Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

BLAKE

Getting off the elevator, I scan the wall for an arrow pointing in the direction of my room. I turn right as soon as I spot it. The odd woman from the train is still behind me when I stop at room 215. That's when I discover she's staying right next door to me. It's not that I don't find her attractive, because I do, but I'm here on a loathsome assignment which has completely soured my mood. I'm here to write about pathetic singles and not act like one of them by trying to pick up the first person I meet.

I tap my keycard against the lock mechanism, and as soon as the light turns green, I open the door and walk inside. The room isn't huge, but it's big enough to hold a large, four-poster bed and the standard hotel room furnishings of a chest of drawers, a TV stand, nightstands, and a small round table by the window.

The dark browns of the furniture are complimented by the wide-ribbed, dark green, corduroy bedspread. The curtains match the duvet and look as soft as newborn sheep. The whole set up makes me feel like the lord of the manor and I'm not complaining. My current mode of home decorating—just the basics—not only lacks finesse but lends the impression that I'm still in college .

I leave my suitcase in the small hallway next to the bathroom before checking to see what the bathing situation is. I'm a shower guy, but one look at the deep copper bathtub, and I'm seriously considering changing my ways. This whole lodge seems to be the perfect backdrop for romance.

After taking off my coat and hanging it up, I open the desk drawer and find the room service menu. There's no sense going down to the gallows a night before I have to. Scanning the offerings, I decide to get a cheeseburger and fries, but before I can place my order, I hear a knocking sound. Who in the world could that be?

Opening the door, I discover Molly standing there holding a basket full of pears, wine, and what appears to be truffles—although from where I'm standing, they look more like poop emojis. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was trying to seduce me. "Hello?"

"Hi," she says which signals a bloom of color to stain her cheeks. Holding out the basket, she offers, "I think this is yours."

"You've brought me a food basket?"

"Yes. No. It was in my room."

I turn around and scan my surroundings. "Maybe I got one, too."

"I don't think it's from the hotel," she says.

I face her again before taking the proffered basket. Sure enough, there's an envelope with my name typed on the front. I turn around and put the container on the console table before pulling out the note.

Blake,

You're a real champ for doing this. Now go have some fun. Who knows, you might get lucky and come back to Chicago a nice guy.

Gillia n

Wow, a thoughtful gesture and rude comment all wrapped up into one. Putting the note down, I open the clear plastic box holding the chocolates. Then I pop one into my mouth. They're chocolate-covered cherries, but not the sickly-sweet kind they used to sell in those pharmacy chains when I was a kid. These are brandied cherries covered in a high-quality dark chocolate. They're sensational.

"Oh, dear," my neighbor gasps, as I release a groan of pleasure. Molly looks like she's about to faint.

I quickly retrace my steps until I'm once again standing in front of her. "Thanks for bringing the basket over."

"You're welcome. I hope you enjoy it." She doesn't make a move to leave so we wind up standing there in the doorway, awkwardly staring at each other for a few beats. It's about as comfortable as being at a high school dance with a girl your cousin set you up with. Ask me how I know how much fun that is.

"I'm just going to go … Thanks again." I begin to shut the door, but my neighbor suddenly pushes against it to keep it open.

"WouldYouLikeToGrabABiteToEatWithMeDownstairs?" Her words are as rapid as machine gun fire and it takes a minute for my brain to realize that she's asking me to eat with her.

"I was about to call room service." I don't want to offend her, even though the look on her face suggests I just did. Molly is average height, but she carries herself regally, so she seems taller. Her dark hair is so shiny and thick, I kind of want to run my fingers through it to see if it's as soft as it looks. Her eyes are a piercing blue … Where am I going with this?

"They close at eight. The dining room is open until nine."

"Oh." So much for my cheeseburger. "Well, then, I guess I'll just eat my way through my gift basket." Her expression drops as though she's suddenly become an old hound dog. Hoping to mitigate any offense, I hurry to add, "I have a work call in a few minutes."

She inhales deeply before releasing her breath in a staccato fashion. "Fine. Have a good night." Then she turns and proceeds down the hall like a soldier under attack. In other words, she nearly sprints.

Part of me wants to call her back and tell her that I'll eat with her, but I'm not here to enhance my own social life.

Closing the door, I pick up the basket and carry it to the bed. Using the included corkscrew, I open the bottle of cabernet before pouring myself a coffee cup full. Then I eat a bag of cashews and some truffle crackers before finishing off the chocolates. Too bad the pears aren't quite ripe, or I'd have one of those, as well. While not exactly the supper of the gods, it's not half bad.

After refilling my wine, I open my laptop and read through the notes for my assignment. Essentially, Gillian wants to run an article a week in the Sunday magazine insert for the first three weeks of the New Year. She doesn't care how they're structured; she just wants compelling stories about what the Elk Lake Lodge dating events are like.

Rubbing my hands together like some old penny opera villain, I start to type.

Some of you know Trina Rockwell from her hit series Midwestern Matchmaker . Even though her show has been cancelled, Trina has not given up on her dream of matching Midwestern singles. Quite the opposite, in fact. She's partnered with her fiancé to run singles' events at their newly-opened lodge in Elk Lake, Wisconsin. I'm the lucky guy who's been enlisted to find out if she's as good at her job as her press would have us believe.

I don't have anything against people being set up by friends or office mates, but I don't have the same kind of faith in matchmakers. How can a person you've never met know enough about you to help you find your soulmate? Why would you ever trust them to do so? And more importantly, what kind of person takes money to bring people together ?

I'm here for two weeks for Trina's first non-televised date-a-palooza. While on the frontlines, I won't rest until I give you the full story behind her quest. But if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath that I'm going to become a convert to this kind of thing.

It's my humble opinion that love does not stem from a business transaction.