Everything I Hoped For

by Ann Christopher

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, with no way to explain that the sight of that obscene scar on her face was as upsetting as watching someone take a blowtorch to one side of the Mona Lisa. No way to tell her that the thought of her ever having to endure that sort of excruciating pain made him want to vomit into the nearest potted plant. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Save yourself,” she said coolly. “I couldn’t care less about what you mean.”

  Stunned stupid, he watched her storm off for the second time that night, thinking about what an idiot he was and how overmatched he was with this one.

  And how determined he was to change her opinion of him.

  3

  “Freaking jackass.” A few minutes later, Melody helped herself to the healthiest slice of white chocolate raspberry cake she could find from the dessert table, not bothering to keep her voice below a loud mutter. The gala was in full raucous swing by this point anyway, and anyone close enough to hear her ongoing rant about Anthony Scott was probably too drunk to care about the crazy woman’s opinions. “Arrogant jerk—”

  “Oh, Lord.” Samira materialized at her side, looking pale and grim. “She’s talking to herself.”

  “Hey!” Melody gave her best friend a medical once-over. Samira’s dark complexion had a green tinge to it, so that wasn’t good. Her forehead gleamed but wasn’t diaphoretic, and her eyes were bright but not necessarily febrile. Just to be sure, she pressed the back of her hand to Samira’s neck, only to have Samira scowl and smack it away. “Well, you don’t feel warm. Are you lethargic? Nausea? Vomiting?”

  Samira’s scowl deepened. “I don’t need a diagnosis, Meredith Grey. I just don’t feel so hot at the moment. No need to order any CBCs or MRIs.”

  “Well, tell that to your boyfriend. Baptiste looks like he’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown.” Melody crossed her arms and tapped her chin with her index finger in an exaggerated thinking pose. “And isn’t this the guy who hasn’t raised the issue of what’s going to happen with your relationship when he goes back to Paris for meetings this week? The guy you’re so sure is going to dump you at the first opportunity? Weren’t you crying on my shoulder about that earlier in the evening? Yeah, I can see why you’re so concerned. Baptiste is just not that into you. Clearly.”

  “Now is not the time for your sarcasm.” Samira sipped from a giant glass of ice water. Then she tilted her head ever so slightly in the direction of the tables ringing the dance floor. “Is he still over there? Watching me?”

  Melody looked around. “Who? Baptiste?”

  Sure enough, Baptiste, who was now reunited with Anthony Scott (freaking jackass), had his moody attention pinned to Samira and her glass of water. The Jackass had, meanwhile, reverted to regarding Melody with the glowering and unblinking expression with which you might expect a panther in a tree to regard an antelope right before jumping down to snap the poor animal’s neck in half.

  “Oh, Baptiste is watching you, all right,” Melody said darkly, looking away from Anthony and returning her attention to Samira.

  Samira rolled her eyes. “I’d better talk quick. He only let me come over here if I promised to drink all this water and come right back.”

  “Well, you don’t want to get dehydrated,” Melody said.

  “Whatever. I want to know what’s going on with you and the very sexy Anthony Scott? Seemed like there might be some chemistry there when you met.”

  Melody gaped at her. “You got up off your deathbed to come over here and be nosy?”

  “Of course. And I’m feeling a little better. Now what’s up?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” Melody refused to remember the way her naughty bits had swelled with feminine appreciation a little while ago, when she first met The Jackass, or to consider the way shivers of awareness prickled over her skin even now, knowing that he was still in the room. Still watching her. “He’s every bit the arrogant jerk with the British flagpole stuck up his ass that I initially thought he was.”

  Samira lowered her glass, looking startled. “Whoa. That’s a lot of vitriol for someone you just met. Looks like I was right about the chemistry.”

  “You were not right,” Melody barked. “He acted like I was an idiot loser for trying Doctor Love dot com. And you’re the genius who signed me up for it. Like I haven’t suffered enough at the hands of online jerks in years gone by.”

  “Yeah, but this is a better site for you than some of those others you tried.” Samira snapped her fingers. “That reminds me. I got your profile up and running.”

  “You did? That quick?”

  “Yep. I used the pic with the red sweater. Red suggests passion and sexual availability. And it makes you approachable.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Melody put down her plate and watched Samira pull out her phone. “Let’s see it.”

  The profile pic, a fun and breezy shot of a smiling Melody, had actually required a photo shoot with Samira operating the camera. Melody looked like a fun woman who was a good choice whether your goals were a leisurely afternoon hike, dinner and a movie, or an unforgettable afternoon in bed.

  She had, of course, made sure her hair fully hid her scar. No need to scare all the men off before they gave her a chance.

  Although, to be honest, did it matter whether she scared them off in the picture rather than scaring them off when they saw her in person? No, it did not. Either way, in her painful experience, the men treated her to staring, pitying looks and, inevitably, ghosting. No, she didn’t want to go down this road again, but she’d promised Samira she’d try to be a more rounded person and give it a shot.

  So she’d give it a shot.

  Melody studied the profile for several long seconds, looking for cracks in the facade, before making her pronouncement:

  “Not bad.”

  “Thank you.” Samira favored her with a dignified nod. “Hopefully, you’ll be engaged by Monday.”

  “You know I’m only doing this to get you off my back, right? I don’t want to do this again.”

  “Don’t start,” Samira said firmly. “We’ve been over this a million times. Doctor Love dot com caters to a better clientele than those other sites you’ve been on. None of the men here are going to freak out when they meet a woman with a little scar.”

  Melody smoothed her hair with a fidgety hand, making sure it fully covered her cheek. “It’s not a little scar, and you know it. And if one more man gets an emergency phone call”—she made quotation marks with her fingers— “and dashes out of his blind coffee date with me when he sees the scar, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  “Maybe they’re dashing out because they’ve put you in the friend zone. Ever think of that?” Samira deadpanned.

  Melody had to smile. Better that than let Samira see how much these incidents hurt her feelings and damaged her morale. Seriously, Melody had thought she’d be over it after all these years. She’d had the damn scar for most of her life, for crying out loud. When was she going to get over caring about people’s reactions to it?

  “Be grateful you’re sick,” she told Samira. “It’s saving you from a beatdown right now.”

  “You’re beautiful, Mel.” Samira gave her an arm squeeze and quick kiss on the cheek. “Inside and out. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  Melody rolled her eyes and repressed a grateful smile. Moments like this made her glad she’d been smart enough to make Samira her best friend all those years ago. “Whatever. You’re just trying to make me feel better because you’re going home with a sexy guy and I’m not.”

  “You will be soon, though. That scar’s not going to matter to the right man, honey. We just have to find him.”

  “Well, we can rule out Anthony Scott,” Melody said without thinking. “He just freaked out like everyone else does.”

  “Oh, no.” Samira made a face. “Sorry about that.”

  “Eh. Who cares?” Melody said airily.

  Samira cast a wary glance at Baptiste—holding her eye, he pointedly tapped h
is watch—and sighed. “He’s going to come over here in a second. Can you do me a favor, please? I left my black velvet cape in the winery’s suite upstairs on the eighth floor. You know the one I’m talking about, right? Can you go get it for me? Baptiste offered to go, but he’ll never find it.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re awesome. Thanks.”

  Melody set off for the elevators. And it wasn’t that she wanted to know what The Jackass was up to now, because she didn’t, but her keen peripheral vision happened to notice that he was no longer standing with Baptiste.

  Something inside her deflated, which made her doubly glad she had her profile ready to go. That was the thing about being a single career woman in the twenty-first century, wasn’t it? You could have a great career or a great man, but you damn sure couldn’t have both. You worked hard to get to where you needed to be, but by the time you did, your dating options had narrowed down to divorced men, baby daddies, ex-felons and blue-collar guys who might be perfectly nice but couldn’t keep you in the style to which you’d already gotten yourself accustomed. And they all acted like they were doing you some grand favor if they called or showed up when they said they would.

  Plus, she had her stupid freaking scar to deal with.

  Oh, she’d sworn off men and recommitted to her career, sure, but she was only human. She had weak moments and relapses when she dreamed that her prince might still come. So when she met a seemingly handsome, sexy and well-educated guy like The Jackass, she was primed and ready to hang all sorts of girlish hopes on his unworthy ass.

  Well, thank God he’d shown his true stripes so early in the process.

  And now that she was on DoctorLove.com? Things could change for her, couldn’t they? Eligible men might become like planes at LaGuardia now. Another one might be along any second.

  And the right one wouldn’t be repulsed by her scar.

  Normally she didn’t like to get too hopeful about her prospects for romance, but the thought cheered her up enough to grin as she made her way through the hotel lobby. She was still grinning when she dashed into a waiting elevator and settled in a back corner of the car just as the doors slid closed. Her grin lasted all the way until she detected movement out of the corner of her eye and heard that bored upper-class British voice.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Melody froze.

  Her worst fears were, of course, confirmed when she looked at the mirrored doors and saw Anthony’s figure, slouched in the other corner, reflected at her. Her heart sank even as another of those maddening shivers raced up her spine and prickled with the nerve endings in her nape and scalp.

  “Oh, come on,” she muttered to the ceiling.

  “Don’t worry.” He’d been checking his phone, ankles crossed, but now he stood up straight and shoved his hands in his pockets, moves that inexplicably seemed to result in him taking up far more than his fair share of the space. “I’m sure we can tolerate each other for thirty seconds or so. Which floor?”

  “Eight,” she said sourly.

  He punched the button and stared at her, his jaw tight and his expression impenetrable.

  She watched him from beneath her lashes, trying to regulate her suddenly sketchy breathing.

  If only he weren’t so tall and handsome. Those were the real issues here. Tall and handsome on the outside, with unmitigated jackassery through and through.

  Ah, well. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

  It was such a shame, though.

  Six two or three if he was an inch, Anthony stood well above her five seven, even in her spiky heels. And he had, as far as she could see with his clothes on (now why was she thinking about taking off his clothes?) the broad-shouldered and toned physique of a swimmer.

  As for his coloring, he possessed the blond-haired and ruddy good looks of a lifelong outdoorsman. He was blessed with laugh lines (not that he ever laughed!) bracketing his mouth and fanning out from the corners of his eyes that made him seem all the more interesting and experienced.

  The lighting wasn’t good enough for her to tell what color his eyes were, but they were light. Fringed with dark lashes and darker brows that seemed particularly striking in combination with his golden sun-streaked hair, which was cut short. He had a long and straight nose, granite-carved cheekbones and a cleft in his chin. His lips were surprisingly full, and he had a movie star smile when he unleashed it long enough for it to come out and play.

  The overall effect? Stunning.

  She wasn’t immune. No woman would be, least of all one who hadn’t had sex in the last six months, following the abrupt end of her longtime friends-with-benefits arrangement with one of her former med school classmates after he started dating someone seriously.

  Bottom line? Anthony Scott was a Nordic god. Thor came to mind.

  He was also a jerk, and that was the part she needed to bear in mind if she wanted to keep her wits about her.

  They rode for a good second and a half in silence. Well, except for the sound of him systematically cracking his knuckles.

  Crack-crack-crack.

  Then he lowered his hands and cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry about my reaction to your scar. I just hadn’t—”

  “Let’s not and say we did.” Big of him to apologize, but she wasn’t in a forgiving mood. “Just forget it.”

  “I mean it, Melody,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m very sorry.”

  They stared at each other in the mirror.

  She blinked, a little taken aback by his evident sincerity. Something inside her relented.

  “I appreciate that,” she said, beginning to wonder if she’d have to reevaluate her reevaluation of his character.

  For God’s sake—was this guy a jerk, or wasn’t he? Why couldn’t she get a decent bead on him?

  He nodded and took a deep breath.

  “As for that, ah, dating website, I simply meant that I’m surprised that a woman like you needs to resort to—”

  Melody snorted. Unbelievable. Back he went into the jerk category.

  “You know what? Don’t bother. You only make it worse.”

  They glared at each other with a force strong enough to ricochet off the mirrors and make spiderweb cracks shatter the glass. Her neck and face burned with such seething anger it was a wonder smoke didn’t come out of her ears and activate the overhead sprinklers. A distant corner of her mind wondered why she was experiencing such a violent reaction to a complete stranger, but a more immediate part of her focused on how nice it would be to bop him on his perfect lips and silence that snooty voice.

  “I’m trying to apologize,” he said.

  “Maybe spend less time apologizing and more time thinking about what you’re saying in the first place,” she snapped.

  “Happy to. Only you might want to give a chap some latitude for being a bit nervous around you.”

  This was so patently ridiculous that she couldn’t repress a startled bark of laughter.

  “Oh, please,” she said, abandoning her corner so she could get in his face and confront him directly. “The guy who’s been glaring at me like I’m something he found on the bottom of his custom shoes claims that I make him nervous?”

  He quickly joined her in the center of the car. They met like opponents in a boxing ring just as the bell rang for round one.

  She hitched up her chin and put her hands on her hips.

  He loomed over her, eyes flashing.

  “If you don’t know the difference between glaring and staring,” he said, his resonant voice acquiring a rough edge that made butterflies flitter in her belly, “then I’m afraid you don’t know a damn thing about how beautiful you are or your effect on men.”

  Wait, what?

  He couldn’t just lob a compliment like that into the middle of their perfectly good argument! What was she supposed to say to that?

  She stiffened. Opened her mouth with her thoughts on a ten-second delay—

  Just as the
elevator shuddered to a sudden stop, making her wobble in her heels.

  He quickly caught her upper arm in a grip that was warm and sure.

  “All right?” he asked.

  She nodded shakily, pulling her arm free and trying not to blush when he looked at her like that, all chivalrous concern. “Look what you did. All your negative energy broke the elevator.”

  There was no smile, but his eyes gleamed with amusement as he pressed the red button.

  “Yeah, hello?” said a craggy male voice over the intercom. “Security here.”

  “Yes, hello,” Anthony said. “We seem to have got stuck on the elevator. Any chance you could spring us out of here sometime soon?”

  “I sure hope so, buddy,” Security Guy said. “That car’s been acting up. I’m surprised they let people on it tonight, to tell you the truth. Lemme see if I can get the repair folks on the horn. Give me a few.”

  Anthony shot her a quick oh, shit glance and ran a couple of fingers beneath his starched collar. “You’ve been having problems with the elevator, you say?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Security Guy sounded several degrees too cheerful, as though he got paid a commission every time the repair people showed up. “That particular car’s been out of order all week.”

  The car chose that exact moment to drop several feet in silent confirmation.

  Melody cried out and grabbed the brass rail for support.

  Anthony flattened his palms against either side of his original corner, bracing himself.

  “I’ll be right back,” Security Guy said. “You folks hold tight.”

  “You will hurry?” Anthony called, but no answer.

  Several seconds passed with only their harsh breathing to break the silence.

  “Well, this isn’t how I saw things going down tonight,” Melody said, trying to laugh.

  “Nor I. I thought I’d be showered and in bed by now, flipping through dreadful programs on the telly and trying to find a football game to watch.”

  “You like the Pats?” she asked hopefully. “A guy who likes the Pats can be redeemed.”

  “I was referring to Manchester United.” He paced a couple of steps, rubbed the back of his neck and paced back. “Although I probably should pretend to like the Pats just so I don’t give you yet another reason to write me off forever.”