Holiday for Hire Read online

  Just as unbelievable was the fact that she was still engaging with him. She couldn’t help herself. He was so…entrancing. So swoon-worthy. Just talking to him made her heart pitter-patter the same way it did every time she heard the opening strains of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus at the traditional Boston Pops sing-along.

  “It’s definitely a magical holiday,” the stranger said, and he even seemed sincere. “But if you think you can only pretend that Christmas wishes come true, then you aren’t doing it right.”

  That was sweet to say. She knew differently. Wishes and magic were fanciful ideas. Hard work and determination were the only things that produced miracles, which was why Jane was always so focused on making her own dreams come to fruition. Dreams such as finding the man she was meant to spend her life with. Maybe that’s why she’d been so eager to date Blake—instead of waiting for Mr. Right to show up, she’d been proactive in looking for him.

  Now, if she did believe in this stranger’s sentiments, she’d be wishing that Mr. Right would look a lot like this guy. Too bad that wasn’t something she could make happen on her own. Wouldn’t that be real magic? Transforming a man like the one in front of her into someone presentable to her peers, toning down his accent, giving him a haircut, a manicure and dressing him in a tailored suit…

  She sighed. Those changes were all cosmetic. Even if you could teach someone how to speak and behave—which she did believe was possible; she’d seen My Fair Lady, after all—it wouldn’t make up for his lack of suitable job or, more importantly, lack of suitable paycheck. She could never bring a man like that to a social event. Her father would turn over in his grave.

  In other words, it was a good fantasy. But that’s all.

  “Well,” she said, realizing she should probably end this encounter before it turned into something else. “I’ll have to work on that, I guess.” That seemed an appropriate reply—polite, uninviting. “I should be going. Goodnight.”

  “Thanks again. Goodnight.”

  The slight curl of his smile did something to her insides, and she had to turn away quickly to hide the effect it had on her. It was so impactful that her belly was still fluttering five minutes later when she gave in and hailed a taxi.

  It had to be that flutter that made her do the crazy thing she did next. When, in the silence of the lonely cab ride, with the bag from the shop held tightly in her grip, she closed her eyes and wished. A vague wish. A wordless wish. She didn’t even know exactly what it was she wished for. It wasn’t a thing, she knew that much. It was more like a feeling. An unnamable feeling. A magic feeling.

  It was only a minute before her head cleared and she laughed at herself. Wishing for a feeling—it was so silly. What she should have wished for was to know that man’s name. And then she should have made that wish come true by asking. Or by looking at who the check was addressed to before giving it over.

  But she hadn’t. C’est la vie.

  And whatever feeling she was looking for, she could take care of that herself as well.

  In fact, she did. Later, alone in the dark of her bedroom.

  And while her hands were busy working under the sheets, it wasn’t Blake Stupid Donovan that she fantasized about. Nor was it five-years’ ago Colin Farrell, but, as she pressed her lids tight and lost herself in ecstasy, the man she imagined above her did look an awful lot like him.

  Two months later—forty-six days before Christmas, to be exact—the memory of Dump Day had begun to fade into, well, if not the memory banks, at least it was taking on the sheen of the kind of silly story Jane could spin into something humorous at Ladies Lunch.

  And lucky her, the monthly date was scheduled for the following day. It only took a few practice tellings into a mirror before she felt like it was coming off entirely natural and casually amusing.

  Not sad. Not at all. Everyone had dating mishaps, after all.

  This would be the anecdote she’d tell between watercress salad and trout toast points. By sorbet, she’d have spun it into a reason to donate to the Children’s Hospital.

  It was with a spring in her step that Jane stepped out to collect the mail. And lucky her, it was magazine day! She made a mental note to purchase some lottery tickets. Everything was coming up roses, and coincidentally, she had a fresh issue of Northeast Gardening to flip through with her afternoon tea. Mid-fall was the perfect time to sketch plans for the plot she’d rented. Radishes, definitely, marigolds to keep rabbits off the lettuce she planned on…

  What was this, though? Beneath the thick stack of glossies was a crisp linen envelope, addressed to Ms. Jane Osborne in calligraphy nearly as gorgeous as traditional Chinese hànzì.

  With utter pleasure, Jane slit the envelope open. Given today, it was likely to contain an invitation to audition for a Tom Hiddleston movie, or one to tea with the Queen, or—goddamnit.

  Blake Stupid Donovan’s wedding. Wedding? Yes. Wedding. To—goddamnit!

  The matchmaker?! And it was scheduled for Christmas Eve?

  The day was clearly ruined. The entire season would be ruined.

  Jane stomped back upstairs, disregarding any neighbor’s feelings in favor of the distinct joy of feeling the creak of wood beneath her angry size sevens.

  The matchmaker! She should have guessed. Andy. This was extremely upsetting. Not just because of the situation in general—it felt a bit like the kind of rom-com she’d avoid on dates. No, it was the 20/20 hindsight that said things like, “hey, Jane, betcha those bad dates she arranged weren’t accidental after all!” and “hey, Jane, were you actually on some sort of reality show you didn’t know about?” and “hey, Jane, were you an idiot for not working this out earlier?”

  And how dare he co-opt her holiday for his nuptials? The nerve of him!

  She knew, knew, that Blake wasn’t one for social niceties, but this was beyond the pale. To invite the girl you unceremoniously rejected over boxes of crème brûlée to your wedding?

  Oh, ho, ho. She was going to go to the wedding all right, she thought darkly, crumpling that clearly expensive envelope in her small-but-mighty hand. And she was going with a date. It was the only acceptable way to appear before an ex.

  Just one little problem…

  Where exactly was she going to find a date?

  Two

  Jane sat in her apartment staring at the crushed invitation, not exactly brooding per se, but certainly displeased. So displeased that she was forced to skip Ladies Lunch. Yes, forced, because the witty anecdote she had prepared about Blake had become a Sad Girl Story.

  Jane Osborne was not a Sad Girl.

  However, sitting alone in her home, having cancelled a coffee meeting, aforementioned lunch, and tomorrow’s fundraising breakfast, it was difficult not to feel as though Blake had screwed up her life. Or at least her holiday season.

  It was truly only her pride that kept her from tossing the offending piece of mail into the trash. As much as she’d like to do that, she just couldn’t. There was simply no possible way to turn down Blake’s invitation without admitting defeat in the Cold War that is waged between all former paramours without being acknowledged by either. To ignore it would be tantamount to announcing that she’d been hurt by his dismissal.

  Furthermore, she couldn’t show up to the wedding solo. That sent precisely the wrong kind of message, as though she were twenty-nine and desperate, which though true, was not advertisable.

  Nearly as important as having a plus one was the plus one himself. The man that accompanied her had to be someone that would make Blake Stupid Donovan pale in comparison. This was not the sort of situation where one could show up with one’s cousin. Although as the only child of only children, she’d have to hire a fake cousin for that too.

  * * *

  She needed to find a date.

  But how did a woman find dates these days, anyway? Real dates, not the hook-up and grind variety. Jane had only connected with Traitorous Andy through a friend of a friend, and she certainly couldn’t ask the mat
chmaker for advice.

  So who else could she turn to?

  As though a bolt of lightning had struck, an idea exploded into Jane’s mind, and she nearly dropped her teacup. Nothing was more suited to a girl in need than the moral support of other girls in need. And what other girls were as suited to this particular problem as Blake’s other dropped dates?

  All of whom, Jane assumed at this point, likely had expensive linen envelopes of their own.

  Another thought occurred. Andy the Ass (trademark pending) had friended Jane on Facebook the second their interview was over. “Interview.” It was more like a survey of her looks and a few questions about how cool she was about staying home with any future children. Could she have friended any of the others?

  A mere ten minutes gleaned Jane the information she desired. Andy only had twenty-six friends before five months ago or so, when she suddenly went on a spree. Turned out that Andy had friended each and every one of Blake’s potential brides.

  Another sign—evidently Blake had a type, at least before Andy. The rest of his girls had all looked similar to Jane—petite, dark-haired—and ethnically diverse. (And peculiarly, a ginger Scot named Fiona.)

  Soon, Jane had everything she needed to create a new secret group on Facebook. It was titled, cleverly, “Bitches Blake Bumped.”

  Once the group was open for business, it became clear that looks weren’t the only thing they had in common. Within seconds of being added to the group, at least eight girls had angrily posted about getting their own linen envelopes. It appeared that Blake and Andy had forgotten how friends worked, assuming that either of them had known in the first place. Everyone knew that exes weren’t your friends, right? Well, apparently not Blake and Andy.

  Of the fifteen women Jane had added, only one removed herself. That left fourteen BBB’s all up in arms to rally together. That was not a good track record for a prominent man like Blake. Jane comforted herself with thoughts of the tell-all they could write.

  Of the speeches they could make at the wedding.

  Glorious.

  However, she did consider herself too classy to directly involve herself in such shenanigans, so unless someone else came up with the idea, she’d deny herself that particular satisfaction. And no one else suggested those things.

  Next order of business, then. Jane created a poll about the wedding.

  Who was going? Who was going solo? Who was going with someone else?

  The answers rolled in immediately, along with loads of caveats in the comments section. The invitees were evenly split among who was attending out of spite and who was boycotting on principle.

  One thing they could all agree on, however, was that anyone who attended had to bring a date. Just as Jane had assumed. Not even the single girls suggested partnering with a fellow BBB. No one, but no one, would dream of accepting the invite without a rich, handsome—ideally famous—plus-one.

  But though everyone concurred on that fact, no one had any suggestions about how to find such a magical being.

  So Jane was back to square one—where the heck does an independently wealthy woman find a man who isn’t threatened by her, or attracted to her bank account, or merely after a diversion? A man hotter than the one who’d just dumped her?

  She considered what she knew of dating sites through her head. OKCupid was free, so wrong crowd. eHarmony seemed to have fallen out of favor with all but the super-religious set. Tindr was tawdry. Grindr was gay. Match was too inclusive.

  What on earth was a straight girl with high standards to do? Hire a boyfriend?

  It turned out, after a fair amount of Googling, that hiring a date wasn’t actually that far off base.

  In Japan, for example, there was a massive industry devoted to hiring dates. The dates were teenagers, so not exactly the ideal situation, and probably a little illegal and a lot creepy. Jane shuddered. But there were a couple articles on reputable feminist gonzo journalism sites about nice girls here in America hiring dates for family events that seemed—well, they seemed completely reasonable.

  The women who wrote the articles all seemed to be about her age and mostly residents of Brooklyn. It had to just be a matter of using the right keywords in her search engine.

  It did take a goodly number of tries, but Jane finally hit on a site called “MatchMade” that seemed extremely promising. You merely input the barest amount of facts about yourself and a hefty amount about your ideal date and someone would email.

  She flew through the questionnaire: not interested in working, not seeking emotional attachment, seeking a rich, tall, ambitious, handsome man. Click, click.

  Her cursor spun for a moment and then there was a ding.

  Unmatchable, the screen read in fancy cursive script. Pastel so as to not upset her. With a gentle floral background to soften the blow.

  It was one of those life moments that telescoped, where she could she see years into the future and the word “unmatchable” would be echoing in her mind then and always.

  Unmatchable.

  Unmatchable.

  Un—fuck that.

  Maybe Blake would say that about her, but she wasn’t willing to self-apply a label like that. If the dating sites wouldn’t have her, there was somewhere else that would. Someplace where everyone had a home.

  Not Cheers—craigslist.

  After all, she knew for a fact that it was where Blake had initially met the matchmaker slash bride, Andy. Angry though she was, it did make a nice romance story, didn’t it? Jerks. She wouldn’t agree to coo over anyone’s happy ending if she didn’t have one of her own.

  After a fair amount of angry-clicking, Jane stumbled across an ad that seemed promising.

  Need a guest for a family holiday or dinner? I’m your guy. I promise I’m not a psycho. I’m just hungry and overly unemployed. In exchange for your family meal, I am happy to pretend to be in love with you, to be your best guy friend, to be a crazy dude you just picked up to horrify them…

  Basically anything you want. The whole gig goes for $100 plus chow, but I’m totally willing to put my college acting classes to work and go for any scenario you’d like for a negotiable fee.

  Respond to this ad and make me your new boyfriend, elf on a shelf, wedding singer, or private detective. Seriously, I’ll do it all.

  It was desperate. Incredibly desperate. As desperate as her. Ugh, was she really going to stoop this low? Sometimes it was best not to think too hard on a subject.

  She hesitated for the barest instant, and then wrote back.

  Hello,

  I have been invited to a wedding for which it is imperative I have a date. It is on Christmas Eve, which I understand may be a difficult time for you to accommodate. Because of this, I’m happy to double your pay.

  Please feel free to contact me at

  She stopped. Was she really going to give this guy her phone number? The angel on one shoulder told her never to give out her number, but the much louder devil on the other reminded her that a cell number isn’t a home address.

  So with a few more clicks and a flourish, the deed was done.

  Jane was feeling an odd combination of relieved to have made strides and keyed up over potentially having made a bad decision.

  What if Mystery Man was a total creep? A mother’s basement type? A serial killer? Perhaps she should have done a Blake and put an ad for herself on Craigslist. She could have hired someone to weed out the dates for her into only the most suitable. Just like Blake.

  But Jane did not want to be like Blake.

  What if Mystery Man was a total Quasimodo? She truly required a handsome face for this particular event, but she wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. Perhaps he’d agree to help her with the Christmas decorating. She’d pay him the same amount as a public appearance. And it would save her the trouble of dealing with the teenage neighbor.

  The phone rang, and she was still musing when she answered absently.

  “Hi, uh...is this Jane? My name’s Ian, and you just e
mailed me.”

  Well. This was happening.

  Three

  “Hello, Ian, my name is Jane Osborne.” Uh, duh. “But of course you know that from our previous communication. May I inquire as to your last name?” She congratulated herself on sounding so professional even as she threw herself into her desk chair, prepared to Google the result of her question.

  Even as she was doing all of those things, another part of her—a rather specific part of her—was reacting to the pleasant baritone rumble of his voice. Sexy despite the strong Boston accent. He had a George Ezra vibe happening. Maybe he could even sing. He’d mentioned acting. If this date didn’t work out she could hire him to be one of the carolers at her Christmas dinner party. Or, perhaps, even if the date worked out.

  So, the voice was promising. Now to find out if his looks lived up. She wasn’t holding her breath. Attractive men did not place online ads reeking of such desperation.

  Her inner voice reminded her she was also desperate and online.

  She ignored it.

  “I’m sorry, can you spell that?” Turned out she ignored a little too well and had no idea what he’d said.

  “Um, B-R-O-O-K-S.”

  “Just checking to see if there was an ‘e’ or not,” she swiftly lied. Then something else occurred to her. “Ian, do you have any brothers?”

  “Actually, two, but they’re much younger, and—”

  “That’s fine,” she cut him off. Introducing him at the wedding, she could say to people that this was Ian Brooks. Of the Brooks Brothers. Semantics, of course, but all you had to do was plant a seed in people’s heads and suddenly the mediocre guy on her arm suddenly looked like a very rich conquest.