Serving Up Hope

Serving Up

Hope

SERVING UP HOPE

A failure at love in the real world, but totally in love online.

In the world of online dating and hidden identities, Meghan Carter finds herself facing the ultimate dilemma. When an unexpected wedding invitation from her ex-fiancé lands in her mailbox, it sends shockwaves through her life. Desperate to save face and prove she's moved on, Meghan embarks on a daring quest for the perfect date.

As the owner of Westside, Meghan has always been in control, but now she must navigate the murky waters of virtual romance. Setting up a dating profile, she's bombarded with eager suitors ready to be her arm candy, and maybe more.

Amid the digital chaos, she discovers two intriguing candidates. One is an enigmatic writer, a master of letters who promises to meet her on the day of the wedding. The other is a charming man she unexpectedly crosses paths with in real life.

With the clock ticking and her heart torn between two strangers, Meghan grapples with questions of trust, authenticity, and the allure of the unknown. Will she go solo to her ex's wedding, defy expectations, or take a leap of faith into the arms of a man she's never met in person? In this high-stakes game of love, Meghan's journey to save face becomes an exploration of the heart's deepest desires and the blurred lines between the virtual and real world.

Serving Up Hope

Published by H.M. Shander

Copyright © 2019 H.M. Shander. All Rights Reserved.

Serving Up Hope is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locals, are entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Megan Parker-Squiers @EmCatDesigns

Editing by: PWA & IDIM Editorial

Shander, H.M., 1975—Serving Up Hope

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Other Books by H.M. Shander

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Chapter One

What a flipping waste of time, I muttered while I twisted in front of my computer screen, filling out an online dating profile. There has to be another way.

Desperation oozed from my fingers and onto the screen where I bared way too much of my private life.

My only hope was no one I knew searched me out and discovered what I was about to voluntarily post. Online dating was supposed to make things easier and yet I was wracked with more nervousness than I would be harmless flirting with the produce manager at the market down the street. Sheesh, and the kicker was, I wasn’t looking for a husband or even a long-term boyfriend, just a one-time accomplice to a wedding. And not just any wedding – my former fiancé’s wedding. The one who failed to show up for our wedding.

As I contemplated the trajectory my life was on, I ran my fingers through my lightly lavender scented hair, detangling the squeaky clean, yet still damp strands.

My male friends, as in all two of them, were busy or thought it ridiculous that I even needed a date for a wedding. Especially this wedding.

You don’t need a date, my trusted friend and neighbour said. However, go, be yourself and you’ll show them all that you are better off without that mess in your life.

My shift manager actually thought the opposite. Wouldn't taking a date actually hinder your chances of finding a man and having a wonderful fling? But he was also all for going and enjoying myself to the fullest.

I cussed under my breath, daring the image of my ex to flick away rather than grow larger and stronger in my head. What nerve he had to send me an invitation. What was his reasoning behind it? Or had it all been her idea? Get some kind of last laugh at my expense?

I picked up the invitation, tracing my finger around the cream-embossed edges, wondering again if it represented some kind of sick joke. With a quiet resolve, I placed it back down and returned my attention to Mingle More’s dating website.

This could be the perfect opportunity to show Scumbag how leaving me at the altar four years ago on our wedding day didn't leave any lasting scars on my heart. How marrying the person who I thought was my friend didn't hurt even more. It was asinine I’d even received an invitation to attend. I secretly thought it was a joke—just to see if I'd actually show up.

I'll show them.

I reread my profile, deleting the information about my employment. A fake boyfriend didn’t need that information, right? All I needed was someone my age or older and good-looking, although I typed in older, preppy-looking guy. The guy could be a total player and a complete jerk just as long as for one night he looked like he was hopelessly in love with me.

A feeling of shallowness clouded my heart as I added a part about needing a recent photograph to accompany any correspondence, because Mr. Dreamy needed to be perfect; in looks and employment. The employment thing was key. Scumbag was not the best employee and had transitioned through numerous jobs, or at least he had when he was with me.

I clicked back and added in: steady employment.

Bonus points if similar in nature to a Disney Prince. I laughed out loud at that comment and took a sip of Chardonnay.

The ad was simple enough.

Single lady looking for a single male to accompany to former fiancé’s wedding.

Must be willing to spend the entire day with me – three weeks from Saturday; from an hour before the ceremony (so we can meet and become acquainted) until after the cake is cut.

All food and refreshments will be covered; limited alcohol.

May provide own transportation or share with me.

Applicant must have steady employment, look great in a suit as dress code is semi-formal/business and be between the ages of 25 – 40.

Please note – I am not looking for a one-night stand or anything beyond this event. I simply need a charming date. Serious inquiries only.

There it was. I leaned back in my comfy office chair, twisting slightly, my naked feet gripping the base. I admired my dating want ad, and followed the reading with a deep groan, placing my head into the palms of my hands.

How pathetic had my life become? I owned and operated a busy restaurant, with detailed plans to open another soon, but finding a date for a wedding? Mission impossible.

Tucking my slight embarrassment into the base of my stomach, I reviewed my carefully selected words. For the fifth flipping time.

Hmm… should I have said more? Nope. It’s exactly what I was looking for. It bore a striking similarity to the want ads I placed for work, which, once I thought about it, I needed to remember to place again. Two of my staff had moved into shift manager positions, which left the door open for more entry-level jobs on the floor. At least two full-time servers were needed, and if that wasn’t going to work, then four part-time ones. I jotted it down on a mile-long to do list. A low sigh rolled out of me, and I took another sip of wine, licking the dribble with my tongue. An owner’s work was never done.

In the corner of my computer, the time flashed two-twelve. The late hour didn’t bother me since I was a night-owl by nature, and mainly because I didn’t get home from Westside until after eleven. By the time I checked my lacklustre social media pages and ran a few reports, the clock had struck one. Add to the night my foray into the online dating world, and time disappeared. However, it was late, and I had other projects tomorrow to attend to needing more of my energy.

I was almost ready to hit the submit button when I stopped. My ad was blunt and to the point, but aside from the free food and beverages, what was in it for him? What would motivate someone to spend the day with a complete stranger, especially when there would be no sex? I pinched the bridge of my nose as my thoughts climbed into a headache inducing process.

There wasn’t much I had to offer as enticement for someone to give up a Saturday and hang out with me. As a workaholic, I easily logged sixty plus hours at Westside in person, not including the hours spent away from there establishing the new location I’d hoped to open in a few short months. I wasn’t an avid movie goer, or up-to-date on the latest reality tv show, so chatting about the latest Star Wars movie or Marvel comic book recreation wouldn’t work. At least that eliminated the nerdy types from applying.

Physically, I wasn’t even much of a catch. My hair was shorter, but easy to take care of especially since I swam four days a week. My apartment complex had a great 25m length pool, perfect for laps, and since I was the only one who ever seemed to be there, I swam for an hour each time. My ultimate goal was to compete in a triathlon, but I’d still need to learn how to ride a bike. I hadn’t since I was a child of single digits. However, I refused to put that on my dating profile.

What if I added I was a total loner and lived alone? On second though, it opened the door for all sorts of hooligans to reply and put me into an awkward position. Nope, it’s better I kept it off my profile.

The chardonnay touched my lips, and I swallowed down the last of the red wine, contemplating further on what interesting bullshit to add. What about enjoys long walks under the maple trees? Nah, I wasn’t even sure where the nearest maple tree was. For crying out loud, this was hard, even though I needed something personal. I wasn’t the sharpest tack in the drawer, but I wasn’t a pushover either.

Thinking of something personal, but not too out there, I typed the words from a song sung by Neil Diamond.

If the words "When no one else would come, Shilo you always came" mean anything to you, please respond with recent photo.

That was better. A smile bubbled out. It would also narrow down a lot of applicants. For good measure, to funnel the short list even more, I added If Captain Picard played the best Hamlet, I’d love to talk further with you.

Still, it didn’t dangle any carrots in front of would be applicants. Maybe it would be better to show up to this thing with the greatest lie I’ve ever told? Something along the lines of my boyfriend needed to fly over to Boston for an emergency conference for a company he was taking over and that’s why I came alone. It was believable, right?

Hah. I laughed.

If anyone accepted that as truth well… I had some ocean front property in Saskatchewan I wanted to sell them.

The wine glass beside the laptop sat empty, so my time in front of the ad was over. With a final swallow of my pride, I hit the submit button. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Immediately a bright red error message appeared on the screen.

Dammit, I said, pulling my chair in closer and rubbing my temples.

Tomorrow would be better, I was sure. It was too late to be doing this, and the error was karma’s way of preventing a huge mistake, according to the words the angel on my shoulder whispered. But I brushed her aside and read the error. Apparently, I needed to upload a photo. Guess appearances went both ways.

Begrudgingly I opened my phone and flipped through. There weren’t many selfies at all, perhaps three. I hated the whole idea of them, hated being a part of them, and as soon as one of my friends pulled their phone out and took aim, I was out of there. Despite their reassurances to the contrary, I believed I wasn’t photogenic. Like at all. I suffered from R.B.F. – Resting Bitch Face – and most, if not all the pictures I’m sporting a pissed off look, except I wasn’t. It just appeared that way. My constant pout would certainly prevent guys from applying. Plus, I just wasn’t model thin and pretty. I was a healthy size eight with no health issues, but it wasn’t enough for a lot of guys. Obviously, or I’d have a date for the fracking wedding.

Fuck it.

I held up my empty wine glass with one hand while I smiled into my camera. Meh, it was decent, if not a little bit goofy. Whatever. I uploaded it onto my computer.

A couple clicks later, I added it to my profile.

Good luck.

My mouse hovered over the submit button and before I could change my mind, it clicked and sent my profile off to either be accepted or rejected. Let the chips fall where they may. Nothing could stop it now. My future lay in the hands of the internet now.

Oh crap – what had I done!

Chapter Two

Good morning, Meghan, the pool man said as he stacked a fresh set of towels by the change room door.

Don’t get excited by the idea of the pool man – he’s old enough to be my grandfather, if I were Italian; a gentle soul with a weathered exterior who hunched and shuffled with each step.

Good morning, sir, I said, exiting the cool water.

It was the perfect temperature to push a little harder to keep warm and as it was, I managed to beat my score of 93 laps in 59 minutes. I’d only been swimming for four months, but my strokes were longer and more powerful, and my speed was increasing. It shouldn’t be long before I hit a 100 in 60… as long as I remembered to eat an hour before, like I did this morning.

The scratchy towel he’d passed me dried my face, exfoliating my damp skin as I ran it over my cheeks and neck. I gave my head a solid drying off, drowning out the elevator music management thought was best for a pool facility. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I tipped my head from side to side to drain the water from my ears.

How’s the missus?

She good. Grandkids come to keep her young today.

That’s nice.

He held out another towel for me, a soft expression of wanting to talk crossed his face.

I’m good, Paolo, thanks. On both the towel and the further conversation.

The old man kept chatting, She loves them kids. To me they too loud, but not her. Scream all day. He laughed an old man laugh, deep and wide. Her ear aide is broke not like mine. A crooked finger tapped against his ear.

It keeps her young, right? I placed my hand on the handle for the woman’s change room.

He grinned. Paolo once told me he’d been married for over fifty years. I couldn’t even imagine loving someone for so long. These days, one night seemed hard enough, let alone times that by 365 by 50. Craziness, if you asked me.

You have good day, miss. He gave me a soft nod. Don’t be forgetting they be changing the pool codes over the next day or two, in case it don’t work.

Right.

I’d forgotten the tenant’s board had agreed to a new security company, who were also changing all the exterior locks in the next 48 hours. Another item to add to my mental list of things to do.

With a quick nod, and a flick of my wrist, I hopped into the change room and deposited the heavy towel into the basket. My dark shorts slipped up over my legs, and I fiddled for my key hidden within.

Thankfully my apartment was in the building beside the pool, and it was a short jaunt from there to the back entrance. It was a short walk on the industrial strength carpet past four doors over to the elevator. Up I went to the seventh floor and back down the length of hall to my place at the end. If I leaned far over my balcony and twisted my body, which I’d never do, but if I did, I’d be able to see the pool house.

My key slid into the lock of my home for the past three years. When my life fell apart after I got the ultimate dumping at the altar, I moved in with a friend, mostly to rebuild my life. But she packed up and headed to warmer climates in the southern US to become a Ravenclaw. Last I heard she was getting closer as she worked in one of the Harry Potter themed shops in Disney World. I guess we all needed to start somewhere.

My apartment was home, and very modern having only been built within the last five years. I made enough money to live within my means and decorated accordingly. My mom called it rustic chic, but I leaned more towards classic. Clean lines, white walls with huge bold paintings, the kind of paintings you’d get from Ikea, not from a gallery. Actually, a lot of my furniture was from Ikea—affordable and they delivered—so thanks to a little retail therapy, I never needed to venture into their maze of a store. Win-win for everyone, but mostly me.

I dropped my key in the bowl by the door, and clicked the lock shut. The nice thing about living alone was everything was exactly where I left it. I had no one but myself to blame if anything was out of place. My phone sat on the table, the screen lit with text messages and calendar notifications.

Nothing important, just a reminder of Joy’s baby shower this afternoon. I graciously agreed to close the restaurant between the hours of 2 PM – 4 PM so the staff could ogle and cuddle with her baby. Just as I’d been ready to give her a full-time management position, she dropped her pregnancy bomb on me and I found myself scrambling to fill it since my other, dependable manager was leaving to join her boyfriend’s company. Thankfully, Robin - another employee I’d debated promoting - was able to fill the vacant role in tandem with Joy, and he became my newest shift manager. But I can’t complain as there haven’t been too many issues – both Joy and Robin took to their new positions like ducks in water. It certainly made my job a tad less stressful.

I thumbed open my phone and opened the dating app, thinking, or hoping for maybe a couple of views of my profile. I did not expect there to be seven inbox messages, but I was sure most of them were a joke.

Before I settled down to read any of them, I cleaned myself up and made myself some lunch. Fingers clicking rapidly, I opened the site and logged in, readying for the interesting mail I expected.

The first message read Hey, Megs, and I instantly deleted it. Hearing that horrid nickname reminded me of Scumbag, his apparent term of endearment, which always made my blood curdle.

On to the next.

It sounded hopeful, and the guy referenced to being a Next Generation fan, so there was a plus. ‘Cory’ was over forty and had two young children. He was lonely and claimed his therapist encouraged him to get out of his comfort zone and hang out with adults every once in a while. The thought of trying to impress an ex at a wedding sounded like fun way to spend the day and, he added, his ex-wife had always said he looked good in a suit.

Does someone have lingering issues?

His picture was adorable; dark hair, dark eyes, tanned face nestled up beside a Golden Retriever. I flagged his message for follow-up.

The next message was a joke, it had to be. Either that or the guy didn’t even read my posting as he mentioned he was in town and we could Netflix and chill. He even posted his number for me to text. No, thank you, and with a quick click on the mouse, another message disappeared from my screen.

The fourth message was intriguing. ‘Hudson’ said Neil Diamond’s Shilo was overrated and much preferred the later released Heartlight album but agreed Patrick Stewart was magnificent in Hamlet.

I raised an eyebrow in suspicion. No way did he actually catch both of my vague drop ins,