Matched to Her Rival

The shrewd glint in the depths of those chocolaty irises tipped him off that he hadn’t been as slick with the schedule-clearing as he believed. Odds were, she’d also figured out that she’d hit a couple of nerves yesterday and lunch was designed to prevent that from happening again.

“That’s your turf.” He waved at the crowd of tables, people and ambiance. “This is mine.”

“And I’m on it, with nary a peep. Cut me some slack. Tell me what your ideal mate brings to the relationship.”

“A lack of interest in what’s behind the curtain,” he said instantly as if the answer had been there all along. Though he’d never so much as thought about the question, not once, and certainly wouldn’t have told her if she hadn’t made the excellent point about the turf change.

But lack of interest wasn’t quite right. It was more the ability to turn a blind eye. Someone who saw through the curtain and didn’t care that backstage resembled post-tornado wreckage.

Was that why he broke up with women after the standard four weeks—none thus far had that X-ray-vision-slash-blind-eye quality?

“Good.” Elise scribbled in her ever-present notebook. “Now tell me what you bring to her.”

When she’d called the questions intensive, she wasn’t kidding. “What, presents aren’t enough?”

“Don’t be flip. Unless you want me to assume you bring nothing to a relationship and that’s why you shy away from them.” A light dawned in her eyes. “Oh. That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t think you have anything to offer.”

“Wait a minute. That’s not what I said.” This conversation had veered way too far off the rails for comfort.

He’d agreed to this ridiculous idea of being matched only because he never thought it would work. Instead, Elise challenged his deep-seated beliefs at every turn with a series of below-the-belt hits. That was not supposed to happen.

“Then say what you mean,” she suggested quietly. “For once. If you found that woman, the one who didn’t care what was behind your curtain, what do you have to offer her in return?”

“I don’t know.” It was the most honest answer he could give. And the most unsettling.

He shoveled food in his mouth in case she asked a follow-up question.

What did he have to offer in a relationship? He’d never considered it important to examine, largely because he never intended to have a relationship. But he felt deficient all at once.

“Fair enough. I get that these questions are designed to help people who are looking for love. You’re not. So we’ll move on to the lightning round.” Her sunny tone said she knew she was letting him off the hook and it was okay.

Oddly grateful, he nodded and relaxed. “I rule at lightning rounds.”

“We’ll see, Mr. Wakefield. Glass half-full, or half-empty?”

“Technically, it’s always full of both air and water.” Her laugh rumbled through him and he breathed a little easier. Things were clicking along at a much safer level now, and eating held more appeal.

“That’s a good one. Apple or banana?”

“What is that, a Freudian question? Apple, of course.”

“Actually, apples have biblical connotations. I might interpret it as you can’t stay away from the tree of knowledge,” she said with a smirk. “What relieves stress?”

“Sex.”

She rolled her eyes. “I probably didn’t need to ask that one. Do you believe in karma?”

These were easy, surface-level questions. She should have started with them. “No way. Lots of people never get what’s coming to them.”

“That is so true.” She chuckled with appreciation and shook her head.

“Don’t freak out but I do believe you’re enjoying this after all.”

Her smile slipped but she didn’t look away. This might not be a date, but he couldn’t deny that lunch with Elise was the most interesting experience he’d had with a woman, period. Even ones he was dating.

The longer this went on, the harder it was going to be to denounce her publicly. She was good—much better than he’d prepared for—and to criticize her abilities would likely reflect just as poorly on him as it did her.

Worse, he was afraid he’d started to like her. He should probably do something about that before she got too far under his skin.

* * *

By one o’clock, Elise’s side hurt from laughing. Wine at lunch should be banned. Or required. She couldn’t decide which.

“I have to get back to the office,” she said reluctantly.

Reluctantly? She had a ton of things to do. And this was lunch with Dax. Whom she hated...or rather didn’t like very much. Actually, he was pretty funny and maybe a little charming. Of course he was—he had lots of practice wooing women.

Dax made a face. “Yeah. Duty calls.”

He stood and gallantly took her hand, while simultaneously pulling her chair away. It was amazingly well-coordinated. Probably because he’d done it a million times.

They strolled to the car and she pretended that she didn’t notice how slowly, and she didn’t immediately fish her keys from her bag. Dax put his palm on the driver’s-side door, leaning against it casually, so she couldn’t have opened it anyway. Deliberately on his part, she was sure.

She should call him on it.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked.

Elise shook her head. “I’m out of the office tomorrow. I have a thing with my mother.”

Brenna had an appointment with a plastic surgeon in Dallas because the ones in L.A. stopped living up to her expectations. Apparently she couldn’t find one who could make her look thirty again.

“All day?” Dax seemed disappointed. “You can’t squeeze in an hour for me?”

No way was he disappointed. She shook her head. The wine was affecting her more than she’d thought.

“I have to pick her up from the airport and then take her to the doctor.” Oh, that might have been too much information. “I need to ask for your discretion. She wouldn’t like it if she knew I was talking to others about her private affairs.”

“Because your mother is famous or something?”

Elise heaved a sigh. “I assumed you checked up on me and therefore already knew I was Brenna Burke’s daughter. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

Stupid wine.

“Brenna Burke is your mother?” Dax whistled. “I had a poster of her above my bed when I was a teenager. The one where she wore the bikini made of leaves. Good times.”

“Thanks, I needed the image in my head of you fantasizing about my mother.” That’s precisely why she never mentioned Brenna. Not only because of the ick factor, but also because no one ever whistled over Elise. It was demoralizing. “You know she was thirty-five in that photo, right?”

Elise called it her mother’s I’m-not-old stage, when the hot runway models were closer to her nine-year-old daughter’s age than Brenna’s, and the offers of work had all but dried up.