MISS MATCH
Chapter One
Luke wrapped his fingers around the leather steering wheel of his Aston Martin One-77. He pressed the clutch and shifted gears, speeding through a yellow traffic light. His chest tightened as his heart constricted. Just a few more minutes. Then today would fade away as he lost himself in the bottom of a glass.
Five minutes later, Luke tossed his keys to the valet and walked into the exclusive Los Angeles club. The pulse of music made the black walls, draped in shimmery purple fabric, vibrate with every beat. His shoulders dropped and his breathing slowed as the music washed over him. Lights from the dance floor reflected off the chandeliers in tiny rainbows. The club smelled like expensive alcohol and perfume. Despite the holiday, or maybe because of it, the dance floor was crammed with people. He ignored them and headed straight for the bar. The women would come to him soon enough.
“Mr. Ryder,” the bartender said. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. The usual?”
Luke nodded and sank onto a barstool. The bartender made a Scotch on the rocks and handed it over. Luke downed it in two painful gulps. He noticed women turning his direction, whispering to their friends.
Here come the gold diggers. It’s why he’d come to the bar instead of drinking at home, but he wasn’t ready for them yet. It always took a few drinks to forget Brooke and enjoy the company of other women.
One broke away from her group and sauntered over. Luke knew her type immediately—microscopic party dress, bleached blonde hair, sun-tanned skin. Fake boobs and Daddy’s credit card.
Wait. He didn’t just recognize her type. He recognized her.
She sat down on the stool next to his, leaning forward so her cleavage was shown at its best advantage. “Luke Ryder, in the flesh.”
“Candi. What are you doing back in California?”
“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”
“For old time’s sake,” Luke agreed. He lifted his hand, signaling for the bartender. “I’ll have another Scotch, and give this lady whatever she wants. A vodka martini still your drink of choice?”
“You remembered.”
The waiter left to get their drinks. Candi played with the cuff on Luke’s shirt. “What’s a man like you doing here on Thanksgiving? Surely you have somewhere better to be.”
He resisted the urge to shrug off her hand. It wasn’t like Brooke was here to see. “I do.” But the house had been too quiet without his dad whistling Christmas tunes off-key. The dinner table had been too empty with only him and his mom. The meal had been too bland, lacking his dad’s jokes and famous deep-fried turkey. As soon as his mom had started to yawn, Luke had bolted.
Candi’s lips turned down in a sympathetic pout. “This must be such a hard day for you. It’s only been, what, a month since your father passed? I’ve been keeping tabs on you through the press.”
Five weeks and two days. He’d felt every one of them.
The bartender returned with their drinks, and Luke took a sip from his.
Candi crossed one of her long, shapely legs over the other. “I’m sure you remember what a comforting person I am. I can make you feel better if you let me.”
Luke didn’t doubt that. Candi had been his college girlfriend, and another failed attempt to make Brooke jealous. Luke and Candi’s relationship had been rocky at best. She was a possessive and jealous girlfriend, prone to mind games. He’d been relieved when she got a job across the country and moved. But she had known how to make him feel better.
What would Brooke think? She’d never liked Candi much.
She’d think about Antonio, that’s what. The ring on her finger made that much clear.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to encourage Candi. Not yet. “I’ll stick to drinking, thanks.” He took a sip to emphasize his point.
Candi’s tongue flicked out and moistened her top lip. “You never used to drink much.”
“My father used to be alive.”
Candi leaned back, the flirtatious act dropped for the first time. “I understand. I lost my father almost two years ago. Lung cancer, same as yours. He couldn’t give up smoking, even at the end.”
“My father didn’t smoke.” But his grandfather had. Secondhand smoke, the doctors said. That’s what caused the lung cancer. Eighteen years of living with a pack-a-day smoker. It always seemed cruel that his dad had to die for a choice he never made. “I’m sorry about your dad. I hadn’t heard. Does it get easier with time?”
“No. But you get better at dealing with it.”
Her honesty was unexpected and refreshing. Maybe she’d changed in the four years since he’d last seen her.
Brooke would hate that you’re here with Candi, his mind whispered.
Brooke doesn’t get an opinion. She has Antonio now.
Candi smiled at Luke. Her teeth were too white and too straight, her smile too wide. Obviously her career as a model had been successful enough to afford a few enhancements.
“I’ve thought a lot about you the last few years. Even thought about contacting you when I moved back a few months ago,” Candi said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I figured if you wanted to find me, you would. But then I saw you here tonight and couldn’t resist.” Candi took another sip of her martini, then set it on the bar. She held her hand out to Luke. “Enough of this depressing talk. Let’s dance.”
Candi had been a lot of things. Crazy. Erratic. Possessive. But she’d also been fun, passionate, and great at making him forget his troubles. She was exactly what he needed tonight.
Luke let Candi lead him to the dance floor. Brooke was at home, probably video chatting with Antonio and eating pie with her mom. Candi was here.
Candi grabbed his hips, moving them in rhythm with the music. Luke took a shot from a passing waiter, then let the alcohol take over. For hours they danced. As his brain clouded, Candi grew more beautiful, the music became more exciting, and dancing more enjoyable than ever.
“My apartment’s only a few blocks away,” Candi told Luke after yet another dance.
“Remember how much fun we used to have?”
Luke’s muddled brain sharpened. Brooke.
She doesn’t want me. Not like that.
Still, he wanted to at least try to be a gentleman. “Are you sure?”
Candi moved closer, pressing herself against him. Her skin glistened with moisture under the colored lights. “Yes. I’ll help you forget all about today. I promise.” And then her lips were on his. Her arms were like vises—soft, comforting vises that made him feel less dead inside.
And she’d always been a fantastic kisser.
He closed his eyes and imagined he was kissing Brooke. Imagined it was her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair. Luke should’ve made his move on Brooke when he had the chance, despite the promise he’d made to his father. The lights of the dance hall flickered behind his closed eyelids as he let himself dream.
He was startled back to the present by a shout. “Luke!” The voice was relieved, with a hint of panic.
Luke tore himself from Candi. He struggled to make sense of that voice in this setting.
And then he saw her. She strode boldly through the crowd, looking out of place in her white peacoat, ripped jeans, and flip-flops. But he recognized the bag—a twelve-thousand-dollar pink Birkin bag he’d given her as a birthday present. She had no idea how much it cost, or that he’d been the one to buy it. He’d lied and told her it was a gift from a client, since that didn’t technically violate Rule #8.
Brooke threw herself at Luke, wrapping him in a hug. Her chestnut curls, pulled back in a ponytail, tickled his nose. “You’re okay.” She moved back, glaring. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you? I had to leave my mom’s house early. Without any pie.”
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