Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(20)

She started to tell him to go ahead and try, but he was just cranky enough to do it. “Mr. Bronicki, how about this? I promise I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I want a blonde.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Gotcha.”

“And not too young. None of them twenty-year-olds. I got a granddaughter twenty-two. Wouldn’t look right.”

“You’re thinking…?”

“Thirty’d be good. With a little meat on her bones.”

“Anything else?”

“Catholic.”

“Of course.”

“And nice.” A wistful expression softened the slant of those ferocious eyebrows. “Somebody nice.”

She smiled despite herself. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When she finally managed to close the door behind him, she remembered there was a good reason she’d earned her reputation as the family’s screwup. She had sucker written all over her.

And way too many clients living on Social Security.





Chapter Five




Bodie readjusted the treadmill speed, slowing the pace. “Tell me more about Portia Powers.”

A bead of sweat trickled into the already damp neckband of Heath’s faded Dolphins T-shirt as he set the barbell he’d been lifting back on the rack. “You met Annabelle. Do a one-eighty, and you’ve got Powers.”

“Annabelle’s interesting. Kinda hard to get a bead on her.”

“She’s a flake.” Heath stretched out his arms. “I’d never have hired her if she hadn’t struck it lucky with Gwen Phelps.”

Bodie chuckled. “You still can’t believe you got rejected.”

“I finally meet somebody intriguing, and she’s not interested.”

“Life’s a bitch.” The treadmill slowed to a stop. Bodie climbed off and picked up a towel from the uncarpeted living room floor.

Heath’s Lincoln Park house still smelled like new construction, probably because it was. A sleek wedge of glass and stone, it jutted toward the shady street like the prow of a ship. Through the sweeping V of floor-to-ceiling living room windows, he could see sky, trees, a pair of restored nineteenth-century town houses across the way, and a well-maintained neighborhood park surrounded by an old iron fence. His rooftop deck—which, admittedly, he’d only visited twice—afforded a distant view of the Lincoln Park Lagoon.

Once he found a wife, he’d let her furnish the place. For now, he’d set up a gym in the otherwise empty living room, bought a state-of-the-art sound system, a bed with a Tempur-Pedic mattress, and a big-screen plasma TV for the media room downstairs. All of that, combined with hardwood and tumbled marble floors, custom-built cabinets, limestone bathrooms, and a kitchen outfitted with the latest in European-designed appliances made this the house he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.

He just wished he liked it more. Maybe he should have hired a decorator instead of waiting, but he’d done that with his old place—cost a fortune, too—and he hadn’t liked the results. The interior might have been impressive, but he’d felt weird there, like a visitor in somebody else’s house. He’d sold everything when he moved here so he could start new, but now he wished he’d held on to enough furniture to keep the place from echoing.

Bodie picked up a water bottle. “Word is, she’s a ballbuster.”

“Gwen?” Heath stepped on the treadmill.

“Powers. High employee turnover rate.”

“Seems like a good businesswoman to me. She also does some volunteer work mentoring other women.”

“If she’s so good, why aren’t you letting her sit through any of her introductions like you made Annabelle do last week?”

“I tried once, but it didn’t work. She’s pretty wired, a little hard to take in big doses. But she’s sent along some decent candidates, and she knows how to get the job done.”

“That explains all those second dates you haven’t asked anybody out on.”

“Sooner or later I will.”

Bodie wandered into the kitchen. He had a condo in Wrigleyville, but sometimes came over here so they could work out together.

Heath turned up the treadmill speed. He and Bodie had been together almost six years now. After his motorcycle injury, Bodie had lost himself in drugs and self-pity, but Heath had admired him as a player, and he’d hired him to be a runner. Good runners tended to be former athletes, men the college players knew by reputation and trusted. Agents used them to bring potential clients to the table. Although Heath hadn’t spelled it out, Bodie had known he had to get sober first, and that’s what he’d done. Before long, his no-bullshit style had turned him into one of the best.

Bodie had started driving for him accidentally. Heath spent a lot of hours on Chicago’s tollways, heading up to Halas Hall, out to Stars headquarters, or making endless trips to and from O’Hare. He hated wasting time stuck in traffic jams, and Bodie liked being behind the wheel, so Bodie’d started taking over when it was convenient for both of them. With Bodie driving, Heath could make phone calls, answer e-mail, and handle paperwork, although, just as frequently, they used their time to strategize, and this was where Bodie earned the six-figure income Heath paid him. Bodie’s intimidating appearance hid a highly analytical mind—cool, focused, and unsentimental. He’d become Heath’s closest friend, and the only person Heath completely trusted.