Holiday for HIre(2)
Jane kicked her feet in frustration. She really, really missed her kitty baby .
Because when she’d had him, she’d felt needed. Fulfilled. Mostly. Sure, she’d still had…physical needs, but those were easily met alone. Conversationally, she was satisfied by her volunteer work and her monthly lunches with the ladies who worked on the Back Bay Music Society with her .
Beyond that ?
There was the occasional twinge deep down in the spot where her heart met her gut when she made the mistake of watching a romantic comedy. That was just Hollywood’s influence .
And the reason she tended to prefer documentaries was not because of that; it was simply because life didn’t follow an easy narrative arc. However, a question could be carefully investigated and answered, if the methodology was designed well and followed carefully. Jane liked logic .
So had Blake—until he’d fallen for someone else .
Well, if love made a person impervious to logic, then no thank you. Along with about a hundred other reasons. She’d watched a documentary on it , too, so she was extremely well-versed in the science behind hormonal rushes. They tended to follow sex, but could be forced via other means. Someone had even invented a 30-something question interview that could make people fall in love. The general idea was that opening up to someone combined with lots of eye contact gave you a sense of comfort and mutual vulnerability that people often perceived as “love .”
Her eyes caught on a figure strolling the dock next to her, a gruff-looking man wearing jeans and a long coat of the discount variety. He seemed lost in thought as well while he stared out over the bay. Despite his lack of stylish outerwear, there was something definitely attractive about him—his striking cheekbones and strong-set jaw. Now there was someone who made her hormones rush, someone she could imagine falling in love with given the right amount of eye contact and over-sharing. He resembled Colin Farrell—not the tired, worn actor that graced the Internet these days, but the five-years ago, scruffy version of the man, the version Jane often fantasized about in the dark when no one else was around to impress with her witty thoughts and cultured notions .
Too bad he wasn’t husband material—the lookalike, not the actual Colin Farrell—though she had her doubts that he was up-to-snuff as well, even despite his fame and fortune. It took more than money and notoriety to become a man of stature. A man like that also had to be groomed and primed and educated as to the ways of the elite .
And this man on the dock, handsome as he may be, was certainly not groomed, primed, or educated in high society. From the look of him, he’d probably prefer a beer to a fine bottle of wine. A domestic beer, at that. Out of a can .
Ew.
And that was why attraction alone did not dictate whom Jane dated. Attraction was fleeting. She had also once watched a documentary on arranged marriages and the proof was in the pudding—people who understood that the initial rush of sex appeal would not last forever built lasting relationships on respect and shared values. That, not the Hollywood meet-cute-and-lust combo, was the way to go if you were serious about a future .
Hence the entire reason she’d dated Blake at all .
She forced her eyes away from the man candy in her sights and recalled the details of her brief affair (if she could call it that) with Blake Donovan. The matchmaker who had set them up had been extremely clear on the matter: Mr. Donovan was interested in a wife purely because, at his age, marriage was expected in a successful businessman. It was never intended to be about a magical connection. It was meant to be about a compatible arrangement. Like herself, he had seemed to understand the secret to a successful union was to not bring emotion into the equation .
And Jane had been superb at leaving all emotion out of their relationship, even if the dates they’d gone on had been less than impressive. That wasn’t Blake’s fault, of course. The matchmaker, Andy, seemed to be extraordinarily incompetent. Their particularly memorable second date, ostensibly to see a Jane Austen update starring Hollywood’s current sweetheart couple, had, through a mishap, become front-row tickets to something called Martian Death Camp 2 .
If she were being truly honest—something she rarely was—she’d say that the space movie was maybe more up her alley than the “blah-blah-blah, let us all find suitable husbands to breed with” type of English melodrama .
She’d never admit that to him, however. That was simply not the sort of thing a highbrow gentleman wanted to hear from his potential mate, so Jane had just pretended she was too bland to care. Blake had seemed impressed with her go-with-the-flow attitude, had remarked on it several times in fact .
The evening of the space movie; the time his wallet had mysteriously disappeared from his pocket; the time their reservations had been lost and no one could accommodate them but Chili’s Grill & Bar…every single flipping time, Jane had gone along without complaint. Even though Chili’s had awful food, and she had felt truly put out .
She had remained amenable and civilized. She’d done everything right. Apart from forgetting a jacket tonight, which she wasn’t ready to chalk up as a mistake, since she hadn’t expected the physical activity she’d partake in this evening would be either outside or alone .
Her cheeks burned at the recollection of her last-ditch effort to salvage what she’d honestly thought was the beginning of a beautifully agreeable situation .
“The only thing we haven’t explored is our sexual compatibility,” she had said. As the crème br?lée was being boxed up, no less. Because he’d already made his decision. And she, fool that she was, hadn’t been willing to give it up. “The last compatibility test” she’d called it. And it should have been !