by Ember Leigh
“Let’s not blame it on the top shelf whiskey,” I say. “I’m just a regular guy who doesn’t get out enough.”
“I have a question for you,” she says, resting her chin on her knuckles. “One of the few questions I haven’t asked yet.”
“Should I be nervous?”
She doesn’t answer; instead, she dives in head-first. “Did you ever believe in love, or have you chosen not to just recently?”
The words are a gut-punch, and I can’t entirely say why. I feel discovered, somehow, like she uncovered old high school journals underneath my bed, and the pages are full of ridiculous complaints about calculus class drama.
“This project is not about love. It was never about love.”
“I know, I know,” she reassures me. “But I mean, in your life. Beyond what we’re doing here.”
I can sense what she’s getting at, and I don’t want to go there. Because going there involves my history, and that is something I just don’t like to get into. If there’s anything ingrained in the Daly DNA, it’s that we don’t take kindly to failure. And I failed once, in a huge way. I chose the wrong girl. I trusted my heart with her. And she broke it beyond recognition.
That blow was the worst, but the close second was having to tell my parents we were cancelling the wedding. I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s face when I told him that. Like I was speaking fucking Mandarin. Because how could his golden child have performed so poorly when it came to something so important in life?
There’s no humiliation more biting than being cheated on…when the other guy is your best friend. It doesn’t just destroy a person’s foundation in life, it completely obliterates everything they thought they knew about relationships.
I’ll never make that mistake again. And the best way to avoid it is to erase it from the map entirely.
“Love…is a beautiful thing,” I say slowly. “But it’s too big of a risk.”
“A risk?”
“Yes. Loving someone is a risk.”
London’s brows draw together as her gaze falls to the table. “I’d say there’s a bigger risk in not loving.”
Our server chooses to sidle back up to the table just then. “Sorry to interrupt,” she purrs, “but I just wanted to check if you need another round of drinks.”
“Please,” I tell her, and she spirits away again.
“Did something happen?” London asks, ignoring the interruption entirely.
She’s digging, and the edge of her shovel is getting close to the core. But it won’t make it there entirely. “I don’t know what this has to do with the portfolio.”
“Everything has to do with the portfolio, Dr. Dom,” she say sweetly, batting her eyes at me.
“So you are a therapist.”
“I’m just interested in the quality of your life,” she goes on, unfazed. “The women I chose for you stand a real chance at making you happy. If you click with them, that is. I can only do so much. The rest, of course, is up to you and them. But I’m not just giving you some vapid beauty queen because that’s what you tell me you want.”
“But shouldn’t you be honoring your client’s wishes?” I’m ready for the whiskey to return. Any time now.
“I am. I’m finding you a wife. But I’m doing you one better. These women can become life partners. Someone you can grow and create with, beyond the scope of simply ‘have a wife for the foundation.’”
I’m hearing her, but her words are reminding me how I’m already married to the idea of being alone for the rest of my life. Maybe not physically alone, but alone in my heart. Because opening myself up to a relationship like she’s talking about can only spell disaster. There will always be threats lurking around the corner. Heartbreaks that are just waiting to etch themselves deep.
“Then I’ll just have to find a new matchmaker.”
Her face falls, and I realize my blow landed exactly as I intended. Maybe I played the asshole card when I should have played the coy little jokester card.
Except I don’t have that card in my deck.
“You can’t possibly fire me for doing an excellent job.”
“For going beyond the scope of our project?” I shrug. “Vapid means vapid, London.”
“Oh my god—”
“But because you’ve already done the work, I’ll hear you out. At this point, it doesn’t matter.”
She clears her throat, an unreadable expression wringing her features. “I’ll just remember not to gloat when you’re bringing this woman to the Daly-family Christmas party each year because you can’t imagine it without her.”
I snort. “Daly-family Christmas party?”
“I’m just assuming you do that. Your family seems like the type to get together in matching sweaters each year.”
“Trust me, if we did that, we’d have the annual Christmas call to the cops along with it. My brothers and I can’t do anything together casually, much less coordinate a Christmas outfit.”
Her face falls, though I’m not sure why. “You guys never grew out of the competition?”
“I’d say we grew into it. It’s stronger than ever. Which is part of the reason why we don’t see each other anymore.”
“I’ve seen Grayson with Weston and Maverick a few times,” London says off-handedly, then a bright smile covers her face as the server returns with round two of our drinks. The detail makes something wrench deep inside me. Reminding me of the void that I know is there but refuse to acknowledge.
“Good. I’m sure he’s reminding them that I’m an asshole.”
“Aren’t you reminding them yourself?”
Her sideswipe takes a moment to register, mostly because I’m shocked she went there. I’d start the slow clap myself, if we weren’t in a gourmet restaurant.
“I didn’t hire you to also join the I Hate Dom Club,” I spit.
“I’m not in it. Don’t worry.” She raises her palms like reinforcing her innocence. “I was never sent the membership papers.”
A laugh snorts out of me; I can’t even help it. She grins, and the tension between us melts away. Still, I can tell she’s got something on her mind.
“The career switch has really helped your brother,” London goes on, watching me carefully. “He’s enjoying life again. He and I were never really close, but since he and Hazel hooked up, I’ve been seeing a lot of him. He’s a nice guy.” She shrugs, a curious smile on her face. “You should try getting to know him.”
“I spent eighteen years of my life getting to know him.” I sip my whiskey. “That was sufficient.”
Something raw and wounded crosses London’s face as she reaches for her wine glass. Her gaze crosses the restaurant.
“What just happened?”
“Huh?” She snaps her gaze to me, brows drawn together.
“You just checked out. Why?”
“I didn’t check out,” she says.
“I practically heard sad violins playing. Now tell me why.”
She crumples a little, fingering the base of her wine glass. “It just makes me sad to hear stuff like that. What you said about your brother. That’s how I used to think, too. About my sister.”
“Are you two still on speaking terms?”
“She died right before her eighteenth birthday,” London says, her throat bobbing. “So we never got a chance to make it right. And I wish every single day that I could have just gotten over my bullshit and enjoyed the fact that I had an amazing little sister.”
Her eyes are shiny as she looks at me again, and the emotion in her voice renders me speechless. Shit.
“I’m sorry that happened, London.” Though sorry seems meaningless in times like these.
“It’s life, and it sucks, but we all have the power to create more joy.” She offers a smile, though it seems sad. She takes a sip of her wine, and in the silence, I can hear the question that she’d asked without speaking: How would you feel if one of your brothers was suddenly gone?
It’s too much for right n
ow. But it’s something I’ll need to come back to.
Once the beautifully barbed woman and warm whiskey aren’t the centers of my attention.
“And you want to help me create more joy,” I say slowly, getting lost in the sea-foam depths of her eyes. Though I already know how she can help me create more of it.
“Exactly. Because you deserve it. We all deserve it.”
My gaze falls to the leather portfolio across the table. She must be able to sense my doubt—or the fact that I want to throw it in the trash—because she adds, “Matchmaking is an imperfect science, but a very refined art. There’s always a tenth dimension to all of this—you know, that spark. The unpredictable click that nobody can control or even plan for. I can’t tell you if you’ll have that with any of them. But I’m setting you up for a good shot at it.”
My whole body gets hot and noisy as she talks about the unpredictable click. Because I know exactly what she’s talking about. I force myself not to look at her though, because if I do, intuitive London will be able to read it all across my face.
And the truth is this: I have the unpredictable click with her. And not only is it unpredictable, it’s inconvenient as hell.
Chapter 10
DOM
Four days later, I’m back at a restaurant in downtown Cleveland on my first date organized by the woman trying to help me create more joy. I half expected her to instruct me to cup the breasts of all my potential matches to see which set sparked the most joy, like the creepiest Marie Kondo method on dating. But no—I’m just waiting for my busy professional-grade blind date, determined to keep my hands to myself.
I don’t want to be here. Not even a little bit. Even the fantastic wine menu, which I’ve been turning over in my hands for five minutes, doesn’t excite me. The woman on the docket tonight is named Julianne, and she’s a brilliant redheaded lawyer who’s got a dirty mouth and expensive tastes. At least, that’s what her executive rundown stated in the portfolio.
All I can hope for at this point is that the unpredictable click happens with one of these six women, simply so that it can override the click that I have with London. Anything to allow me to stop fantasizing about London every waking—and sleeping—moment of my life would be great.
But I have no more planned meetings with her. From here on out, it’s just sterile dates with women I’m not interested in, and work. Work, work, work, date, work. Not a hint of London for the near future, save email and the infrequent phone call.
This fact makes me restless. Aggravated, actually. Sad, if I’m being brutally honest. Having her on my schedule was calming, even though my main directives were to insult her work performance.
Part of me thinks that I should somehow invent an excuse to get back to weekly meetups. Maybe the gym night could become a Wednesday tradition, except now, I’d choose back her up against the wall instead of pick a fight. Hell, we could make some sort of Sushi Sunday thing. I’d gladly keep my laptop shut for a few hours on a Sunday if it meant London would be coming over to my place with food and those breezy, fading-freckles smiles.
People approaching the two-top jerk me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see the hostess coming my way with a strangely familiar redhead behind her. Julianne. Of course. The woman I know from three photos alone. I suppose this isn’t technically a blind date. It’s like a late-stage glaucoma date. London would love that one, but when could I tell her? I stand and offer my hand, but Julianne wraps me in a hug.
“There you are, Dr. Dom,” she hisses into my ear, and when we pull away she grips the sides of my arms, looking me up and down like an aunt who hasn’t seen her nephew in a decade. “London did not prepare me for this.”
I clear my throat, loosening my tie as I ease back into my seat. “Didn’t she send along my portfolio?”
“Yes, but daaaamn.” Her gaze sweeps up and down my body outrageously, like she’s appraising my naked body. “Hellooo, Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”
I smooth down the front of my shirt, easing back into my seat. “It’s nice to meet you Julianne.”
“Call me Juli.” She sounds a little breathless, gaze stuck to me as she plops into the seat across from me. “You seriously are single? What’s wrong with you?”
I close my fist and cover my smile. I appreciate her bluntness, at least. “I work an insane amount. What’s wrong with you?”
A long, gravelly laugh spills out of her, and she touches her chest with a hand. “Oooh, Dr. Daly. We are going to get along very well, aren’t we?” She’s got perfectly manicured, nude-colored nails. Busty as hell. Filling out her business-woman-chic suit in all the right places. She’s attractive. I can admit it.
But she doesn’t have freckles, and if she showed up naked in front of me I wouldn’t bat an eye. At least she promises to be fun.
And as the date wears on, she is fun. She makes me laugh a few times. She’s an adventurous eater. She has some crazy stories of her early years as a lawyer, including one that involves several geese and a judge with diarrhea.
But there’s no click. Not even an echo of a click. By the time we wrap up our date, Julianne is hungry for more, and I’m just ready for home.
I bow out of continuing our date as gracefully as possible, and not so poorly that I close the door to a second date. We hug, and I send her off in her rideshare before heading back to my own car. It went well. It was a precise mix of sterile and functional. Like sliding on a fresh glove prior to surgery. Someone who could be a friend and would look good on my arm as a wife. I should be excited.
But the only thing I’m excited to do is follow up with London. I dig my phone out of my pocket and fire off a quick text.
DOM: Date #1 completed. Good work, matchmaker.
LONDON: Yeah?? Did it go well???
DOM: She’s nice.
LONDON: “Nice” is all I get? God. Men are so hard to please.
I smirk, looking out the window as I start my car. London would be shocked if she knew how pleased I was with the matchmaker. Appalled, really.
DOM: She’s everything I ever wanted in a wife of convenience. Is that better?
LONDON: Yeah, now we’re talking. Though I’m slightly concerned you’re ill.
DOM: Why?
LONDON: You complimented my work. I was expecting you to finally fire me.
DOM: Too much work to find a replacement.
LONDON: So should I set up a second date or did you handle that already?
DOM: I left that for you. Otherwise what am I paying you for?
I set my phone in the dash holder as I begin easing out of the parking lot. My entire body is tense, anticipating how she’ll respond. Because this is gold-level teasing here.
LONDON: Your package does include date setting as well as hand holding and ass wiping.
A laugh bursts out of me. There we go. I knew London would be up to the snark task. I pause mid-reverse so that I can respond to her.
DOM: I pay good money for VIP services and I expect you to deliver.
LONDON: At your service, sir. Now please bend over.
A car horn honks, interrupting my banter. Shit. I need to focus on getting out of this parking lot. The agitated driver barely waits for me to exit my spot before he starts nudging in, and my phone goes dark as it registers the fact that I’m driving.
But London stays on my mind. All the way home. Up into my penthouse. And into the shower with me where I fist myself into a display of fireworks behind my eyelids, imagining that little black dress she wore the other night.
And maybe, somehow, London could tell that I was conjuring her in my memory. When I return to my phone, she’s texted me again.
LONDON: So I’ll get you down for date #2 with Juli. Still good to try out the other ladies on the menu?
DOM: Don’t be a misogynist. Women aren’t food.
DOM: But yes, I’ll take some dessert.
LONDON: Saucy. Or should I say chocolate saucy?
DOM: You’re the pastry chef here. You deci
de.
I walk naked through the penthouse, rubbing a towel over my wet hair as I think about London. Really, what I’d like to suggest is that she scrub the schedule of everyone else and just put herself on the menu. The one drink I had at dinner is still sizzling inside me. I double back for my phone, half-decided to send her the text and suggest it.
I pick up the phone, rereading our thread. And then I begin typing out my response: I have one request. The best desserts are made by the chef herself. Give me one night with you.
My finger hovers over Send.
But at the last second I hold down Delete. And then I rewrite: Though I’m open to chocolate sauce all over the pastry chef. If that’s what you’re thinking.
I tut. No. Then I redo the message: Chocolate sauce on you???
Delete. Delete. Delete. That’s creepier than I want, and hell, I’m not even certain this attraction is mutual. Worst case scenario, I’m just one more guy London has to beat off with a let-down text because he got blinded by her freckles and easy laughter.
I toss my phone onto the couch and head back into the bathroom. I’m not touching my phone again until I’m totally sober. And even then, I should never cross that line with London via text.
But in person?
My forearms prickle as the idea zips through me, like fresh drugs in the bloodstream.
Tonight might be a bad time to push the envelope. But if I know myself, I won’t be able to avoid doing it.
And it needs to happen sooner rather than later.
Chapter 11
LONDON
A week melts away in a jumble of new clients, cocktail hours with new friends, and the most minimal checking in with Dom about the status of his new girlfriends.
All in all, my life in Cleveland is great. Finally, both my apartment and my office are in perfect, organized states. All of my paperclips have one centralized location. I have a routine that includes a quaint coffee shop in my neighborhood with baristas who remember my favorite froufy drink. I know which grocery store I prefer, because I’ve tried them all, and dammit, I just prefer the aesthetics of the Kroger two blocks over.
