Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(32)

“No, why?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Phoebe smile fondly at Pippi. He wished just once she’d give him a smile half that genuine.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of her all day,” Molly said, “but her phones aren’t working. If she happens to call you, tell her I want to talk to her about the grand soirée tomorrow afternoon.”

“One o’clock.” Phoebe spoke over the top of Pippi’s curly blond head. “Does she know we changed the time?”

Heath went very still. A party? This was exactly the chance he’d been waiting for.

“I wish I could remember,” Molly said. “But I’m on deadline, and I’ve been distracted.”

The Tuckers and Calebows got together all the time, but Heath never received an invitation, no matter how many times he explained to Kevin that he needed one. Heath wanted a chance to be with Phoebe when they weren’t doing battle, and an informal social gathering was the perfect opportunity. Maybe if they weren’t wrangling over a contract, she’d see he was generally a decent guy. Over the years, he’d tried to set up a dozen lunches and dinners, but she always ducked, generally with cracks about food poisoning. Now Molly was throwing a party, and she’d invited Annabelle. The person she hadn’t invited was him.

Maybe it was a female-only affair. Or maybe not.

There was only one way to find out.





Chapter Seven




That woman doesn’t know a damn thing about running a business,” Heath grumbled as Bodie shot through an I-Pass lane at the York Road toll plaza heading east for the Eisenhower Expressway. “Neither of her numbers are working. We’ll have to find her.”

“Suits me,” Bodie said. “I’ve got plenty of time before my date tonight.”

Heath placed a call to his office, got Annabelle’s Wicker Park address, and forty-five minutes later, they drew up in front of a tiny blue-and-lavender gingerbread house stuck between two very expensive-looking town houses. “Looks like Bo Peep’s love nest,” he said as Bodie pulled to the curb.

“The front door’s open, so she’s home.” Bodie peered toward the house. “I’m going to run up to Earwax and grab some coffee while you fight with her. You want me to bring you back something?”

Heath shook his head. Earwax was a funky Milwaukee Avenue coffeehouse that had become a Wicker Park institution. Bodie, with his shaved head and tattoos, fit right in there, but then so did everybody else. Bodie drove off, and Heath made his way through an old iron gate leading to a doormat-size lawn containing neatly mowed crabgrass. He heard Annabelle’s voice even before he reached the door.

“I’m doing my best, Mr. Bronicki.”

“That last one was too old,” a wheezy voice replied.

“She’s nearly ten years younger than you are.”

“Seventy-one. That’s too old.”

Stopping at the open door, Heath saw Annabelle standing in the middle of a cheery blue-and-yellow room that seemed to serve as her reception area. She wore a short white T-shirt, a pair of low-slung jeans, and rainbow flip-flops. She’d caught her hair up on top of her head in a curly little whale spout that made her look like Pebbles Flintstone, except with a better body.

A bald, elderly man with bushy eyebrows glowered down at her. “I told you I wanted a lady in her thirties.”

“Mr. Bronicki, most women in their thirties are looking for a man who’s a little closer to their own age.”

“That shows what you know. Women like older men. They know that’s where the money is.”

Heath smiled, enjoying himself for the first time all day. As he stepped over the threshold, Annabelle spotted him. Her honey-colored eyes widened as if a big bad dinosaur had shown up at the door of the Flintstones’ cave. “Heath? What are you doing here?”

“You don’t seem to be answering your phone.”

“That’s because she’s been trying to dodge me,” the elderly man interjected.

Annabelle’s whale spout hairdo twitched indignantly. “I wasn’t trying to dodge you. Look, Mr. Bronicki, I need to talk with Mr. Champion. You and I can discuss this some other time.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Mr. Bronicki crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re just trying to weasel out of that contract.”

Heath made an open-handed, accommodating gesture. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just stand here and watch.”

She shot him an exasperated look. He drew in the corners of his mouth and moved closer to the couch, which improved his view of her clingy white T-shirt. His eyes drifted down a trim pair of legs to her feet and then her toes, which were painted a sparkly grape with white polka dots. Pebbles had her own sense of style.

She returned her attention to her elderly visitor. “I don’t weasel,” she said hotly. “Mrs. Valerio happens to be a lovely woman, and you two have a lot in common.”

“She’s too old,” the man shot back. “Satisfaction guaranteed, remember? That’s what the contract said, and my nephew’s a lawyer.”

“So you’ve mentioned before.”

“A good one, too. He went to a real good law school.”

The steely glint that appeared in Annabelle’s eyes didn’t bode well for poor Mr. Bronicki. “As good as Harvard?” she said triumphantly. “Because that’s where Mr. Champion went to school, and”—she zeroed in on him—“he’s my lawyer.”