Page 5 of Grudge Match

Chapter Five

This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever done in my life. Walking into the Ritz Carlton with my invitation clutched tightly in my fist, I feel like a fool. I don’t know what possessed me to fill out that form or what supernatural forces convinced me to cancel my Saturday afternoon plans to return home, change into my best suit, and drag my pathetic ass to one of the snootiest hotels in midtown. But the little voice in my head guided me here. I don’t know why or where it means to take me, but for once, I thought I should give it a chance and prove my intuition stinks.

The designated ballroom is something out of the Gilded Age. It’s ostentatiously over the top, with plush red carpet, baroque molding, and a patterned metallic ceiling. Nine massive chandeliers bathe the dimmed room in twinkling lights that make me feel like I’m walking into a disco until the orchestra in the corner knocks me out of that fantasy with a tune by Glenn Miller.

I’ve always liked jazz standards. Maybe tonight won’t be so terrible after all.

I weave through the crowd of eager men and women, dressed to the nines but unable to socialize due to the six burly men guarding the partition in the room. Madame Colette has yet to appear. At least I don’t think she’s arrived. I have no idea what she looks like, but I assume she’d make herself known.

A few feet away from me, two stockbrokers argue over a client and then wax nostalgic over last year’s bull market. Next to them, a group of frat brothers, far too young to be concerned with finding the perfect match, make crude jokes about the women streaming into the other side of the ballroom. Uncomfortable with their remarks and afraid someone will lump me in as their friend, I stride to the closest bar and ask the bartender for a martini.

“Do you want it dirty?” The woman behind the bar, dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, black pants, and a tight-fitting vest, asks me a question that doesn’t register in my muddled mind.

“What?” My brows crease as I seek clarification.

“Your martini? Do you want it dirty?” The bartender smiles, batting her eyelashes as she exaggeratedly shakes the cocktail mixer. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the company of a woman outside of the office that I can’t decide if she’s genuinely flirting or simply seeking a generous tip, but it hardly matters.

I’m not here for her or anyone else. The only reason I’m wasting my time is to placate Lincoln, whom I suspect would take personal offense if I rejected his wife’s fabulous idea.

“No. I’ll have it dry,” I reply and turn away to scan the ever-growing crowd of lonely hearts, all hoping for a miracle match. I’m only thirty but feel far too jaded to have their optimism. True love comes around once in a lifetime; mine came and went.

Her name is Elodie—beautiful, stunning Elodie Bernard. She was my younger brother’s girlfriend, utterly inappropriate and out of our league. I didn’t know who she was when I saw her standing outside the train station in Burlington the evening before Thanksgiving. Heavy snow delayed my train long enough to catch the crowd boarding their train to Montreal. A girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes caught my attention, and I stopped to admire the way her round ass filled out the tight black leggings highlighting her perfect curves.

My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth when she bent forward to reach for her bright-red backpack. I’m not the type of guy who ogles unsuspecting women, but I made the exception for her. She was such a magnificent sight; I couldn’t bear to look away. Her petite but voluptuous figure made her look like a pinup girl from the 1940s and had me so wholly mesmerized, I stood starstruck, obstructing the path of my fellow travelers trying to weave past me on the platform.

I feared I would never see her again. There were no guarantees that the object of my infatuation was from Burlington or even Vermont. Her train might have been a connection from another state, or she may have been catching a return train into Canada. The sudden sense of loss for a woman I’d never met turned the next few days into nothing less than agony.

Five days later, on the morning before I returned to law school, I discovered that my dream girl was an eighteen-year-old senior in high school and my brother Devon’s girlfriend. It was a catastrophe of astronomical proportions. How could that weasel catch a girl like her? He might be attractive and a phenom in football, but he was nothing but a vessel for raging hormones and two-bit pickup lines.

I wanted to believe she was an airhead. She wasn’t. Elodie Bernard blew my mind with her witty banter, intellectual curiosity, and an ass that could stop traffic. Every minute in her company stoked the fire consuming me from within. The first woman who’d ever stolen my heart was slowly breaking it by choosing my brother over me.

That’s not true. I didn’t give Elodie a choice. She was untouchable and unsuitable. There was nowhere for us to go, and that simple truth drove me to the precipice of madness. My wounded heart, the one that had finally awakened, shattered in my chest.

I’m ashamed to admit I transformed into the worst version of myself.

When my bruised ego and spiteful soul could no longer watch their budding romance, I lashed out and treated them poorly. Fortunately, I liked her too much to be cruel, but I maintained my distance, acting detached and aloof. Like a fool, I messed things up and made her hate me, only to learn my younger brother abandoned her shortly after graduation.

It was too late to swoop in and steal Elodie for good. I’d made myself completely unappealing, and the last time I saw her, working hard at her parents’ bakery, she refused to accept my apology, then disappeared into the back for the rest of her shift.

I’m not saying I couldn’t have tried harder. The latent stalker in me wanted to camp outside the bakery, her house, or on the hood of her car until she allowed me to explain, but there was no time for that. My new job hastened me back into the city, and my left-brain logic talked me off the ledge.

She deserves privacy and peace. She has no reason to trust anyone with the name LeBlanc.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight. I’m thrilled to see such beautiful faces eager to find true love and their very own happily ever afters!” Madame Colette, or the Match Queen, whatever these people call her, finally appears, dressed in an obnoxious amount of pink silk and lace, a flamboyant wig, and far too much lipstick. She looks like she’s about to escort two unsuspecting teenagers to the Hunger Games.

All around me, smiling men gather at the front of the stage, craning their necks to search through the crowd of women on our left. The scales are tilted toward the females. They’re all far too pretty for the jokers on my side of the room, and in a perfect world, they should have no trouble meeting a man on their own. But this isn’t a perfect world. Men are idiots who don’t know the first thing about winning a woman’s heart—myself included.

“I’m sorry that not everyone here found a match.” Madame Colette pauses to let the disappointed jeering pass, allowing her to continue speaking.

“Again, I apologize. These things happen, and you’re welcome to come to my next event in December. You may also contact me for a private session. My lucky couples will receive a text message containing very detailed instructions. Follow them to the letter, and you will find your match. Everyone else, please continue to mingle and enjoy the evening. The night is young. Love is in the air, and your perfect match might be right under your nose.” Madame Colette claps her hands as a giant wave of pings chimes through the ballroom.

To my surprise, I feel my pocket vibrate.

Congratulations. I’ve found an exquisite beauty who is marvelously suited to you. Meet your lady in front of the grand piano in the hotel’s mezzanine. She’ll be standing by the large bouquet of red roses displayed on a white column planter. In ten minutes, I’ll send her name to confirm your match. Please don’t keep her waiting. Happy Valentine’s Day, Madame Colette.

I stare at the message, reading then re-reading it until the gravity of the moment sinks in. This has no hope of going anywhere, but I don’t want to keep her waiting. I should never have come. If this poor girl came here believing she’d find true love, ditching her now may destroy her confidence.

Memorizing Madame Colette’s instructions, I tread into the lobby and look for the stairway leading to the mezzanine. I don’t want to appear too eager, but I’d rather not keep her waiting. My mother raised me to be a gentleman and my lack of enthusiasm has nothing to do with this unsuspecting woman. She could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she’ll never be that to me. I know who I want, and someday soon I’ll find the courage to go after it.

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