Matchmaker 10: October

He looked a little sheepish. "Sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything. It's just that there are so many dogs in shelters. It seems wrong to breed more dogs when there are so many who need to be adopted."

"It's a damned shame, and I totally support adoption, but I breed and sell responsibly. I have a policy that if anyone no longer wants their dog, I'll take it back, no questions asked. I have more people who want my dogs than I can supply, so all my dogs find forever homes."

Before he could say anything, the doorbell chimed again. "That's probably my luggage," he said, tossing back the remainder of his drink and hurrying past me, clearly glad to end this conversation.

I shouldn't be so touchy, but it pissed me off when people lumped me in with all the negligent breeders who were simply out to make a buck. My dogs were family, and I cried nearly every time I had to part with one of the babies. I didn't make a lot of money but loved what I did.

I followed Barrett to the front door. He opened it, and outside stood two men with twice as much luggage as I'd brought. "Upstairs," he said, waving his hand at the steps.

The two men carried in the luggage and I hurried up the steps ahead of them. "In there," I said, pointing to the room next to mine. The men dropped the luggage and, to my surprise, returned with more. I'd brought two suitcases, but Barrett had brought eight large bags, two smaller bags, and two hanging bags. He and I clearly lived in different worlds, and not for the first time since he arrived, I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake when I agreed to do this.

I groaned awake, the alarm on my phone dragging me out of slumber. It might be nine-thirty in Maine, but my body said it was five-thirty, the current time in Los Angeles.

I'd tried to take Lydia to bed last night, but she'd shut me down, and did it hard. That didn't happen very often. She'd let me kiss her good night, but the moment I tried to ramp up the kiss while caressing a breast, she'd pushed me away and stepped back with a glare. I smiled to myself as I stretched with another groan. If she were here, we could do a little slap and tickle before we played hide the sausage, and then I could go back to sleep. But she wasn't, and I needed to get up so I could start adjusting to the time.

She was a feisty one, and I had the feeling I wasn't making a very good first impression. I'd clearly pissed her off with my comments about her dogs, and she'd made it crystal clear she wasn't sleeping with me. I didn't know if that was because I'd made her mad earlier, got a little handy, or some other reason.

With my loudest groan yet, I tumbled out of bed and padded into the bathroom to relieve myself. I could have practically any woman I wanted, any time I wanted. While I liked fucking, and the occasional blow job in a restroom was fun, it was like having a twenty-five-year-old scotch after dinner every night. No matter how good, after a while it lost some of its specialness. I started my shower, and as I scrubbed, I tried to decide how to approach her this morning.

Lydia wasn't as beautiful as some of the women I'd shared the screen or my bed with, but she had a natural beauty many women in Hollywood lacked. Yesterday she wore little makeup and had her light brown hair tied up in a sassy and easy to care for ponytail. She wasn't as lushly figured as many of the women I'd bedded, but she wasn't lacking for female charms, and I had the impression her large brown eyes didn't miss much. She glowed with health, and not the fake health of diets and working out, but the trim, muscular robustness that came from honest work outside. With her gorgeous eyes, pert little nose, relaxed attitude, and carefree beauty, she was Hollywood's version of the girl next door.

As I rinsed, I realized what I liked the most about her was I had no sense that she was angling for anything. I had a feeling that with Ms. Lydia Bryan, what you saw was what you got, and that was like a breath of fresh air compared to Hollywood. I was only twenty-eight, but I'd already learned that in Hollywood, everyone was trying to use everyone else to get ahead.

I finished my shower and dressed before pausing at her door. Her bed was neatly made. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt that I'd left my bed a rumpled mess, but not enough to bother to go back and tidy it up. I trotted down the steps and into the kitchen.

"Morning! You had breakfast?" I asked.

She snickered. "Yeah, two hours ago."

I glanced at the clock. It was only ten. "Two hours? What time did you get up?"

"Six-thirty, seven-thirty local time, just like normal."

"Ms. Bryan, didn't anyone tell you that you're on vacation."

"It's Bryant, and yes, but I woke up because I'm used to getting up early and exercising the dogs."

"Oh," I grunted.

I didn't cook, I had help for that, but Lydia wasn't my servant and I didn't think it was right to ask her to cook for me. I might be a manwhore, but I tried to not be a total asshole. I stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Cooking was out. I'd probably set the kitchen on fire. That left either going out or skipping breakfast.

"Would you like me to fix you some eggs?"

Her words pulled my attention back to her. A tiny smile was on her lips as she waited for my answer. As I'd noticed several times already, she didn't miss much, and I was certain she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"No, that's okay. I'll find something," I said as I stepped toward the refrigerator.

"Uh-huh," she grunted as she rose from the table, leaving her coffee behind. "How many do you want?"

"You don't have to do that."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll just have coffee."

"If you were just going to have coffee, why did you ask me if I'd already had breakfast?"

I paused and smiled. "Are you always so... inquisitive?"

She smiled in return. "I'm just asking."

"Okay. You're right. But I didn't want to ask you to—"

"So how many eggs?"

I gave up with a snicker. "Two please. Scrambled is fine."

"Do you even know how to cook?" she asked as she went about the task of preparing my breakfast, whipping the eggs in a measuring cup before pouring them in a pan on the stove. Another, smaller plan, held two sausage links she kept turning to brown all sides.

"No," I admitted softly.

She nodded but said nothing, busy with her task. Five minutes later, she was sliding the eggs and sausage onto a plate.

"Thank you," I said softly.

"You're welcome. This will be easier if you'd just tell me what you want."

"These are really good!" I said as I forked another bite of eggs into my mouth. "Probably bad for me though, and you know these sausages are full of fat."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Go hungry then, I don't care."

I glanced up at her as she turned, picked up her coffee mug, and marched out of the room. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with her. With the butter and cheese in the eggs, and sausage in general, the breakfast wasn't good for me. At home, my trainer insisted I eat only egg whites and avoid fatty meats. I wasn't a vegetarian, but staying in shape was hard work, and I didn't want to make that any harder than I had to.

I finished my breakfast and rose, searching the house until I found Lydia on the deck staring at the ocean, bundled in a thick sweater with her hands wrapped around the mug. "What are you upset about?"

"Not a thing." Her words didn't match her tone.

"Uh-huh. What I said was true, but I didn't mean anything by it. You need to stop being so sensitive." She glared at me. "What?"

"I'll make you a deal. I'll stop being so sensitive when you stop being an arrogant asshole."

"I don't know what you're being so pissy about. Do you think all that butter and fat is good for you?"

"What I think is that I made you breakfast and all you did was complain. If you didn't want butter and sausage, you should have told me." She faced the ocean again but continued her tirade. "You don't like how I cook, fine. You can prepare your own meals however you want them."

"I said the breakfast was good!"

"Yeah, and then you immediately told me how bad they were for you. So from now on, I'll fix my meals and you can fix yours, then you don't have to worry about me poisoning you with butter or fatty meats."

"I don't understand why you're being such a bitch. All I said was—"

"I guess you bring that out in me," she interrupted, talking over me. "You can clean up behind yourself too."

She turned and walked back into the house. I followed her into the kitchen. As I watched, she rinsed her mug, put it in the dishwasher, and walked out, ignoring my plate on the table. She was starting to piss me off with her attitude. I picked up my breakfast plate and stuck it in the dishwasher, closing the door with a solid thump. There were only a few dishes in there, but I decided to run the machine anyway to make a point. I studied the controls a moment, pushed the button labeled Normal, and when nothing happened, I pushed a second button labeled Start. I was studying the controls, trying to figure out what to do next, when I was rewarded with a click, hum, and the sound of running water.

Dishwasher running, I searched the house for Lydia but decided she must be in her room since her door was shut and I couldn't find her anywhere else. I couldn't understand why she was being so prickly and decided to wait her out.

I wandered the house, waiting for her to appear. After a while, I hit the gym, just to pass some time, showered again, shot some pool against myself, and generally tried to entertain myself. I wasn't used to being alone, and I didn't like not having anyone around.

Just before noon, she appeared. I saw her pass by the game room, and I followed her into the kitchen.

I didn't know what to do or say. The two hours since she'd retired to her room had given me time to think. I didn't feel like I should have to apologize for what I said, since it was the truth and wasn't directed at her, but at the same time, I didn't appreciate the cold shoulder and silent treatment either.

She paused in front of the dishwasher, looking at it. The cheery red Cycle Complete light was lit. "I ran that," I said, trying to break the ice between us.

She turned to look at me. I studied her to see if she'd been crying, but if she had, I couldn't tell. Not only hadn't she'd been crying, she didn't seem upset either. "Thank you."

She began pulling out the dishes, but after putting a few away, she paused, studying a plate. She set it aside, pulled out another, studied it closely, and set it aside as well. She then began pulling out the items she'd already put away, looked at a few, and then pulled out everything she'd put away, plus a few more, putting them all back in the washer.

"What?"

"They're not clean."

"I ran it!"

"I believe you, but that doesn't change the fact they're not clean." She paused and looked at me. "Did you put soap in it?"

"Soap?"

"Yeah. Did you fill the soap trays?" she asked, pointing at the open door.

Now I felt like a total dumbass. "No. I thought all you had to do was push the button."

A tiny smile pulled at her lips. "It's okay. I'll run it again after lunch."

After she loaded the dishwasher, she pulled out another pan, along with bread, meat, and cheese. As I watched, she built a sandwich, melted a pat of butter in the pan, and carefully laid in her sandwich. As it cooked, she opened a can of soup, added milk and a few seasonings, and popped it into the microwave to heat. In moments, delicious smells began filling the kitchen.

"You want any of this before I put it away?" she asked, gesturing to the meat, bread, and cheese.

She hadn't been bluffing about me having to prepare my own meals. "No. I'll go get something."

She nodded as she began putting the items away. My lips thinned in annoyance as I turned and walked out to get the keys to my rented Porsche. After collecting the keys from my bedroom, I returned to the kitchen on the way to the garage. I didn't know what she'd made, but it smelled wonderful, and I suddenly decided I wanted one of those golden-brown sandwiches grilling in the pan.

"Uh, can I have one of those?" I asked, pointing at the sandwich on the stove, my mouth almost watering.

She held my gaze for a moment. "Are you sure you want it? It has butter and cheese in it."

She was mocking me, but I guess I deserved it. "Yes, please."

She didn't move. "Am I going to hear any smartass remarks from you about it?"

"No."

She considered a moment. "Sit down. You want some soup as well? It's cream of potato."

"Yes, please."

I'd just sat down when the microwave beeped, and shortly afterwards, a steaming bowl of soup and a warm sandwich appeared in front of me. No drink though, so I rose without comment and opened the refrigerator. There was nothing to drink except milk and orange juice. I didn't want to complain and make her mad again, but I didn't know what to do. I decided I'd drink water, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd had tap water.

"What do you want to drink?" I asked as she set another bowl of soup at the table and then began building another sandwich.

"Milk, please."

I hefted the carton, and after some thought, poured two glasses. I placed them on the table and sat down, but I didn't begin eating until she joined me.

"Thank you," she said, nodding at her glass.

I took a bite of the sandwich and smiled broadly as I chewed. Rich and buttery, it was far better than the 'healthy' sandwiches I typically ate. I next tried the soup, and like the sandwich, it was loaded with flavor.

"Good," I mumbled as she dipped her own soup into her mouth. She paused and watched me a moment. I smiled. "Nothing else. Just that it's good."

She smiled and nodded. "Glad you like it," she said before rising to flip her sandwich.

I was halfway through my meal before her sandwich was finished cooking, but I ate slowly, both to keep her company and to savor the flavors. Even the milk was tastier than normal, complementing the sandwich and soup. I'd heard the term comfort food, and now I knew what it meant.

I carefully kept the conversation light and breezy, not wanting to say anything that would upset her, avoiding the topics of food, politics, dog breeding, and religion entirely. When we finished, I carried my plate, bowl, and glass to the sink.

"Can we start over?" I asked as she rinsed our dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."

She paused in her rinsing. "If you'd like."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I'd take it. "I'm sorry about this morning. I really wasn't blaming you for anything. If I didn't want it, I didn't have to eat it." I paused a moment. "And it was good. I have a personal trainer who has me on a low fat, high protein diet. She'd have a heart attack if she saw what I've eaten today."

She poured powder into the cups on the dishwasher door, closed it, and started the machine before she turned to face me. "I'll try to do better, but to be honest, I've never cooked like that."

I grinned. "Good. I didn't realize what I was missing. I'd forgotten that something as simple as a soup and sandwich could be so satisfying."

She smiled. She had a very nice smile. "What about your trainer?"

"She's not here... and I'm on vacation, right?"

"So...?"

"So, bring on the butter."

She snickered. "Will you eat red meat?"

"I will this month."

She nodded. "Good, because I bought some steaks to grill."

I groaned dramatically. "Miranda is so going to kick my ass when I get back."

I smiled to myself as Barrett and I wheeled a cart through the market, pausing for a moment as he talked to another adoring fan. We'd gotten off to a rough start, but things had improved between us in the last two days. He'd lost most of his assholeyness, and I was being more tolerant of his occasional lapses.

My first impression of him hadn't been wrong. I didn't think Barrett was a bad person, but our first couple of days made it clear to me he'd been spoiled his entire life. It was also clear that it was a rare occurrence when anyone told him no or that his behavior was unacceptable. Like when I was having to deal with an unruly dog, I didn't blame the dog, but the dog's owners, or in the case of Barrett, the people who ran his career and life. Just like a dog, he needed a firm but gentle hand to learn what was acceptable and what wasn't.

I smiled to myself again as another woman realized who was shopping in the store with them. I had to admit, I was a little awed by him in the beginning myself. He was so damned good looking it was hard to focus. That had changed with his sneering comments about my profession, having him grab my breast during our first good night kiss, and his general attitude of entitlement. He hadn't helped his case any over breakfast the next morning, but since then, I could tell he was thinking before he spoke. He still occasionally said and did things that annoyed me, but they weren't as blatant and were becoming less frequent. Most importantly, he was good at reading body language, knew when he'd crossed the line, and promptly apologized.

Since we'd started fresh, he'd kept his hands to himself, and I could tell he was trying to please. I was treating him like a big, lovable mutt. I'd quickly learned he didn't like being alone, and I used that. Like a dog, he was happiest when he was part of a pack, or for Barrett, with other people, so when I chilled toward him, he quickly apologized to get back in my good graces. Just like with a dog, I didn't try to punish him after he realized he'd made a mistake and apologized, and when he wasn't being a dick, I heaped praise and attention on him.

That was easy because he was so damned charming. He'd even started helping in the kitchen a little, laughing and teasing at his own incompetence. That was the Barrett Quillon everyone knew from the big screen, not the jerk who'd arrived four days ago.

I could have completed our shopping ten minutes ago if I'd come to the market by myself, but with Barrett in tow, we were only half done because he'd been stopped several times by someone who wanted to talk to him. There was no trace of his attitude when he was interacting with the public. He was nothing but charming, gracious, and approachable, chatting people up, smiling for photos, or signing scraps of paper.

"Are you an actress?" the woman asked.

The woman's words finally penetrated my thoughts enough for me to realize she was talking to me. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I asked if you were an actress. Are you staring in a movie with Barrett?"

I couldn't help but smile. "No, nothing like that."

"She's a friend and a life coach," he added the moment I stopped speaking.

"Life coach?" the woman asked, her eyes flicking between mine and his.

He grinned as he stepped closer to me, looped an arm around my waist, and pulled me into his side. "Yeah. She makes sure I remember what's important."

The woman grinned. "I need one of those. Would you mind..." she asked, holding up her phone to indicate she wanted a picture.

"Not at all," he said as he stepped close, put his arm around her waist while crouching slightly to place his face beside hers, and beamed at the camera.

"Thank you so much. I just love all your movies."

He nodded. "Thank you. People like you are the reason I do it."

"Thank you, again."

We moved off. "That, and I make a shit load of money," he muttered so only I could hear.

I chuckled but said nothing. He allowed me to pick out the fruits, vegetables, and meat, but he added snacks to the trolley that caught his attention and paused at the adult beverage display, picking two different cases of beer off the shelves.