help that it’s seeping from your pores every time you open your mouth.” Along with your testosterone. I smooth out the skirt of my Tory Burch dress, though really that’s a ploy to stop my hands from shaking.
Max stands and pulls on his cuffs, a motion I love seeing in a man. Diamond-studded cufflinks glint in the light streaming in from the entrance and a ridiculously cooperative ray catches his hair, giving it a blue-black shine. Come on! Even the sun is conspiring to ensure that Max Henderson is the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in person.
He stares at me, into me, which I suppose is a strategy he uses on discarded wives in courtrooms. (Tell the truth, Mrs. GoldDiggah. You trapped my client into this sham marriage and now you want the Lamborghini? No dice!)
“For the next three months, I can stow the cynicism. This is important to James and Gina, so whenever you see me, I’ll be a Disney fucking prince.”
I battle my smile. Hold on by a thread. “Breaking into song during the fittings? Belting out ballads at the rehearsal dinner?”
“I’m already composing the tunes.”
Laughter erupts from somewhere close. I’d completely forgotten about Max’s brother—I mean, James, my client. Max Henderson is so maddening he’d make a girl forget that the bar was burning down around her.
“This should be good,” James says, his amusement plain, and then to me, “Charlie, how the hell did we manage to land the best wedding planner in Chicago?”
I hold his gaze, though what I’m about to say is really for his obnoxious brother. Channeling my best Eva Marie Saint from North by Northwest, I consider Max’s question from earlier.
How does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?
“Lucky, I guess.”
I take just a second to absorb Mr. Hotshot Lawyer’s obvious surprise, smile my goodbye at James, and head out into the April sunshine.
Now, that was an exit.
Chapter 4
“Ah, yes, divorce from the Latin word meaning to rip out a man’s genitals through his wallet.”
<
br /> —Robin Williams
Max
I’d rather be swimming.
Instead I’m running in Lincoln Park listening to Lucas, one of my partners in Wright, Lincoln, and Henderson not tell me about the woman he met last night. This is par for the course with the guy. God forbid he actually impart any salient facts.
“I didn’t get her name, but I think it’s better this way.”
This is where I’m supposed to ask, Why is it better?
I elect not to. Makes no odds to Lucas, who once talked a judge into a stay he had no right receiving. Just before he talked his way into Her Honor’s panties in chambers. He’s the chattiest guy I know, and while the British Empire may no longer be the force it once was, that limey accent of his is a weapon of mass destruction.
“It was one of those never to be repeated moments,” he continues, oblivious to my lack of interest. “Dark bar, eyes meet, my favorite parts get acquainted with her favorite parts on top of the restroom sink.”
“Germ-ridden surfaces, bodily fluids mingle, a lifetime of venereal disease is your reward.”
“Ever the romantic, Maxie.”
I snort and pick up the pace, my annoyance on the rise. Maybe it’s how Lucas is shoving his sexual adventures in my face—about sex in public restrooms no less—while I had my own less than satisfying encounter outside a restroom just yesterday evening.
I’m still ticked off at Charlie Love.
Even her name chaps my dick. It sounds invented, like a stage name for a woman who sells romance. It might be in everyone’s best interest if I run a background check on her, see if she is who she says she is.
