Mr. (Not Quite) Perfect (19 page)

Allegra heaved a contented sigh and wound her arms around his neck to pull him closer. ‘It already has,’ she said.

* * *

MAKING MR PERFECT by
Allegra Fielding

Can you create the perfect boyfriend? We set one guy a modern-day quest, a series of challenges he had to complete successfully in order to win the love of today’s demanding damsels who want their man to be everything: socially skilled, emotionally intelligent, well-dressed, practical, artistic; a cook, a dancer, a handyman...

We took an uptight, conventionally dressed bloke with zero interest in the arts and a horror of the dance floor, and we asked him if he could change. Could he learn to dress stylishly and navigate a cocktail menu without cringing? Was he prepared to throw away the takeaway menu and go to the effort of cooking a meal from scratch? Could he talk knowledgeably about modern art? Could he learn how to waltz?

If you’ve been following Max’s progress over the past few weeks, you’ll know that he sailed through some of the ‘tests’ but crashed and burned on others, notably the exhibition of contemporary art installations. In spite of his grumbling, Max claims to have learnt something from the process. ‘I learnt to make an effort,’ he says. ‘I learnt to think about what women really want and—more importantly, I gather—not to button my collar quite so tightly.’

But the truth is that Max didn’t learn nearly as much as I did. Whether he succeeded or failed, he remained resolutely himself. Yes, he made an effort, but he didn’t change. He’s never going to be a snappy dresser. He’s always going to prefer a beer to a fancy drink, and he’s still going to have to be dragged kicking and screaming to anything remotely smacking of the arts. The tests were pointless: anyone can pretend, but what’s the point of pretending? Nobody wants to fall in love with a fake.

There’s no formula for a perfect man, unless it’s for a man who doesn’t need to pretend, a man who’s happy to be himself. A man who might not be able to dance, but who makes you laugh and holds you when you cry, who makes you feel safe and gives you the strength to be the best you can be. Who will stay by your side, through good times and bad. A man who makes you feel the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world when he kisses you.

A man who sees you for what you really are, and who loves you anyway.

So let’s not ask our men to be everything. Let’s love them with all their imperfections, because those are what make them who they are. Max doesn’t have a single one of the qualities I once thought necessary in my perfect man, and yet somehow that’s exactly what he is: my very own Mr Perfect.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from AFTER THE PARTY by Jackie Braun.

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PROLOGUE

“I see a
handsome man in your future.”

Ella Sanborn fought the urge to roll her eyes at the older woman reading her palm. Ella could be naive at times. She was too trusting for her own good, or so she had been told on more than one occasion. And she was superstitious, hence today’s visit to a fortune-teller. But she wasn’t a complete fool. She was pretty sure Madame Maroushka told every young, unattached woman who darkened her door the very same thing.

But finding a man wasn’t what had brought Ella here. She leaned over the table and studied the lines that crisscrossed her opened hand, wishing she could make sense of them herself.

“What about a job? Do you see anything on there about a job? Preferably one with decent hours, paid holidays and medical benefits.”

Madame Maroushka’s scarf-wrapped head jerked up. In her heavily accented English, she asked, “You are single, no?”

“Yes.”

“But you are not interested in a man?”

“I’m not.” She said it resolutely, thinking of her ex-boyfriend, Bradley Farmington.

He’d been as loyal as a prostitute, dumping her right after her father’s legal troubles began. So much for true love. After the insider-trading charges leveled against Oscar were dropped, Bradley had sent her a note of apology. He felt bad about the way he’d handled things and claimed that he’d never
really
believed her father was guilty of anything. He’d been overly worried about his pending membership into an elite Manhattan social club. Ella forgave Bradley for bailing on her. She figured he’d done her a favor. He’d shown his true colors. A lot of her so-called friends had.

But Ella hadn’t dated anyone seriously since.

“He is very good-looking, this one,” the older woman crooned.

Ella shook her head. “I have more pressing problems than my social life right now.”

“But he is rich.” Madame Maroushka’s wily smile revealed a gold front tooth. Hmm, Ella thought, the fortune-telling business must pay pretty well, which reminded her...

“I’d rather have a job.”

“Land a wealthy husband, my dear girl, and you would not have to work ever again.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard,” Ella replied dryly, thinking of her former stepmother’s snarky advice.

Camilla Sanborn would know a thing or two about landing wealthy husbands. She’d married Ella’s father at the height of his success and then left him to marry another billionaire when Oscar’s fortunes changed. No, thank you, Ella thought. She would pay her own bills, starting with those that were past due, just as soon as she had a job.

She nodded toward her palm again and asked Madame Maroushka, “Are you getting any vibes about the sales position at La Chanteuse on Thirty-Third?”

She’d submitted her résumé more than a week ago and, even though the manager had said the post needed to be filled immediately, Ella had heard nothing. Working in retail wasn’t where she saw herself employed indefinitely, but in the interim, she would take what she could get. Besides, one of the perks of working at the ladies apparel store was a 20 percent discount on merchandise, and there was a leather handbag that was calling Ella’s name.

It was hell being a fashionista on a thrift-store budget.

“My gift does not work that way. It tells me what it tells me while I study your palm. I see a man,” the woman insisted a second time. “He is tall—”

“Dark and handsome,” Ella finished impatiently.

“Hey, you want me to continue or you gonna read your own palm?”

Ella blinked in surprise. Just that quickly, the woman’s accent had relocated from East Europe to North Jersey.

“Uh, sorry. Go on.”

“Very well.” With her accent now back in the Baltic, Madame Maroushka continued. “He is lonely, this man. And not dark, at least not how you meant. I see fair hair and light eyes. He is searching for...someone.”

In spite of the pressing nature of her visit, Ella couldn’t help but be intrigued. “But is he single?”

Jersey made another appearance in Madame Maroushka’s speech. “Whaddaya think? I just said the guy was lonely and searching.”

“Yes, but the two conditions are not mutually exclusive,” Ella felt the need to point out. “Last month, I went on a date with a guy who claimed to be lonely and looking for love. He also happened to be married.”

A detail he’d failed to mention until his wife showed up at the restaurant where they were dining, wielding a set of knitting needles and threatening to pluck out Ella’s eyes.

The corners of the palm reader’s mouth turned down in consideration before she nodded. “Okay. Point taken. But this one is single.” She traced a finger over one of the creases on Ella’s palm again.

“So, is this handsome stranger looking to hire a woman?” Ella asked.

When Madame Maroushka’s eyebrows shot up, Ella squeaked, “Not for
that!
I’m talking about a legitimate job. I can cook reasonably well, and I know how to scrub a toilet.”

She’d had both a housekeeper and a cook while growing up, but she’d learned as an adult. Neither skill would put her fashion merchandising degree to any better use than the sales gig at La Chanteuse, but Ella couldn’t afford to be picky.

“I do not believe he seeks either a housekeeper or a cook,” the fortune-teller said with a shake of her head. “I see the two of you at a social gathering.”

“Like a party?”

“I believe so. He is wearing a tailored dark suit and the two of you are drinking champagne poured from a bottle with a fancy black label.”

Ooh.
It must be some shindig if the host had sprung for Dom Perignon. Momentarily sidetracked, Ella scrutinized her palm.

“Am I wearing the fuchsia cocktail dress with the ruched waist that I got on sale last month?” The tag was still attached to the sleeve and she’d been debating returning it. She really couldn’t afford the designer original, even if she’d gotten it for a steal. But if she had someplace to wear it— “No. Never mind.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I’m not going to be attending any parties. I don’t need to improve my social life. What I need is a job. Better yet, I need a career.”

A sales job in retail was definitely the bottom rung of the ladder when it came to a career in the fashion world, but her well-connected ex-stepmother knew a lot of people in the industry. People whose ears she’d bent with vicious gossip and outright lies. No one wanted to hire Ella if it meant crossing Camilla. Whatever. Ella wasn’t averse to working her way up as long as she was working.

Madame Maroushka frowned, causing the drawn-on mole just above her mouth to dip into one of the lines that feathered out from her lips. “This...this is most unusual.”

“What?”

“I see the party
as
your career.”

“What? Do you mean I’m like a party planner or something?”

“Could be,” the older woman allowed.

“I like parties. I’ve been to enough of them.” Both the fancy variety in her previous life as the daughter of a high-powered Wall Street wheeler-dealer and the casual, keg-of-beer kind since her father’s fall from grace. She nibbled her lower lip, an idea hatching. “How much do you think people get paid for planning them?”

Madame Maroushka shrugged. She was back in Jersey when she said, “Beats me. It probably depends on the kind of people you plan the parties for and the kind of parties they want you to plan. Know what I mean?”

In other words, the deeper their pockets, the more they would be willing to pay. That made sense.

“I know a lot of people with deep pockets,” Ella murmured half to herself. Until her father filed bankruptcy, she’d even called some of them her friends.

Madame Maroushka glanced at her watch, her tone brisk and all business when she said, “Time’s up. Thanks for coming. Here.” She handed Ella a coupon.

“What’s this for?”

“The printing place two blocks up on the opposite side of the street. My nephew owns it. He is handsome and single,” she said with a smile. When Ella just stared at her, Madame Maroushka said flatly, “He’s running a special on business cards. You get five hundred for the price of four with this coupon. If you want to be a party planner, you’ll need cards and lots of them.”

Why not? Ella thought. What did she have to lose? She paid Madame Maroushka and headed to the print shop where she blew the last of her meager savings on business cards and promotional fliers, which she then spent the following two days distributing all over Manhattan.

Two weeks later, her efforts appeared to have paid off. She had a meeting with a client, and a very deep-pocketed one, too. There was only one downside to the job and it was a doozy. The party she was being asked to plan was a wake.

Copyright © 2014 Jackie Braun Fridline

ISBN-13: 9781460324202

MR. (NOT QUITE) PERFECT

Copyright © 2014 by Jessica Hart

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