Dreams of Perfection (Dreams Come True) Page 2

  Friend. Baseball buddy. Shoulder to cry on. He’d never be more than that to Darcy. But he could be happy with that, as long as it meant she was part of his life.

  Picking up the remote, he pressed ‘play’, thankful he didn’t have to make that argument in front of a judge.

  Darcy dropped her keys on the console table in her small foyer as she dug in her purse for her cell phone. The strains of “Promiscuous” alerted her that the caller was Laura.

  “Hello,” she huffed.

  “Um, am I interrupting something?” Laura didn’t sound the least bit sorry if she had been.

  “No. I just got home.” She wearily climbed the stairs to her bedroom, stilettos in hand.

  “Eleven-fifteen . . . you two must have found something in common. How’d it go?”

  “No, we didn’t find anything in common. His sister went into labor, or so he said, and he had to leave. I’ve been at Josh’s.”

  “What was wrong with this one?”

  “Is there an echo?” Darcy sniped.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Darcy muttered.

  “Oh yeah, he hates baseball,” Laura continued with her third degree.

  “And romance novels.” Darcy dropped her purse on the bed before plopping down herself. “And apparently romance novelists.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have to read your novels.”

  “No, but he has to at least respect my profession.”

  “I’ll be sure to add that to the ever-growing list of candidate prerequisites.”

  Darcy could practically hear the eye roll on the other end of the phone.

  “Jesus, Darcy, no one’s perfect, so you might consider lowering your expectations just a bit.”

  “Kettle, meet pot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Laura’s voice rose with her indignation.

  Darcy stood to pace the length of her bedroom. “Who is it you’re madly in love with this week, Laura? Jonathan from Britain? That is until next week, when Philipé from Spain or Maurice from Lichtenstein comes along.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Right.” Darcy snatched a nightie out of her dresser drawer and tossed it onto her bed.

  “At least I get somewhere with the guys I meet.”

  “If by getting somewhere, you mean into bed, you’re right.”

  “Boy, you really need to get some yourself—and soon.”

  “Good night, Laura.” Darcy hit ‘end’ and threw the phone onto her bed in frustration. The phone bounced up, knocking over a delicate crystal water decanter her mother had given her, which had the audacity to shatter on the hardwood floor.

  She flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “Super.”

  Her oldest friend, Laura Armstrong was an account executive for Giddings-Rose, one of Madison Avenue’s oldest ad agencies, and had her sights set on a VP position. Not that Laura’s father would notice.

  Darcy thought of Laura as the female version of Mad Men’s Don Draper—well, minus the chain-smoking, the infidelity, and the shadowy past. But still, Laura worked hard and played hard, especially when it came to men.

  Laura had said she needed to get some, and maybe she did, but unlike Laura, cheap sex didn’t interest Darcy, so until Mr. Right came along, she’d just have to remain celibate. And if Laura’s opinion counted—which it did not—grouchy.

  She groaned, rolling over onto her stomach and dragging a downy pillow with her. Hugging the pillow, she wondered again if Laura was right about her expectations being too high. She couldn’t imagine settling for someone less than who she wanted, or spending her life with someone who didn’t know her inside and out and love her in spite of her foibles. Or maybe even because of them. Someone who would never tell you he loved you and then cheat on you. Someone perfect. Someone like Blake.

  She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, clothes and all, with visions of Blake Garrett, the Perfect Man, dancing in her head.

  Chapter 3

  The crowd roared as A-Rod’s two-run homer sailed over the outfield wall. Josh smacked Darcy’s hands in an overhead double high-five.

  Darcy, thumb and index finger in her mouth, let out a very unladylike whistle, while Josh hooted his approval.

  From their seats along the first-base line, they’d watched the Yankees play season after season, hoping to catch a coveted foul ball, since Josh took a job in her father’s law firm and could afford the tickets. It was the one activity he made time for in his demanding schedule as a law firm senior associate, and the fact that it involved Darcy made it all the better.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Josh clapped his hands.

  Resuming their seats, they clanked beer bottles in a toast to their beloved Yankees.

  Darcy closed her eyes and lifted her face to the warm April sun. “I just love baseball season,” she said with a wistful sigh.

  “Me, too,” Josh said with a grin. “And the Yankees are in top form. Look out, Red Sox.”

  “Darcy?”

  She opened her eyes to see a guy in faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. “Steve. Hi.”

  He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “You’re looking good.” He glanced over at Josh before leaning over to kiss her cheek.

  “Thanks.” Steve was one of the rare guys she’d dated more than once. Given her dating record since Cheating Bastard, one might have even called it a long-term relationship—two weeks. But things took a turn for the serious and rather than invest more time in a relationship that would likely end, she broke it off. Besides, she’d just begun writing My Tender Passions and laid-back Steve just couldn’t compete with dark, brooding Derek, and it didn’t seem right to string Steve along.

  He’d appeared devastated when she broke it off, telling him she needed to focus on her work, which wasn’t exactly a lie. She had been keenly focused on her obsession with Derek.

  Darcy introduced Josh then tilted her head, considering. Steve was still a hunk. Maybe now that she’d gotten over her ‘brooding hero’ stage, she’d ask him for a drink. And he was a doctor just like Blake.

  “Darcy, this is my wife, Shelley.”

  Doh! So much for that drink.

  A beautiful blonde with a big smile and an even bigger chest extended her hand. Was it possible for someone’s mouth to actually reach from ear-to-ear? Darcy took Shelley’s hand and shook it briefly. She looked a little like one of those scantily clad models you see draped over the hood of a sports car in some tawdry motor oil calendar.

  “You’re Darcy Butler. I just love your books. I can’t wait for The Doctor’s Dilemma.”

  A fan. Maybe Steve had good taste in women, after all. “Thanks. It’ll be out soon. Congratulations. When did you two get married?”

  Wearing silly grins, the happy couple gazed at one another before saying in unison, “November twenty-second.”

  “Wow. That’s, um, great.” If memory served, that was two weeks after Darcy broke up with him. Either this was the world’s quickest rebound marriage, or he’d been dating Shelley before Darcy broke it off. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  As if reading her thoughts, Steve shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  “Well, it was good seeing you, Darcy. Josh.” He nodded before practically dragging Miss November up the steps to their seats.

  “November twenty-second.”

  Darcy cringed. She could see Josh’s analytical brain working out the dates. He never forgot a thing.

  “That was only—”

  “Yeah, I know, only two weeks after I broke up with him.” She slumped back into her seat, and, picking up her beer, took a gulp.

  “Guess you really broke his heart. I can see the guy was just shattered,” he said with a laugh.
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br />   “Shut up.” A sharp elbow to his ribs produced the grunt of pain she’d hoped for. “I’m glad he’s happy,” she said, chin lifted slightly. “I wouldn’t want anyone mooning over me with a broken heart.”

  Josh snorted, and Darcy elbowed him again. The crack of a bat and the roar of the crowd cut off any further gibes.

  “Hey, batter, batter, batter, batter!” Josh grinned as he heckled, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Darcy swung with all her might as the ball flew past the plate. “Fudgesicle!” She glowered in response to Josh’s taunting.

  Before she could set her feet again, the whack-thump of the pitching machine distracted her. “What is this thing set on anyway, Mach 4?”

  Josh laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only on Mach 2.”

  Darcy huffed as another ball shot past her.

  Kids and adults alike crowded the batting cages, post-game patrons inspired by the Yankees’ winning performance to hone their own batting skills.

  “Your stance is off. You’ve been wearing too many hooker heels on those blind dates of yours.”

  Darcy skewered him with her patented eat-shit glare. “Manolo doesn’t make ‘hooker heels.’”

  He walked up behind her and, grabbing her hips, pulled them back into a slight squat. His hands burned as if he’d just touched hot coals.

  Ignoring the sensation, he continued his critique. “You’re leaning forward onto your toes. Sit back onto your heels. That’s it.” Nestled up behind her, he closed his hands over hers on the bat and swung at the next ball. Bat and ball made contact with a satisfying whack.

  Now his hands weren’t the only things burning. He stepped back before he gave himself away.

  Darcy could still feel the imprint of Josh’s hands on her hips. His hard chest had pressed into her back as his hands covered hers on the bat, and she wanted nothing more than to lean back into his strength and warmth. Had it been so long since she’d been touched by a guy who wasn’t a family member that Josh’s touch sent her over the edge?

  The palms of her hands stinging from her efforts, she relinquished the bat to Josh, removed her batter’s helmet, and shook out her hair. Confused by her reaction to the feel of Josh’s touch, she stepped out of the way of the supersonic balls, and settled onto a bench to let Josh bat.

  She’d always admired his form, and his rangy build gave him a long reach. He’d played baseball in high school—short stop—but had given it up to pursue an Ivy League education and become the first person in his family to graduate from college.

  He’d worked hard to get where he was. Whack. Raised by a single mother, after his father died when he was only twelve. Whack. Now here he was, up for partner in her father’s law firm. Whack. Even though she hadn’t known that twelve-year-old boy, she was proud of everything he’d accomplished.

  Whack.

  “Hey! You hungry?” Darcy shouted to be heard over the din.

  He turned as another ball rocketed past him. “Sure.” He pulled off his batter’s helmet and ran his fingers through his hair, before adjusting his Yankees cap. Rubbing his flat stomach, he gave her a grin. “I could eat.”

  Laughing, he threw his arm around her shoulders as they left the batting cage, the warmth of his body an unsettling reminder of her extremely long dry spell.

  Chapter 4

  In deference to the old adage, “If at first you don’t succeed . . .” Darcy put the finishing touches on her hair for yet another blind date. This one came with her accountant’s stamp of approval—a recently divorced client of his.

  She didn’t generally date divorcees—too much baggage—and she had enough of her own, thank you very much. But she trusted her accountant and his taste in men. After all, who knew men better than another guy—especially a gay guy? That, and he’d been hounding her to at least meet the man.

  A quick taxi ride later, she arrived at a coffee shop near the eligible bachelor’s office in the Financial District where they’d arranged to meet. Grabbing a table in the busy establishment, she ordered tea to await the arrival of one Kempton Bell. Kempton. What kind of name was that? she wondered. According to her accountant, Patrick, Kempton had risen quickly through the ranks of an investment firm and had tremendous potential to one day occupy the position of CEO.

  A few sips into her iced chai tea latte, a nice looking, physically fit gentleman approached her table. Darcy sat up in her seat. Not bad. Not bad at all. Thank you, Patrick.

  “Darcy?”

  “Yes. And you must be Kempton.” She flashed him her warmest smile. “Please, have a seat.” She indicated the seat across the table from her.

  He pulled out the chair but before sitting down, he snatched a napkin from the dispenser and dusted off the seat, then handed it to the waitress who’d approached to take his order.

  Hmmm. A bit of a neat freak. That, or a germaphobe. Well, at least he wouldn’t bring home any communicable diseases.

  “I’ll have a large soy with extra foam, split shot with a half squirt of sugar-free vanilla and a half squirt of sugar-free cinnamon, a half packet of Splenda. Oh, and put that in an extra-large cup and fill the rest with whipped cream with caramel and chocolate sauce drizzled on top.”

  Alrighty, then.

  The waitress looked at him as if he’d just arrived from another planet.

  Kempton finally returned his attention to her. He tilted his head in appraisal. “Pretty.”

  She smiled at his compliment. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, you’ll do quite nicely, but you dress provocatively. Your blouse is cut too low.”

  Her smile faded as she glanced down at her scoop-neck blouse to confirm the girls hadn’t popped out to say hello. Nope. Still safely tucked away. Frowning, she said, “I don’t think—”

  “And I understand you’re a best-selling author. I’m sure it’s lucrative.”

  “Yes, I’m an author, and yes, it’s lucrative, but—”

  “Of course, that won’t be necessary once we’re married. I’m quite capable of providing for you and our children. Besides, you won’t have time for that with all the social and charitable commitments you’ll be undertaking as my wife.”

  Can you say controlling? Before she could hit him with a pithy reply, he steamrolled ahead.

  “Now, let me tell you about myself.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out three files, laying them carefully on the table. “I’m looking for a mate, not a date. I don’t have a lot of time to waste dating, and I understand neither do you, if you want to become pregnant before you’re too old.”

  He glanced up, clearly mistaking her expression for awed speechlessness rather than horrified incredulity. He patted her hand. “Oh, don’t worry, I am not opposed to children. I have a strong sex drive, so children are inevitable, but I don’t believe in premarital sex, so marriage is mandatory and soon.”

  Aghast, Darcy looked around the coffee shop, expecting her family and friends to storm the table, laughing and teasing, certain this must be a joke.

  He gestured to each file in turn. “This is my resume.”

  Resume? He did realize this wasn’t a job interview, right?

  “These”—he pointed at portrait size photos of happy, smiling, neatly dressed children—“are my three children, Kempton the Third, Angela, and my youngest, Thornton.

  Children!

  “And these”—he picked up a stack of paper— “are letters of recommendation.”

  Flabbergasted, and not a little intrigued, Darcy waited for him to continue. After all, she enjoyed a good joke, even if it was on her.

  He placed his resume in front of her, which she noted included his salary and net worth. Seven figures—impressive. Next came a description of his home on Long Island and his country club privileges.

  Darcy suppr
essed a giggle, still waiting for the punch line. Let everyone think they’d pulled a good one over on her.

  The photos of his children came next. “My oldest is in college. The other two are in boarding school in Connecticut. They’re polite, well-mannered children, and I’m sure you will love them, although they spend most of the time with their mother when they’re home from school, so they won’t be a burden to us at all.”

  Feeling as if she were in a scene from an Austen novel reminiscent of Mr. Collins’ marriage proposal, Darcy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the possibility that this was not a joke quickly becoming crystal clear.

  Last but not least, he collected the stack of recommendation letters, but offered an explanation before handing them to her to read. “Six months ago, my ex-wife and I realized our marriage was in trouble, so we spent a weekend in the Hamptons to either end it or save it. After the first night, we decided to end it.”

  Gee, I can’t imagine why.

  “But, we used what was left of the weekend to write recommendations for one another to facilitate remarriage. This is my ex-wife’s letter of recommendation written in her own hand.”

  Stifling the laughter that threatened to bubble to the surface, Darcy took the paper from Kempton, never having read a letter of recommendation from an ex-wife before. The letter began by praising his suitability as a husband and father, and his aptitude as a provider.

  Darcy’s eyebrows winged up at the accolades she gave his bedroom performance, using words like “stamina of a stallion” and “endurance of a god.” It was a wonder she gave him up. Biting her lip, she read the two other letters from friends extolling his honesty, loyalty, yada, yada.

  Darcy didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or run, so she just sat there quietly, afraid if she did open her mouth, an unladylike snort would escape.