Page 5 of Miss Matched

But not Ali. Something must have clicked, because one minute Mark was telling me about this chick down the hall who played his favorite video game, and next thing I knew he was marrying her.

My phone pings with a text, and my stomach sinks. I know who it is without looking. Samson, my business partner and the second largest shareholder in my company. I’ve already dodged five phone calls, and I’m still not ready to face the inquisition.

He’s been looking for ways to slander my name for years, and he’s on a constant warpath for the top spot. It’s hard to believe I ever called him a friend with his mounting desire to oust me. And then, as if things between us weren’t strained enough, there was last year’s Christmas party. In my defense, I didn’t know she was his girlfriend.

Add that to the monumental list of things he won’t let go of.

“Samson?” Mark guesses as my phone buzzes again, and I nod.

My affairs with the opposite sex aren’t new to the media. They love following along as women circle through my revolving door, and they’re always speculating about which one will officially take meoff the market. I’m used to it. But Stacia’s childish fit to the press gives me a sinking feeling that this article is about to take my playboy status in a different direction. One I already know the board isn’t pleased with.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” Mark says.

A familiar weight tugs at my nerves.

Samson isn’t the only thing I’m avoiding. I’m hiding out at a random hotel on a Friday night. Acting like this barstool has the power to transport me back in time. Using this drink as an excuse to erase the messy, hollow feelings churning in my gut.

I reach for my glass and remember it’s empty.

“When he owns the majority stake in Vincent Development, then we’ll talk.” I press the silence button on my phone. “Until then, he can shove it.”

Another phone’s ring cuts off my thoughts, and I’m thankful it isn’t mine. Mark takes one look at the screen and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Trouble in paradise?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “Ali is having a girls night, so I’m on call with the sitter.”

“I still can’t picture you being responsible enough to be in charge of two other human beings.”

“Because you know me too well.” He laughs. “I gotta take this and make sure the kids haven’t tied her up and locked her in a closet.”

“Knowing your spawn, it’s probably much worse,” I tell him.

He laughs me off and steps outside to take the call.

Back in college, I wouldn’t have pictured Mark as a husband and father. Back then, he was a video game nerd deathly afraid of the opposite sex. Somehow, I blinked and everything changed. He married Ali, and she popped out two little troublemakers who act and look just like him. Now he’s grocery shopping after work and taking the kids to soccer games on the weekends. I thought I’d seen it all, and then one day he pulled up to my building in a fucking minivan.

Somehow, at only thirty-four, I’m the last bachelor standing out of my friends. Mark is playing the family man, and Ryan jumped the gun in Vegas six months ago after only knowing Lacy for a few weeks.

That puts all eyes on me. As if I’d fall for that old ball-and-chain gig.

The bartender slides another whiskey my way, and I tip my chin at him, noticing the bombshell across the bar has found a new distraction in a young stockbroker type who now occupies the seat next to her. I’m torn between being disappointed about missing out on those tits and relieved I don’t have to let her down at the end of the night when she wants more.

Turning in my seat, I bring the whiskey to my lips, appreciating how it quiets the thoughts rattling around in my head. How it lets me escape, if only for tonight.

Across the lobby, a man in a tailored blue suit exits the men’s bathroom with a woman beside him. I don’t get a clear look at her behind his tall frame, but I do catch a whisper of light brown hair pooling around slim shoulders.

They were probably in there fucking. The fancier the hotel, the sloppier the patrons seem to be. No doubt he felt the distance between here and his room would change her mind, so he decided on a pit stop instead.

But then he shifts, and his shoulders raise in a defensive posture that catches my attention. He turns his head to the side and shrugs, and that’s when I recognize his familiar face framed by clean-cut dark blonde hair.

Chad Ulrich.

Or Shit-Faced Ulrich, as my buddy Ryan likes to call him. He passed out naked in the middle of a Hamptons party the night I met him, and I got a glimpse of how his nickname was earned. Chad is the kind of guy who makes men with money look bad. He’s loaded without having worked a day in his life. Leeching off his family inheritance, blowing his fortune on women. A class act if I’ve ever seen one.

Say what they will about me. At least I work for every damn cent.

Chad waves his arms one final time before slumping his shoulders and skulking off toward the ballroom with a defeated look on his face. I don’t know the guy well, but I never pegged him as someone who could easily be stripped of his arrogance.

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