Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(81)

Heath was his normal charming self—respectful, interested in everything she had to say, but unwilling to take it any further. “Great taste in clothes, but I make her nervous.”

For the rest of the week, Annabelle pulled out the stops, introducing him to a filmmaker, a floral shop owner, an insurance executive, and Janine’s editor. He liked all of them but wasn’t interested in dating any of them.

Portia got wind of the dating blitz and sent two more socialites. One drooled all over him, which he hated but Annabelle got a kick out of. The other disliked his lack of pedigree, which infuriated Annabelle. Next Portia insisted on setting up an introduction at the Drake for morning coffee. Heath finally agreed, so Annabelle took advantage of the time slot to schedule a former classmate who taught adult night school.

Annabelle’s candidate was a dud. Portia’s wasn’t. Portia had insisted on the morning meeting, Annabelle discovered, because she’d lined up WGN-TV’s newest evening anchorwoman, Keri Winters. Keri was gorgeous, accomplished, and polished—too polished. She was Heath’s female counterpart, and together they were slick enough to float an oil tanker.

Annabelle tried to put an end to the agony after twenty minutes, but Heath shot her the evil eye, and Keri didn’t leave for another half hour. When the coast was finally clear, Annabelle rolled her eyes. “That was a waste of time.”

“What do you mean? She’s exactly what I’m looking for, and I’m asking her out.”

“She’s as plastic as you are. I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. If you ever have kids, they’ll come out of the birth canal with Fisher-Price stamped on their butts.”

He refused to listen, and the next day, he called Ms. News at Nine to set up a dinner date.





Chapter Eighteen




Two weeks passed. Between getting ready for her wine and cheese party and brooding about Heath and Keri Winters, Annabelle lost enough weight to zip up the periwinkle blue mini she hadn’t been able to wear all summer. “Go put some clothes on,” Mr. Bronicki growled the night of the party when she came downstairs wearing the mini, along with a slinky ivory top.

“You’re the hired help,” she retorted. “You’re not allowed to criticize.”

“Showin’ yourself off like a hussy …Irene, come out here and look at this.”

Mrs. Valerio poked her head in from the kitchen. “You look very nice, Annabelle. Howard, come help me open this olive jar.” After she’d started seeing Mr. Bronicki, Mrs. Valerio had dyed her hair Woody Woodpecker red, which matched the crimson sneakers she wore tonight with her Sunday best black dress.

Mr. Bronicki, spiffy in a long-sleeved white shirt, followed her into the kitchen. Annabelle moved to her office, where she’d converted her desk into a serving table with Nana’s blue-and-yellow-plaid tablecloth and a gorgeous centerpiece of garden flowers Mrs. McClure had donated. Nana’s charming pottery plates from the 1960s held the cheese and fruit. Mr. Bronicki had volunteered to answer the door and pour the wine while Mrs. Valerio kept the platters replenished. By shopping carefully and soliciting help from her seniors, Annabelle had managed to bring the evening together on budget. Even better, she’d picked up two more male clients through her new Web site.

Focusing on business didn’t do much to erase the images of Heath in bed with Keri, but she did her best. The news that the WGN anchorwoman and the city’s top sports agent were an item had recently hit talk radio, including the morning’s top drive-time show, where disc jockeys Eric and Kathy had begun running a Name Their Weird Baby contest.

The doorbell rang. “I hear it,” Mr. Bronicki grumbled from the kitchen. “I’m not deaf.”

“Remember what I told you about smiling,” Annabelle said as he shuffled past.

“Haven’t been able to smile since I lost my teeth.”

“You’re funny as a box of Depends.”

“Respect, young lady.”

Annabelle had been worried people wouldn’t mix, and she’d asked Janine to help. Her friend was the first to arrive, followed by Ernie Marks and Melanie Richter. Within an hour, Annabelle’s tiny downstairs rooms were packed. Celeste, the University of Chicago economist, spent a lot of time talking to Shirley Miller’s godson Jerry. Ernie Marks, the quiet elementary school principal, and Wendy, the vivacious Roscoe Village architect, seemed to hit it off. Annabelle’s two newest clients, discovered through her Web site, clustered around the stylish Melanie. Unfortunately, Melanie seemed more interested in John Nager. In light of Melanie’s having once married a man with a fetish for disinfecting doorknobs, Annabelle didn’t think John the hypochondriac was her best match. The evening’s most interesting development, however, came from an unexpected quarter. To Annabelle’s surprise, Ray Fiedler latched onto Janine right away, and Janine didn’t do one thing to shake him off. Annabelle had to admit that Ray’s new haircut had done wonders for him.

By the time the last of the guests left, she was exhausted but satisfied, especially since everybody wanted to know the date of the next party, and a stack of her brochures had disappeared. All in all, Perfect for You had enjoyed a very successful night.



As Heath and Keri’s courtship entered its third week, Annabelle stopped listening to talk radio. Instead, she followed up on the connections her clients had made at the party, tried to dissuade Melanie from seeing John, and signed another new client. She’d never been busier. She only wished she were happier.