Black Ties and Lullabyes (33 page)

Evidently she looked real y pitiful, because even the insane homeless people shied away from her. She thunked her head against the window, her thoughts a jumbled mess. This couldn’t have happened. It just couldn’t have. How had al her marriage dreams morphed into a scenario only a pornographer could love?

Easy answer. Because she was a fool.

Randy had never given her any indication that he was Mr. Wonderful. She’d just chosen to hope that maybe he was. He was merely a clueless degenerate who’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into her life.

She, on the other hand, should have pul ed off those damned rose-colored glasses the moment she met him and smashed them into a mil ion pieces.

As the train went underground and picked up speed, whizzing through the tunnel toward Cityplace, Alison thought about how other women were getting married and having families right and left. What was wrong with her?

Okay, so she hadn’t exactly been a genius when it came to picking the right men. First there had been Greg Chapman. A few months in, she’d woken up one night to find him licking her toes. That she might have been able to overlook, but when he wanted her to wear six-inch heels in the bedroom and carry a whip, she’d decided enough was enough. Then there were the two years she wasted on Richard Bodecker, who turned out to be gay. Alison might have realized it sooner, but since he owned a Harley dealership and spat a lot, she’d stayed in denial even longer than Richard himself.

And then there was Michael Pagliano, who scratched his bal s in public. Just stood there in a movie line or whatever and scratched away, as if nobody was watching. But since Alison had been three months away from her twenty-ninth birthday and feeling a little desperate, she’d decided to overlook it.

Then he took her to a five-star restaurant, which was good, and blew his nose on a cloth napkin, which wasn’t. It was then Alison decided she couldn’t close her eyes to his downside any longer.

Then came Randy.

So there they were. The men she’d been able to attract over the years. A clueless degenerate, a foot fetishist, a gay biker, and a bal -scratching nose-blower. She wasn’t dumb enough to think al men were rotten, but she was beginning to believe she was a magnet for the ones who were.

Thirty minutes later, Heather met her at the Fifteenth Street station. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top. Her wild, curly brown hair was backlit by a halogen streetlamp, glowing like a halo around her head.

“Uh-oh,” Heather said. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“If eight months of my life going down the tubes is bad,” Alison said, “then yes. It’s bad.”

“Tel me what happened.”

“Let’s see. The
Reader’s Digest
version. Randy’s an asshole, and I’m an idiot.”

Heather winced. “Get in the car. Then I want to hear everything.”

Once they were inside the car and heading home, Alison told Heather the whole story, and Heather’s eyes grew wide.

“He wanted a threesome? With Bonnie?” She paused. “Wel , okay. If a guy’s a big enough jerk to want a threesome, of course it would be with Bonnie.” Alison dropped her head against the headrest, feeling miserable. “I’m a dating disaster. I’m done with men.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am. I’m going to become a nun.”

“You’re not Catholic.”

She rol ed her head around to look at Heather. “I could adapt. I’m not too fond of kneeling, but I do like wine. Tradeoffs, you know?”

“What about confession? That won’t exactly be a walk in the park for you.”

“Yeah, maybe the first one wil be a little lengthy. But once I purge the past ten years or so, the next ones wil be a breeze. I mean, come on. After I’m a nun, what could I possibly have to own up to?”

“Oh, right. Like the moment a cute priest walks by, you won’t be lusting in your heart?”

Alison sighed. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter if he’s Mr. Right or not. I’l find a way to cram that square peg into that round hole or die trying. God, Heather. What’s
wrong
with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you. Randy’s the one with the problem.”

“But what if I end up with somebody even worse than Randy because I’m so desperate to get married that I’l settle for anyone?”

“You would have figured Randy out sooner or later, even if he hadn’t… you know. Gone al pervert on you.

Just be glad you’re rid of him.”

“And who am I supposed to put in his place?”

“Do you have to figure that out now?”

“Sometime before I’m eighty would be nice.”

“You have fifty years before you’re eighty.” And Alison knew what that fifty years was going to be like. A few years would pass. Then a few decades.

And before she knew it, she’d be staring at some hairy-eared octogenarian over their morning oatmeal at the home and wondering how long it might take to get him to pop the question.

“It’s not like you’ve exhausted every possibility out there,” Heather said. “You just haven’t met the right guy yet. Give it some more time.”

“But I’ve already tried everything! Singles bars.

Speed dating. Video dating. Match dot-com. E-Harmony. I’ve even considered setting fire to my own condo to try to meet a cute firefighter.”

“Now there’s an approach I wouldn’t have thought of.”

“Yeah, but it’d be just my luck that he’d be a firefighter who wore women’s underwear or had a wife he wasn’t tel ing me about.” She sighed. “Do you understand how much I suck at picking out men?”

“Have you thought about letting somebody else pick one out for you?”

“No,” Alison said with a wave of her hand. “No way.

I’ve had enough bad blind dates to last me a lifetime.”

“I’m not talking about letting your aunt Brenda fix you up. That was a disaster.”

Alison cringed at the memory. She’d never met a man before who wanted a sex change operation so he could become a lesbian.

“I’m talking about a professional,” Heather said.

“Huh?”

“A matchmaker.”

“Matchmaker? You mean, like one person who decides who you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with?” Alison screwed up her face. “Sorry.

That’s just weird.”

“No, real y. I work with a woman who went to this matchmaker in downtown Plano, and she set her up with a real y great guy. She was engaged four months later and married within the year.”

Just the words “engaged” and “married” in the same sentence made Alison’s heart go pitty-pat. But she knew the truth. Nothing was ever that simple.

“Pardon my skepticism, but what’s this friend of yours like? Tal ? Skinny? Blond? Ex-cheerleader?

Trust fund?”

“Short, a little overweight, brown hair, ex–debate team, good job.”

Now Alison was listening. Minus the debate team thing, Heather could be describing her.

Alison pul ed out her phone. “What’s this matchmaker’s name?”

“Uh… I can’t remember. Rosie… Roxanne…

something like that.”

Alison Googled “matchmaker” and “Plano.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you know there’s a matchmaking service dedicated to finding you somebody to cheat with?”

“You’re kidding.”

“I guess that one’s for later. Before I can cheat on a man, first I have to find a man.” She flipped to another site. “And here’s one cal ed Sugar Daddies. They match rich old men with hot young women.”

“How young?”

“Judging from these photos, barely legal.” Alison flipped her thumb across the screen. “I’m stil not seeing… wait. Rochel e Scott? Matchmaking by Rochel e?”

“Yeah. I think that’s it.”

“Hmm. Says she’s been in business for thirty-five years. Nobody stays in business that long if they’re not successful, right?”

“Oh, she’s successful, if you judge by what she charges.”

“How much are we talking?”

“That’s the downside. She charges fifteen hundred dol ars for five introductions.”

Alison winced. Three hundred dol ars per man?

Then she thought about the thousand dol ars she’d once paid to spend a week at a singles resort in Florida. Instead of coming back with a man, she’d returned with a horrible sunburn and so many mosquito bites she looked like flesh-colored bubble wrap. She wasn’t one to throw money around indiscriminately, but if the woman could actual y deliver, it might be worth it.

She looked back at her phone and clicked through the website. “Listen to this,” she said, reading from the woman’s bio. “Rochel e Scott has a degree in psychology. She’s been matchmaking for thirty-five years. Out of more than three hundred marriages, there have been only sixteen divorces.” She looked at Heather. “That blows the national average out of the water. I’m going over there Monday.”

Heather’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, wait a minute. I just threw that out there as something to think about.

You need to let the sting of tonight wear off a little before you hop right back out there.”

“Nope. I’m thirty and alone, and it’s bad. I imagine forty and alone is even worse.”

“Doing anything on the rebound is usual y a mistake. Forget about it for tonight. Come up to my place. Tony’s working late at the bar, so we can trash-talk men al we want to.”

“Right. You have nothing to bitch about where Tony’s concerned.”

“Yeah? That’s what you think. He stil hasn’t grasped the concept that dirty underwear goes in the hamper and that onion rings aren’t health food. And don’t get me started on his col ection of
Sports
Illustrated
swimsuit editions. You’d think they were the Dead Sea Scrol s the way he—”

“Heather,” Alison said, “right about now, I’d kil for a messy guy eating onion rings while he’s staring at hot women in bikinis. Particularly if he looked like Tony.” Her eyes teared up again, and she hated it. “You know, when we were both single, it wasn’t so bad. But now… now you have Tony, and…” She sniffed a little.

“I’m happy for you, Heather. I real y am. But I’m real y starting to feel like the odd woman out.” She let out a painful sigh. “It sucks to be me.”

“Don’t you say that,” Heather told her. “Don’t you
dare
say that. You already have a good life. You have a great job. A nice place to live. Good friends. Money in the bank. That’s more than some people can say.

And you’re a good person who does nice things for other people. So it does
not
suck to be you.” Alison sighed again. “Is it real y so wrong to want the last piece of the puzzle?”

“No. Of course not. I’m just saying that maybe you need to give the husband hunt a rest for a while.”

“I would, except for that damned clock ticking inside my head.”

Heather smiled. “He’s out there, you know.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Right. Your knight in shining armor. Your forever guy. You just have to be patient. One day, when you least expect it—”

“Don’t try to cheer me up. I’d rather wal ow in my misery.”

“No problem there. I have a real y nice bottle of vodka I’ve been saving for an occasion like this. And did I mention I also have a gal on of Blue Bel Cookies

’n’ Cream?”

“Perfect. That’s why I can’t find a man, you know.

My hips aren’t big enough.”

Heather pul ed into the condo complex where they both lived. Alison ran to her place, got out of the big-butt dress, and put on sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. By the time she was climbing the stairs to Heather’s condo, she was feeling marginal y better.

She decided she was going to eat enough ice cream to get brain freeze, then warm her head back up with half a dozen vodka shots. And through it al , she intended to obliterate everything Randy from her phone, her Facebook page, and her e-mail. If she got inebriated enough, when she got home, she’d head over to the forums at the Knot and spam them with
love sucks
messages, then grab a couple of issues o f
Modern Bride
from her magazine rack and shred them.

Now,
that
was wal owing in misery.

Then Monday on her lunch hour, she’d head over to see Rochel e and pray the woman could work miracles.

THE DISH

Where authors give you the inside

scoop!

From the desk of Vicky Dreiling

Dear Reader,

While writing my first novel HOW TO MARRY A DUKE, I decided my hero Tristan, the Duke of Shelbourne, needed a sidekick. That bad boy sidekick was Tristan’s oldest friend Marc Darcett, the Earl of Hawkfield, and the hero of HOW TO SEDUCE

A SCOUNDREL. Hawk is a rogue who loves nothing better than a lark. Truthful y, I had to rein Hawk in more than once in the first book as he tried repeatedly to upstage al the other characters.

Unlike his friend Tristan, Hawk is averse to giving up his bachelor status. He’s managed to evade his female relatives’ matchmaking schemes for years.

According to the latest tittle-tattle, his mother and sisters went into a decline upon learning of his il -fated one-hour engagement. Clearly, this is a man who values his freedom.

My first task was to find the perfect heroine to foil him. Who better than the one woman he absolutely must never touch? Yes, that would be his best friend’s sister, Lady Julianne. After al , it’s in a rake’s code of conduct