Page 3 of Grudge Match

“Implicitly?” I question his phrasing, then stand aside as Daisy strides past me, swaying her hips provocatively as she heads for her husband’s desk.

They give each other a knowing glance, then lift their gazes to me, smiling suspiciously and making me walk backward toward the door. They look like they’re scheming, and I want no part of it.

“Of course, you’re the best lawyer in the firm,” Lincoln pauses their liason to correct himself. “After me, of course.”

I naturally assumed that was what he meant. I aspire to be as good as him.

“Thank you for the compliment,” I say as I try to escape into the hallway. “I’ll catch up with you after Mrs. Mayfair leaves.” Lincoln and Daisy look eager to get busy and no doubt I’m holding them up.

As I step into the hall on the way back to my office, I hear Lincoln holler at me. “Tell me about it over drinks this afternoon. I have something I’d like to share with you.”

My impatient brain wants to pivot toward his office and demand clarification, but I can hear my client’s nervous voice speaking to the receptionist, and it’s time to get down to business. Besides, it’s just probably another attempt at setting me up. I’ve begged him to give it up, but he’s relentless. That’s why he’s such a good litigator. He’s fantastic at the art of persuasion and never takes no for an answer.

However, this is one case he’s going to lose. I learned long ago that I am not compatible with love and refuse to waste time trying to change something that suits me fine.

Chapter Three

Rule number one for getting ahead in business emphasizes the importance of networking. Rule number two suggests finding a way to get along with your boss.

As an ambitious man, my current situation demands I take my boss up on his offer to join him for drinks. I would much rather go home, change into sweatpants, and watch television, but I can’t say no to Lincoln Kent. He’s the firm’s senior partner and the most well-connected lawyer in the five boroughs.

Much to my chagrin, he’s chosen a place on the Upper East Side, just a few blocks from the office. I’ve never been there before, but I can tell by the name that I’ll spend the next hour looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to point me out as an imposter. I chose a lucrative career, and my success has brought me more money than I ever dreamed of, but that doesn’t mean I aspire to join New York’s high society.

I grew up in a small town in Vermont and spent weekends helping my grandpa on his farm. Wealth doesn’t impress me. Designer labels with astronomical prices and nonsense gossip about rich people I’ve never met make me cringe. Which is probably why I haven’t dated in years. There are way too many pretentious girls in Manhattan and five minutes in their company makes me feel like an oaf.

According to its website, The Boardroom is a sophisticated lounge for businessmen to meet clients and take a brief solace from hectic city life. I roll my eyes, scan the site for directions, and then tap out of the screen. I hate shit like that. That’s the crap I’m forced to deal with living in Manhattan. Everything is an advertisement. Everyone pretends to be something they’re not. I hate complaining. The city has been good to me over the years, but it’s hard to stomach city dwellers' endless grind, social climbing, and unfriendly nature.

I miss small-town life, but I’m three years into my five-year plan and need to save enough money to start my own practice back home. Maple Ridge needs an experienced lawyer who understands small-town concerns but isn’t afraid to go head-to-head with the big-city corporate attorneys trying to rob local folk of their ancestral homes in the name of progress.

Grumbling profanities, I step through the doors and immediately eat my words. It’s impressive and has Lincoln Kent written all over it. It’s a classic blend of New York art deco and old money aesthetic. At 5:15, the place hasn’t had the time to receive the regular crowd and only has a few guests roaming the lounge for a table that fits their party. The host offers to help me locate Lincoln, but I easily spot him sitting alone in a booth by the bar. He lifts his glass of brandy and calls me over, sliding to one side to ensure we’re not sitting hit to hip.

“Thanks for joining me, Deacon,” Lincoln says, his typically loud voice hushed for the sake of nearby guests having a romantic moment. He lifts his hand to summon a passing server and instructs me to order whatever I want, flashing his American Express black card to start a tab.

“Of course,” I reply, then turn to the server and request a medium-priced whiskey, unwilling to take advantage of the situation.

“No, no.” Lincoln makes a slashing motion across his neck and interrupts me. “Bring him a glass of The Macallan. I insist.” He turns to me with a smile meant to disarm me. “You do good work and make me a lot of money. A glass of quality whiskey is the very least I can do for you.”

I nod, uncomfortable with his generosity, but willing to enjoy the sentiment if forced. “Thanks, Lincoln. That’s very kind of you. What did you want to talk about? With two days until Valentine’s Day, I would think you’d use this time to shop for Daisy.”

Lincoln scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t wait until the last minute to shop for my wife. I take mental notes whenever she mentions something she wants or needs. Of course, she strives to outdo me. Her competitive nature has forced me to continuously step up my game for next time.”

I laugh, shifting my weight as the server hands me my drink. Eager to sample it, I bring the glass to my lips and close my eyes, savoring the first taste and still wondering why I’m here. Lincoln and I don’t have a happy-hour type of friendship. I could have updated him at the office if he was dying to know more about the Mayfair case. It wouldn’t have taken me more than five minutes.

Hoping to move things along, I raise my forearm, pull back my cuff, and check the time. Lincoln Kent notices everything but overlooks my impatience, continuing to ramble about his perfect life.

“I don’t often give advice on a personal level but let me offer you a few words of wisdom. Don’t be so focused on your career that you develop blinders, shunning love or relationships as if they’re a nuisance or hindrance to success. We’re not meant to live for work. Always strive for work to enrich your life. And nothing enhances life more than the love of a good woman.” Lincoln frowns, swallowing hard as he changes directions. “Or a good man, if that’s your preference.”

My eyes nearly shoot out of my head. I choke on my drink, coughing through laughter as I try to keep from spitting the whiskey onto Lincoln’s face. He’s always been a good sport, but I’d prefer not to look like an idiot in front of my boss. “I’m not gay, Lincoln. I work sixty hours a week and have no time to frequent clubs or wherever people gather to find potential spouses. I know it’s commonplace now, but I can’t see myself choosing online dating. It feels unromantic and tedious.”

I know what I want and there’s no way I’ll find her on a dating site. The girl I long for is probably sitting pretty in Maple Ridge, surrounded by droves of men dying to drag her down the closest aisle and slide their cheap ring on her delicate finger. She’s meant for better things, but until I find my way home with enough money to offer her the life she deserves, I risk losing her for good.

“I have an opportunity for you that only comes around once every five years. According to Daisy, people have been waiting on pins and needles to learn if Madame Colette, affectionately known as the Match Queen, would return this year. I don’t know anything about this, but Daisy swears by her talent. She told me two of her lifelong friends met their husbands at one of Colette’s Valentine’s Day parties. Of course, there’s no obligation,” Lincoln rambles nonsensically, testing my patience and stunning me with his audacious proposal. He’s beginning to sound like my mother.

I take a deep breath and swallow my anger, gritting my teeth as I rasp, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not interested in finding someone, Lincoln. I’m glad you’re happily married, but I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.” It’s easier to lie than explain why I’m still carrying a torch for a woman who hates me for being related to the jackass who broke her heart.

I’m thrilled he did. It saved me the trouble of breaking them up in the future. But I sincerely regret any pain he caused her and dream of making it up to her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Every man is the marrying kind. Without love, our hearts shrivel and we die young, mere shells of the men we were meant to be,” Lincoln scoffs, ignoring my protest and continuing to offer his sage advice. “I think you should give this event a try. If you come back empty-handed, then so be it. You gave it a shot, and if the best matchmaker in New York couldn’t find you a nice girl, then I guess you can tell me I told you so.”

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