How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 7

  He hung up and rubbed his jaw resignedly. He was going to be stuck on a boat all morning with a woman who despised him.

  But at least she’d be far from Marco.

  Chapter 8

  Belle showed up at the pier at six-twenty-five. A gangplank led to a mid-sized, double story boat. She stayed on the pier, folding her arms against the morning cold, and scanned the darkness for Marco. He didn’t seem to be anywhere and she didn’t want to get on the boat without him. He had the tickets.

  She blinked tiredly. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night and was groggy. The insomnia was Flynn’s fault. She still couldn’t believe he’d lied to her the way he had. And she had willingly kissed him. A lot. All of the magic of the night, the attraction—it seemed tainted now, horrible.

  He’d said he wanted to keep her away from Marco for his own good, but she doubted it. When she’d met Flynn, he’d seen her interest, and he’d decided to take advantage of it, of her. How long would he have let the charade go on before telling her the truth?

  And now she was going to have to explain the whole thing to Marco. Which was going to be so awkward. When she told him she thought she was kissing him, it would be as good as admitting her long-standing infatuation. But she didn’t have a choice. She had to let him know about the mistaken identity, or she’d look like the type of woman who just made out with guys after chance encounters.

  Was it better to look pathetic or easy?

  Her stomach had turned into a ball of nerves. There was no good way out of this. What if Marco was horrified when he heard the truth? What if he had no interest in her? She couldn’t save face and pretend disinterest. He’d seen her kissing Flynn.

  A line of people made their way up the gangplank and onto the boat. All couples. All looking happy and in love. She scanned the beach for Marco. Didn’t see him.

  She paced down the pier and then back, shivering a little in the cold morning air. Her clothes didn’t offer much warmth. She should have brought a jacket, but no, she’d been determined to look chic in white flared shorts and a nautical top. Sometimes fashion was a pain.

  She heard footsteps coming from behind her and turned. It wasn’t Marco. Just a couple heading toward the boat, a lanky guy with a mop of dark hair, holding hands with a petite blonde.

  “We shouldn’t have signed up for a sunrise cruise,” the guy said. “We’ve been up late every night.”

  “I think it’s perfect for our honeymoon,” the girl cooed back. “Sunrise symbolizes all the beautiful mornings we’re going to have together.”

  Part of Belle wanted to roll her eyes at the sentimentality. Yes, your life is happily ever after from here on out. Go look into each other’s eyes while the rest of us continue on with our dreary lives.

  But another part of her wanted to weep with hope. Hope that she could feel that way about someone and have the feelings returned. Hope that love might be waiting for her on this ship. New mornings and new beginnings.

  Her memory flashed to a breakfast with Marco in college—finals freshman year, one last cram session before the physical science test. No one else from the study group showed up, so the two of them were alone at a table in the cafeteria with their notes. Marco chowed down bacon, eggs, and toast, while Belle ignored the bagel she’d brought. All she’d eaten that morning were her fingernails. She wasn’t worried about this exam, but calculus had been the source of her nails’ demise, and just the thought of her chemistry final made her want to take up a destructive hobby. Perhaps hiking near ravenous bears.

  Ahh, those happy days before she’d enrolled in chemistry; if only she could go back to the carefree times when she thought of herself as a smart person.

  She stared at an unintelligible equation on a study worksheet. “I can’t do this,” she announced. “If I hate math and science this much when I have a professor and a TA who are paid to help me understand it, how will I ever make it as a chemical engineer?”

  Marco took a bite of toast. “If you hate science, why are you majoring in it?”

  “Because my high school counselor told me I was good at math and chemistry. The guy obviously lied. He must have been trying to build my self-esteem or something.”

  “So switch majors.”

  “Wouldn’t matter. All of the good jobs are math related.”

  And she was determined to get a good job. She refused to live like her mother, stoned in front of a TV, never having the money or ambition to do anything else.

  Marco grunted and took another bite of toast. “You’ll never be happy if you go into a career just for the money. Do what you’re passionate about. You’ll be good at it because you love it, and the money will follow.”

  Easy for him to say. He’d never had to worry about running out of cash for groceries. “I’m passionate about eating chocolate. What salary does that pay?”

  He didn’t let the subject drop. “What makes you happy?”

  He did. But she couldn’t say that. The school didn’t offer degrees in hopeless crushes. She enjoyed going to the mall. No degrees in that either. Which was too bad, because in a contest between school and the mall, Belle was always happier at the mall. She never had money to spend there, but she loved the smell of new clothes, loved how walking into a store made her feel as if she could reinvent herself. Someday she would stroll into those stores and have the money to reinvent herself. Unless she flunked out of college.

  Which brought her back to the subject at hand. Should she keep plugging away at math and chemistry, or should she change her major? “I already told everyone I was going into engineering.” Her high school classmates had been so impressed. This major had been proof that she’d succeed in life.

  “People change majors all the time,” Marco said. “Choose what you’re passionate about. Do you know why I want to be a doctor?”

  “Because you’re passionate about stabbing people with needles?”

  He ignored her answer. “I’m passionate about helping others. As a doctor, I’ll be able to get up every day and feel good about what I’m doing.”

  “Plus you’ll get to drive a nice car. Doctors make bank.”

  “Forget about money right now. What are your interests and hobbies? What are you good at?”

  Her only hobby was flipping through fashion magazines, studying the styles, and then sifting through thrift shops to find ways to duplicate the look, or better yet, improve on it. She couldn’t just walk into Nordstrom and buy something from the rack; she had to improvise. Too bad there wasn’t a major in improvisation. It was the one thing she excelled at.

  “I like fashion.” She tried the words out on her tongue, testing them to see how they tasted.

  “Do it,” he said, with all the certainty of someone who wasn’t making the decision.

  “But it’s such a competitive field.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He finished off his toast. “If you love it, do it.”

  “What if I starve while doing it?”

  “You’ll still be better off than you would be as a well-fed but miserable chemical engineer.”

  So she’d changed her major, changed the trajectory of her life. All because he’d believed in her. He’d given her the confidence to try.

  Belle scanned the beach again. A few joggers were pounding along the sand, but no Marco. She checked her watch It was almost six-forty.

  Where was he? Despite her nerves, she wanted to see him, to tell him that his advice had helped her become who she was today. Women wore her fashions because he’d encouraged her to do what she loved.

  A man dressed in a suit like a maître d’ walked down the gangplank and spotted her. “Excuse me, are you Senorita Lind?” he asked in a thick accent.

  Her first thought was that Marco wasn’t coming after all and he’d sent someone to tell her. “Yes.”

  The man gestured to the boat. “Come. Señor Dawson, he rent a private room for you.”

  “Oh,” she said. What a nice gesture. “Where is he?”

>   The man kept motioning for her. “He on board already.”

  Which meant she’d been waiting outside in the cold for nothing. She went up the gangplank, followed him across the deck, and climbed up a set of stairs to the next floor. He walked down a narrow hallway, past several doors, and finally opened one. The light was already on, showing a cozy wood paneled room with a sliding glass door on the far end and a balcony that looked out over the ocean. A table was set, complete with tablecloth, china, and menus waiting for two. She’d expected to see Marco, but the room was empty.

  The man swept his arm in the table’s direction. “Sit. Look over the menu. The lobster quiche is very good. I recommend for you.”

  Belle took a seat. She didn’t pick up the menu. “Where is Mr. Dawson?”

  “He talking with the captain. He come pronto.”

  The man left Belle to her menu and her nerves. She glanced over the entrées’ descriptions without really seeing them. Would it be better to let Marco know she was angry at Flynn? Or should she to treat the whole thing lightly, act as if it were just a twin prank and she could take a joke as well as the next person?

  That was probably the best option.

  The ship’s horn blared a low note. Belle looked out the window at the ocean, but couldn’t tell if they were moving yet. The lapping waves looked black and shifting.

  She turned her attention back to the menu. A pointless exercise, really. She wouldn’t have an appetite until she saw Marco and could judge his reaction to her explanation.

  The door opened. She looked up, a smile on her lips and a greeting forming in her mouth. Flynn walked into the room, not Marco. Her smile fell away as quickly as it had come.

  He wore clothes Marco might have worn—board shorts and a white T-shirt—but his hair was darker and shorter. And even if his hair hadn’t given him away, his smug, calculating expression would have. Marco had never looked like that.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I came to talk with you.”

  Too bad. She’d already spent more than enough time talking with him. “Where’s Marco?”

  Flynn didn’t answer, just sauntered across the room, gazing around. He stopped in front of the sliding glass door.

  He was crashing her breakfast. She shouldn’t have been surprised. After her call, Marco had probably asked his brother why he’d been kissing her. She shouldn’t have expected Marco to wait for her version of the story.

  She stood, tossing the menu to the table. “Excuse me. I need to find Marco.”

  “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

  What had he told his brother? Had he admitted tricking her? It irked her that Flynn had been able to explain himself to Marco before she had.

  She folded her arms, still standing. “Why? Are you here to apologize to me?”

  He walked over to the table and casually sat down. “Profusely.” His tone was far from apologetic. He sounded arrogant, amused, as if this were all a game, and he knew he was winning.

  She resisted the urge to grit her teeth. “Did you tell Marco the truth—that you’d lied to me so I’d think you were him?”

  “I didn’t lie to you last night.” Flynn stretched his legs, lazily crossing them. “Everything I said at dinner was the truth: my job, my hobbies, all of it. You seemed to like me well enough to kiss me.” His chin tilted down. “So which one of us was really being untruthful?”

  That was unfair. “I didn’t lie to you. You’re the one who pretended to be someone else entirely.”

  “And you pretended to come here for inspiration. I guess we both stretched the truth, didn’t we?”

  She felt a blush rising in her cheeks and fought it. “You gave me the inspiration I came for. I think I’ll call my next clothing line Flynn-wear. It will look good, but have a dark underside and a tendency to rub you the wrong way.”

  He laughed. Not a cynical laugh, a real one. He thought her insult was funny. “I would buy that. And purchase it for my friends too.”

  Of course he would. Egotist. Arms still folded, she said, “How did you know who I was yesterday in the lobby?”

  That bit had particularly bothered her since last night, been one of the things running through her mind while she lay in bed, awake. When they first met, she’d mentioned going to WSU together, helping him with his papers, and introducing him to Daisy.

  And the next word out of his mouth was, “Isabelle.”

  How had Flynn known her name?

  “Unlike you,” he said, “I went to the wedding. Daisy talked about you all through the rehearsal dinner. She kept a place setting for you near the family and everything. I was serious when I said you caused a lot of drama by not showing up.”

  Belle felt a stab of remorse. She wasn’t the sort to purposely cause problems. Daisy was so wrapped up in Marco, and she had so many bridesmaids, that Belle didn’t think Daisy would notice her absence much. Or care. “You remembered my name all these years later?”

  “It’s seared into my memory. And not just on their wedding day. You unfriended Daisy during our first family reunion. That was also quite the drama.” He let out a sigh. “It’s ironic, I suppose, that you showed up at the first reunion after the divorce to cause commotion all over again.”

  Belle was too horrified to speak for a moment. What must Marco’s family think of her? “I had a good reason for not going to the wedding.”

  “Oh, really. What?”

  Belle pressed her lips together. She wasn’t about to lay her heart bare by telling him that she couldn’t handle watching Marco exchange vows with another woman, especially not with her best friend. “I had a good reason, that’s all.”

  Flynn looked upward, thinking. “As I recall, you had a headache. For two days. Daisy offered to send me to your apartment with some Excedrin, but you refused.”

  Belle had forgotten that detail—how Daisy kept insisting Belle just needed some Excedrin and peppermint oil, and she’d be fine. “I should have taken her up on the offer. If nothing else, I would have known that you look like Marco.”

  “He got lucky that way.”

  Belle fought for inward patience. “Where is he?” Marco had to be done talking to the captain by now, didn’t he?

  Flynn glanced at the sliding glass door nonchalantly. “The answer to that depends on how far we are away from shore.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How does that follow?”

  Flynn got up from his chair and went to the door for a better look. “If we’re far enough away—which we are,”—he turned around to face her—“then I can admit that Marco isn’t on the boat without worrying you’ll jump overboard and swim back.”

  What? He’d gotten rid of Marco somehow. She couldn’t think how, but obviously he’d done it.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I already told you. With the divorce so new, Marco doesn’t need some pretty, blonde siren luring him into the rocks of another relationship.”

  A siren. Seriously? This guy was way overestimating her flirting abilities.

  “Maybe Marco should be the judge of that.” She pulled out her phone and checked for messages from him. None.

  She called his number. A moment later, a phone rang in Flynn’s pocket. He took it out, feigning innocence.

  “You,” she coughed out. She hung up before he could answer. “It was you on the phone last night.”

  He shrugged. “I like talking to you.”

  Anger flashed through her. He’d set up this whole trip to get her away from Marco. “He doesn’t know who I really am yet, does he?”

  Flynn walked back to his chair, and sat down again. “You can’t blame me for that one. Last night, he looked right at you, heard you say your name, and still had no idea.”

  The reminder stung. She bit back a response. She’d had enough of Flynn and his games. “I’m going to tell the captain to turn the boat around and take me back.”

  “That will only work if you spea
k Spanish.”

  She picked up her bag. “Some of the crew speaks English.”

  Flynn held his hand out, a gesture indicating that she was being unreasonable. “This boat is taking well-paying customers out for a sunrise breakfast. The captain won’t turn around just because you decided not to eat with me after all. Sunrise is a limited event, and the captain won’t let you ruin his passengers’ trip.”

  She stared at him, tapping her foot against the floor. She didn’t want to make a scene, but letting him have his way galled her. He shouldn’t get away with manipulating her—twice.

  “Geraldo’s lobster quiche is not a thing to be missed.”

  Her foot kept tapping. She thought of the newlyweds who’d passed her on the pier, thought about how the woman had gushed that this trip symbolizing all of the beautiful mornings they would have together. What did it symbolize, she wondered, when a raving madwoman demanded the boat go back to shore?

  “Besides,” Flynn added, “I do want to talk to you. I was being honest about that.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.” If she couldn’t return to shore, then at least she wouldn’t stay in this room with him. She’d find somewhere on deck to wait out this wretched boat ride. Without another word, she strode to the door. Nothing he could say would stop her.

  “We need to talk about your future at Fontaine.”

  Except that. She turned around, eyeing him. “What do you mean?”

  He was leaning back in his chair, feet stretched out, the picture of ease and comfort. “I made an offer for the company this morning.”

  He had to be kidding. Despite her earlier intentions, she found herself walking back toward him. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely for sale. It’s overpriced, I’ll grant you that. Mr. Cohen won’t find a buyer for what he’s asking. I offered thirty percent below his asking price. If he’s smart, he’ll take it.”

  Belle’s heart took a few unsteady beats. “I don’t believe you.” This was another of his attempts to manipulate her. Well, she’d call his bluff. She took out her phone and called Felix.