Page 6 of Grudge Match

As I approach the second floor, my heart jackhammers with anxiety. I plan to kill Lincoln on Monday, but for now I need to face the music. I hold my breath and clench my sweaty fists, searching the vast elegant space for any signs of a grand piano. It’s in the far corner of the room and no one is standing near it—not yet.

Just do it. Buy the girl a drink, and try to show her a good time. It’s Valentine's Day, and every woman deserves to be treated like a queen.

Chapter Six

Congratulations. I’ve found a handsome man who is ideally suited to you. Meet your man in front of the grand piano in the hotel’s mezzanine. He’ll be waiting by the large bouquet of red roses displayed on a white column planter. I’ll send you his name in ten minutes to confirm your match. Please don’t keep him waiting. Happy Valentine’s Day, Madame Colette.

Istare at the message, my eyes focused on the words, your man. My man? I’ve never had a man. I’ve been with boys, but I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man old enough to buy me a drink.

Of course, that’s not something to brag about at the age of twenty-three. I shake my head and rid my bewildered mind of those pathetic thoughts. It’s not as if no one has asked me out in five years. Helping run my parents’ bakery and then moving to New York for school didn’t leave much time for a social life.

Perhaps my disinterest in dating has brought me here. Maybe I was meant to hold out for the right man? I blow out a heavy sigh and think of Deacon LeBlanc, secretly wishing he would appear. I’m too afraid to ask my mother about his relationship status. I suppose it’s easier to pretend I don’t care, steeling my heart for the inevitable.

Stranger things have happened. Not to me, but in theory.

A thrill runs down my spine as I imagine a tall, swarthy man dressed in a tuxedo and seductively smoking a cigarette. I usually hate smokers, but something about the way the cigarette sits on his full lips makes me overlook the nauseating smell and potential health risks of secondhand smoke. As I approach, he angles his head and extinguishes the butt in a nearby ashtray, waving away the remaining fumes to prevent me from walking through them.

“Did you get a text message?” Ramona shrieks, swipes the phone out of my hand, shattering my fantasy and bringing me back to earth. “Goddamn it. Am I the only one of us who didn’t get one?” She looks behind us and frowns at the sight of Sabrina smiling from ear to ear. Next to her, Mary stares wide-eyed at her phone, devouring the words with stunned fascination.

“Oh my God, I’m the only one here too difficult to match!” Ramona pouts and leans forward, placing her forehead on my shoulder. “Did they send you a photo? What does he look like?” She cranes her neck to look at my phone screen.

“The message asks me to meet him upstairs in the mezzanine. I think Colette is trying to draw it out. No photo or name. We’re meeting by the grand piano in ten minutes, and only then she’ll send the name to ensure we’re hooking up with the right person.” I lift my wrist to check the time and stuff my phone in my purse. “I better go. Wait for me in the lobby and we’ll go to dinner. Let me say hello, then send this guy on his way.” I might be curious to learn more about him, but I won’t hang Ramona out to dry. This was her idea. Besides, the invite says the actual date will happen tomorrow.

Sisters before misters.

Ramona shakes her head. “I’m following you upstairs and checking him out. You know I have a sixth sense about these things. If I get a respectable, harmless vibe off him, I’ll take a photo of his driver’s license and let you get to know him before your big date tomorrow.” She hitches her arm around my elbow and rushes me toward the elevator.

“Ramona, it’s one floor!” I try to nudge her toward the grand staircase on the other side of the lobby. I’m nearing the ten-minute mark and don’t want to appear rude.

“I know, but my heels are new and freaking killing me.” Ramona charges through the crowd, weaving her way into the first open elevator, and takes me with her. “And stop looking at your watch. Are you so eager to meet him? You’re gorgeous. Whoever it is will thank his lucky stars to be in your company.”

I shrug and smile at the elegantly dressed couples who can easily hear our conversation. Not everyone is part of Madame Colette’s event. There’s a wedding on the fourth floor and I can tell by their smiles they’re getting a kick out Ramona’s pep talk.

“Let me go ahead alone. I don’t want my date to think I’ve brought a chaperone, for crying out loud,” I whisper as we exit, scanning the room until I spot a shiny baby grand piano in the far corner of the room. The plush carpet makes walking easy.

“I’ll be over there,” Ramona answers, pointing to a group of sofas on the opposite side of the room as I sprint ahead, leaving her in my dust. “Scream if he tries anything funny. I have pepper spray in my purse.”

I roll my eyes and focus on the roses obscuring my view of a tall man standing near our designated meeting spot. There is something familiar about the back of his head, but there is no way I’ll know for sure until he turns around. I hardly know anyone in this city. It would be too much of a coincidence if I’ve met this man before.

As I approach the piano, my phone buzzes in my purse. I temper my steps and reach for my phone, hoping to put a name to the man before I meet the wrong person and need to endure this awkward moment again.

The man of your dreams is named Deacon LeBlanc. I hope you enjoy your date tomorrow. If you fall head over heels like I know you will, you win an all-expenses-paid trip to the destination of your choice and $20,000 to make your time there extra special.

I come to an abrupt stop and nearly trip over my heels. “Deacon!” I utter his name much louder than intended and come face to face with the big blue eyes and shocked expression of my heart’s only desire, Deacon LeBlanc.

“Elodie? What are you doing in New York?”

Chapter Seven

Imust be dreaming. Elodie Bernard, the girl of my dreams, stands before me, reading my name with a look of utter shock. I shake my head, hoping the two martinis I drank downstairs weren’t spiked with a mind-altering drug that induces hallucinations. There’s no way Madame Colette read my two-page questionnaire and uncovered the deepest secrets of my heart.

No one is that good. Are they?

To be honest, when the matchmaker’s questionnaire prompted me to describe my ideal woman, I depicted Elodie with pinpoint accuracy.

“Deacon?” Elodie exclaims, her phone clutched so firmly in her hand, she looks seconds from crushing it. She doesn’t appear nearly as satisfied to see me as I am with her. But why would she be?

“Elodie? What are you doing in New York?” I ask, schooling my features to disguise my thrill to see her. The last I heard, she delayed college to help her parents run Maple Ridge’s only bakery. It’s been in their family for generations, and shortly before her high school graduation, her mother took ill. She was too good of a daughter to leave her family in dire straits, and put aside her scholarship to Boston University. Most people would not make that kind of sacrifice, but Elodie Bernard is unlike most people. She’s better than anyone I’ve ever known.

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