Close Match Read online

  “Let me see it.” My mother holds out her hands. Bristol unlocks her iPad.

  “Are we still talking about that damn article?” I demand as I untangle my Mont Blanc from the end of my hair.

  My mother hushes me. “Let me read this.” Knowing there is no choice, I toss the pen back in my bag and do what my mother tells me. “This is a decent article, Linnie.”

  Crap, when Mom sounds impressed, I know I’ll have to read it. “Give it to me.” I hold out my hand. Scrolling to the top, I scan it. Scrolling down, I frown. “What the…who is this person? Courtney Jackson? This is the most legit article I’ve read about myself since I was twenty-four and was actually in Best Thing,” I admit.

  “I don’t know, but I’d pass this along to your agent. This is the kind of person you want in your corner,” Mom advises me.

  She’s not wrong. One of the things they don’t teach you at school is how to deal with fame. Likely because they don’t think you’re going to get very far, I surmise. But the problems that can occur when you’re young and trying to deal with the media can be outrageous. If I didn’t have my mother providing me guidance along the way, I’d be in much worse shape than I am.

  Just as I’m about to thank both her and Bristol, Mom mutters, “I need to tell them to drop the heat in here. I understand it’s still cool out, but still. This is ridiculous.”

  Bristol and I exchange worried looks. “Mom, it’s not that hot in here,” I contradict her.

  “It’s really not.”

  “Do you see us old people sitting around with hats and sweaters on?” she snaps. “That means it’s too hot in here.”

  “First off, you’re not old. And second…” I don’t get to number two before my mother—ever the diva—stops a passing waiter.

  “Excuse me, young man,” He blinks at her a few times before his eyes light in recognition.

  “Wow, you’re Brielle Brogan.” He’s practically genuflecting. I roll my eyes at Bristol and reach for my coat. We’re about to be frozen out of the restaurant.

  “Indeed, I am.” Mom shoots him the dazzling smile I inherited. “I’m a touch warm. Would it be possible to turn down the heat?”

  “Of course, Ms. Brogan. Would it…” He looks away before squaring his shoulders.

  Here we go, I think to myself.

  “Would it be possible to ask for a quick photo? I took my mother to see Powerhouse. She said it was the best gift I ever gave her. She’ll never believe you come in here like regular folks.”

  My mother jumps up. “It’s no trouble at all…”

  “Lance.”

  “Lance. In fact, if you give me your name and a good day, I’ll make sure you have tickets to my new show waiting for you and your mother waiting at the box office.”

  He’s stunned. Truly. “But Miss Me is sold out for months.”

  “I think my daughter—” She nods at me. Lance’s eyes flash over and widen even further. He doesn’t scream or cause a scene, which I give him credit for. “—and I can pull a few strings.”

  And then for the second time in one day, the unexpected happens.

  “Ms. Brogan, you’re tremendous, but I couldn’t take those seats away from someone who’s waited months to see you. It’d be an honor just to get a quick picture with you. I promise I won’t post it online or anything. But let me get that air adjusted first.” Lance is about to scurry off when I stop him.

  “Lance.” He stops at the sound of my husky voice. “Mom and I have a box that we can give away tickets to. If we don’t, they sell at the last minute. You’re not taking the seats away from anyone. Let her do this for you.”

  My mom smiles at me in approval.

  Damn, when did I become so jaded by life that I forgot about the humanity of the people beyond the stage lights?

  “I…I…” Lance is staring at me now like I just worked a miracle.

  “How about that air? And maybe some fresh water? Then swing by with your schedule for Mom,” I encourage him.

  It’s like I’m releasing him from a trance. He dashes off, weaving around busy waitstaff who are carrying sandwiches the size of my forearm. Once he’s out of earshot, I lean in and ask, “Should we shock him by leaving backstage passes with his tickets at will call?”

  Mom, who’s still fanning herself, falls into Bristol laughing. “That’s my girl,” she roars.

  Bristol just grins at both of us.

  God, I love my family even as they drive me crazy.

  I don’t know what I would do without them.

  Two

  Evangeline

  Hours later, we’re standing in Saks so Mom can find a new Judith Leiber clutch. Mom has an obsession with the crystal clutches and builds her look for the Tony Awards around them. I’ve already convinced her that the one that looks like a ball and chain isn’t quite the look she’s going for. Bristol had to make a run for the ladies’ room when they pulled one that looked like an enormous tomato out from the case. When she came back, I didn’t even have to ask. “It reminds me of salsa. And that reminds me of…”

  “Cilantro,” we both say together before laughing hysterically. Our mother rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to the saleswoman.

  “Okay, girls, I’m down to three,” she announces. Laid out on velvet are a crystal ice cream cone, a red-and-white-striped popcorn holder—with the popcorn, of course—and a teddy bear that—I narrow my eyes—has the face of a gummy bear.

  “Not the ice cream,” Bristol says immediately. I agree, but I want to hear her reason with my temperamental mother. Then again, as an investment banker for UBS, she is calm, brilliant, and logical. It’s one of the many reasons Simon, Mom, and I trust her with our investments.

  “Why?” Mom’s pouting. Of course, the most flamboyant of the bunch was her favorite.

  “Because the jewels on the bottom don’t scream elegance to me. If anything, Mom, it looks a bit”—she lowers her voice—“juvenile.” Mom’s appalled. She immediately pushes the superfluous bling of the ice cream sundae purse to the side. The salesperson calmly puts it back in the case, knowing someone will buy it.

  Bristol is smooth. Mentally, I give her a high five. Mom embraces her age and wisdom. She lords it over us. She thinks the silver streaks left artfully in her hair make her look regal. There is no greater insult than to tell her she looks like a teeny-bopper.

  Down to two.

  I step in. “Mom, I think the popcorn is cliché,” I say bluntly. “You’re going to a theater awards show. You don’t want them to write that about you in the press.”

  She shudders. Using a nail, she pushes the velvet with the popcorn clutch away. “This one was actually the one I liked the least.” Her voice has a bit of a whine to it.

  Bristol and I exchange looks. “Just think, by the time you carry this, everyone’s going to know you’re going to be a grandmother,” I whisper.

  Mom turns her head, and her blue eyes meet my green ones. They have tears forming. “I never thought of that.”

  My lips tip up. “You’ll be the talk of the red carpet carrying that bag in a dark purple gown, making everyone wonder boy or girl,” I murmur.

  “I raised such smart girls,” she declares. And she did raise us on our own after our father died when we were young of lung cancer. It was horrible because there were practically no symptoms. As far back as I can remember, he was coughing and wheezing, but we attributed it to his asthma. No one knew until it was too late and his illness was too far advanced. In some ways, it was merciful; in so many others, it led to years of guilt.

  For all of us.

  Leaning over, I kiss her on the cheek. “Now, can we get out of here? We have a show to get ready for.”

  Turning back to the salesperson, she announces, “This is it, young man.”

  “Will that be on a Saks account?”

  Bristol steps in. “No, American Express.” Muttering to herself, she adds on, “Like I’d let her get a Saks account with what they charge for i
nterest.”

  I grin. What can you do?

  Prepare for the show to go on. That’s what.

  * * *

  “Ugh, what did you put in your mouth tonight?” I mutter in disgust as Simon and I make our way off stage right.

  He throws a dazzling smile at me, and his noxious breath almost knocks me into the red velvet curtain when he says, “Cilantro and ginger hummus. It was del—”

  I slap my hand over his mouth. “Stop talking. Right now. Until you get a breath mint, I swear, you can’t speak.”

  “We eth ogo un eery ecs, aril,” he mumbles behind my hand. I have no idea what the hell he said. Nor do I particularly care.

  “I thought I told you not to—” He licks my hand. Ew, gross. Now my fingers are going to smell like that soapy crap for the rest of the night.

  “We go on in less than thirty seconds, darling.” Stopping a stagehand, he calmly asks for a breath mint. Our antics are legendary by now to the stagehands. We’re both unsurprised when he’s handed both a mint and a breath strip for his tongue. He begins chomping down on the mint in my ear.

  Gah! That sound is like nails being run down a chalkboard. I loathe the sound of food being eaten so vocally. It drives me insane.

  “I hate you,” I declare, in this moment genuinely meaning it.

  “No, you don’t,” he says confidently. His arm slips around my waist as we wait for our cue.

  No, I don’t. Simon is like a brother to me. He’s been my friend for forever in a business where there are too few of them. When we met in London, our only goal was to see how hard we could push the other to laugh on stage. Our genuine enjoyment for each other and the show translated to our characters. Together, we’ve become theater gold.

  When Bristol came over to visit me, I almost fell over myself watching him try to charm my baby sister. He went from being this giant goofball I joked around about over FaceTime to this pompous peacock strutting around, trying to get noticed. It wasn’t until I downed a sandwich made of tomato, mozzarella, and onion—accidentally forgetting to brush my teeth—that Simon dropped the act backstage. What he didn’t realize was Bristol was standing there for his little tantrum.

  “You did that on purpose,” he’d accused me.

  “I swear I didn’t,” But I couldn’t keep the laughter out of my voice.

  “All week I’ve been trying to impress your sister. Tonight, she’s here, and it was all I could do to prevent barfing in your mouth.”

  I snickered right in his enraged face. “Trust me. You haven’t impressed her much.”

  “You’re just mean.” He sniffed the air before groaning. “For the love of all that’s holy, someone get her a breath mint!”

  I was sure my laughter could be heard in the front row. “You don’t like onions?”

  “Not when you must have eaten the whole damn thing like an apple.”

  “Hmm, too bad. I don’t think Bris brushed before the show either, did you, darling?” I looked around Simon’s shoulder at my sister, who was doing all she could to contain her laughter.

  Simon’s face paled right before he spun on his heel. Before he could get his mouth open, Bris slid her hands up against his chest and kissed him lightly on the lips. I know for damn certain she ate exactly what I did, but did Simon utter a word? Nope.

  “Maybe they don’t taste quite that bad” was what he whispered.

  It was the first and last time he ever missed a cue.

  While Bristol overlooked their auspicious beginning, it was the declaration of our halitosis war anytime we have a scene onstage where our lips are forced to meet. Since we’re often cast as romantic leads, that can be every damn night. I vow I’m going to find the most grotesque onion-laced cheese I can find for tomorrow’s performance.

  As we take our bows later, I realize it’s been two fabulous years of working with a man who’s become my closest friend outside of my blood family. I wouldn’t trade a second for the world.

  As he escorts me from the stage, he grins. “I knew that combo would get you.”

  Elbowing him in the ribs, I grumble, “It’s going to be my luck your kid’s going to come out farting cilantro.”

  Simon laughs. “Are you going out tonight?”

  I shake my head.

  “You’re passing up a night at Redemption? Marco will be devastated,” he teases me. Simon’s older brother owns a nightclub located on the edges of Manhattan in an area called Fort Washington. Luxurious doesn’t begin to describe it. The minute you step inside, you’re sucked into seductive temptation. Between the crushed velvet, the spotlights glancing off the exquisite crystal chandeliers, and a sound system that makes music pulsate through your blood when you take to the floor, it’s a playground for the bored and beautiful.

  I dismiss Simon’s not-so-veiled attempt to hook me up—again—with his brother. He’d love nothing better than to see two of his favorite people happy together. It’s just not there. Don’t get me wrong. Marco Houde is devastatingly handsome, and he’s not faking the refined smoothness Simon tried to use to win Bristol’s heart. He just is that way. But it does nothing for me. Marco gave it a halfhearted shot, not that I’ll ever admit that to Simon. We quickly decided we were better great friends who would eventually become family.

  “C’est la vie,” I say, dismissing Simon’s overly dramatic eye roll. “He probably just needs some quality time with his brother.”

  “You never gave him a chance.” He raises his voice dramatically. Several people stop.

  Pulling away from him, I raise the back of my hand to my forehead. “But darling, somewhere out there is a love just for me. A man who will see only me when he looks at me…” I frown as if I’ve forgotten my line.

  He slaps his hand over his mouth to cover his laugh. When he’s able to speak, he dons a British accent and snootily decrees, “Sixth toe?”

  “Yes! My sixth toe. You couldn’t deal with it, you roué! You left me for my sister, damn you!” I go stomping off toward my dressing room to a round of applause from the backstage crew. When I reach the door, my mother has sidled up to Simon. She’s flushed but grinning like a lunatic. “Bravo, darling!” she calls out.

  I bow with a flourish before sweeping into the room to cream off the heavy stage makeup. It isn’t until the door closes behind me that I collapse in a fit of giggles. It’s nice to see that the crazy is genetic in this family. Bristol and Simon’s baby doesn’t stand a chance.

  Three

  Montague

  “That was a brilliant show,” my mother says to my stepfather, Everett.

  “I can’t believe you managed to score tickets, son.” Ev thumps me on the shoulder. “That’s one hell of an anniversary gift.”

  “You guys deserve it,” I say gruffly. It’s true. Ev and my mother have been married twenty-five years this weekend. My father—better known as my sperm donor—has been out of our lives since long before I was even born. With everything that’s been going on in Mom and Ev’s lives, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to take them to New York City where they first met when Ev came to town for a work conference. He was the brains behind an internet startup giant; my mother worked for the hotel the conference was being held at. They’d had an instant connection which my mother assumed would end when the software mogul realized she had a child.

  She was wrong.

  Everett Parrish turned the same intensity he used to build one of the world’s biggest internet companies toward Charlotte Sanderson and her twelve-year-old son. Within months of dating, he convinced my mother to move to Northern Virginia. Within a year, they were engaged. Six months later, they were married. And fourteen months after meeting him, at the age of fourteen, Ev asked me if I wanted him to find my biological father, to find out if there was a man there worth knowing. I told him I didn’t care about him; he was only a bunch of cells that formed half my DNA. The only reason to find the cell donor would be if Ev planned on making him give up his rights to my real dad—the only time I’ve cal
led Ev that.

  And he did.

  I was sixteen when my name legally changed to Montague Parrish. I owe everything to my mother, a woman with a love of Shakespearean theater who gave up her dreams of the stage when she realized she was pregnant with me. Instead, she saddled me with the need to be able to defend myself at an early age with a name like Montague, despite my insistence at shortening it to Monty. So, in the end, she did what she needed to do to give me everything.

  I’m just grateful she found her soul mate in the man walking along the street with us. Taking them to New York to celebrate their wedding anniversary was nothing.

  I’d give them anything if I thought it would bring this kind of joy to their faces.

  We walk companionably, the petite half-Italian woman, the tall Irishman she fell in love with, and me—the man who could pass for their biological son even if I’m not. I inherited my mother’s dark hair and hazel-colored eyes. And most people, unless they know I was adopted by Ev in my teenage years, assume I inherited his height. I can only guess that’s from the cell donor’s DNA, but I really don’t care. I have no desire to find out anything about him. Frankly, between my Mom and Ev, I’ve never missed his presence in my life.

  It’s not like anything he’s given me has ever impacted the way I live. And it’s not the money or influence Ev brought into our lives; it’s the stability and the support. The love he showered on Mom and me.

  Which is why, deep down, I wanted to give them this memory. I’m terrified of all the ones we’re facing.

  “The redhead on stage was amazing. I think I’m going to steal her away just so she can sing to me every day,” my father deadpans. Mom elbows him in the ribs.

  “No comment,” I say drolly. But my mind drifts back to “Kate.” Her long red hair curled down her back as she sang and danced all night. Even from our seats, you could tell she was flirty, shy, and passionate. But her voice…wow. Her voice blew the doors off the place. To get tickets, I had to be seated apart from my parents, something I was grateful for as listening to her husky tones immediately made me hard. When she started singing, I thought my legs might cramp trying to hide my reaction in the tight theater seats.