Holiday for HIre by Laurelin Paige
1
J ane Osborne stood frozen as a statue outside Menton. In her left hand, a box of crème br?lée. As though you could reheat that. In her right, a fifty-dollar bill. In her head, the parting words of Blake Stupid Donovan, the man who’d asked her to a gorgeously romantic dinner that she’d assumed was a proposal, only to dump her over dessert .
“You deserve happiness, even if you aren’t asking for it,” he’d said. Jane blinked once, twice. Well, she had been asking for it the best way she knew how, by going out with a man who was supposed to damn well marry her. He’d hired a matchmaker to arrange their courtship. She’d had to turn in a resume. There’d been an interview and everything .
He was literally advertising marriage. Literally .
Jerk.
He’d looked like such a perfect match in theory. He was a business owner seeking the stay-at-home variety of a bride, a wife who ran charity events and volunteered at schools and threw amazing dinner parties. She’d essentially been groomed for this type of role. Her parents, who’d adopted her from China as a baby because it was the “in” thing at the time, had never expected her to hold a “real” job. Her father had been a workaholic banking mogul, and her mother had modeled a traditional upper class woman’s role. They’d put her in private schools that taught the same conservative social norms they had subscribed to. Before their death, they’d encouraged her (near useless) performance degree in music. Now, she worked part-time as the administrator of an arts education program for impoverished children and volunteered on various charitable committees. It gave her something to do when, with her sizeable inheritance, she didn’t actually have to work .
She also didn’t have to have a husband, she reminded herself now. She hadn’t been looking for one when the opportunity to date Blake came along, but she’d seen how compatible they could be and she wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass her by .
If she were honest with herself, she’d also admit that she could use the companionship .
Well, so much for that. She was an excellent cook, and now she was back to preparing meals for one. The crème br?lée was not going to be enough to deal with this. She’d been exactly what Blake had asked for, and he’d left her here, humiliated, outside of a restaurant that she’d previously loved but could now never come back to .
“Hey, lady! Ya comin’?” the cabbie yelled. Jane barely moved her hand to wave him off. She’d done everything right. Absolutely everything .
Including, her cheeks burned to remember, inviting him to sleep with her without any feelings being involved. Because of course there were no feelings. Not where she was concerned because, as she’d been taught, she didn’t believe love should interfere with a contractual arrangement such as matrimony. Not where he was concerned because Blake was a cold, arrogant man .
More of his lines ran through her head .
“I’ve known for quite some time now that I can never have feelings for you,” he’d said, accompanied by a gentle smile. Well the sentiment was entirely mutual, but she’d had the social graces not to announce it so haughtily. And since the matchmaker who had found her had informed her that love was not to be the basis of the union—well. It was just plain rude of Blake .
One is allowed to change one’s mind, but to pretend to be so high and mighty …
Jane was flat-out offended .
Her heels clicked on the concrete as she wandered mindlessly through the red-brick buildings toward the water. Nothing soothed her Boston spirit like the waterfront. Except, maybe Christmas, which was still one hundred and sixteen days away, as the countdown app on her phone had told her that morning. But, she thought as a small neon sign beckoned her out of the chill summer-night harbor wind, a Christmas themed shop would substitute nicely .
Along with the Atlantic, a pocket-sized, sugar-scented, girl-owned storefront was a soothing balm to a bruised heart. Or a perfectly fine heart, even. Jane had never met a problem that a hand-crafted tree ornament and a gingerbread cookie couldn’t fix, or at least put into perspective. Especially when the tiny, hipster-glassed chick behind the counter was so enthusiastic .
So she spent every one of those fifty ill-gotten dollars on a new garland for her bannister and various flavors of Christmas mini-cakes. She crammed the crème br?lée in the paper bag as well and headed toward the Institute of Art with her sweets stash .
Her black dress, the proposal-accepting dress, snagged on the wooden slats of the dock as she sat, but it was okay. She couldn’t wear it again anyway, not with the memories now sewn to its lining, invisible to all but her. But looking out over the endless, infinite waves of the Atlantic, everything was okay. Even if it was only fifty-eight degrees out. Red velvet followed peppermint followed figgy pudding, bite after bite, until her tummy was as content as her mind .
After all, it wasn’t that she was so upset about being dumped. That had happened before, and could certainly happen again .
The thing that rankled was the insinuation that since Blake had found love—somehow, with someone, (but really, how and who?)—he had become superior to her .
False. Patently false .
A person could live a life without romance and still be completely content, couldn’t they? The lapping waters against the wooden pilings refused to answer anything but a soothing babble. No matter. She could answer herself: a person most certainly could have...until Fluffy had gone in for a routine checkup and been diagnosed with acute heart disease and put down with no chance at all for closure .