Page 10 of The Match

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hi, Miss Jones. This is Jacob Broaden. I have no doubt that I am the last person in the world you want to be hearing from right now, but I was hoping we could talk.

I squeal and drop my phone like it’s suddenly morphed into a hot coal. Jacob Broaden is texting me? Do I want him to be texting me?

Yes. No. Yes. No.

What could he possibly want to talk about? After our encounter this morning, I doubt he’s wanting to shoot the breeze.

EVIE: Why? Are you in the market for a used car?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: I see what you did there, and I deserve it. That’s actually why I was hoping to apologize in person. What do you say? Will you meet me at Hudson Roasters tomorrow at 9am and help me pull my head out of my ass?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Was that joke gross?

EVIE: Very.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: I immediately regretted it. Will you meet me?

I’m biting my lip and smiling down at my phone like a fool. Charlie rolls his eyes at me again.

One minute ago, I hated Jacob Broaden and was contemplating adding a pin to a very special spot on his voodoo doll. Now I’m daydreaming of that corner in the coffee shop again. Which is exactly why I should decline his offer and suggest he meet with Joanna instead of me if he is considering getting a service dog from our company.

It makes sense. I mean, my body is breaking out in a flush just remembering his steely blue eyes. But then again, I have firsthand experience with the same disability as his daughter. Who better to advise him than little ol’ me? Plus, it would be nice to hear an apology.

For no reason other than I’m a saint and only have the child’s heart in mind, I pick up my phone and text him back.

EVIE: I’ll meet you. But please try not to bite my head off this time.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Where would the fun be in promising that?

CHAPTER 5

Jake

Walking into Hudson Roasters, I have the distinct feeling that I’m walking right to my death. I don’t know why. It’s not rational. I don’t suspect Miss Jones is going to pull out a knife and stab me. It’s more that I’ve been putting up walls around myself since the day Natalie left—big, ugly force fields of solitude that keep most women far away—and I’m a little afraid that the one I spent most of the night dreaming about might have a really tall ladder.

I woke up in a sweat the moment her pink lips touched mine. It was ridiculous, and I blame it on my late-night texting with her. I didn’t mean to flirt. My only intention was to apologize and request a very professional meeting between the two of us to discuss the potential of purchasing one of her company’s dogs. All business. Very buttoned-up.

But the moment I pictured her green woodland eyes, the flirtatious replies rolled off my fingers like it was a newfound superpower. I wanted to make her laugh. Why?

Because I’m weak, that’s why.

But not today. Today I will be the epitome of professional. I am a neurosurgeon walking into the operating room. I’ve scrubbed up, gloves are on, scalpel is in hand, and I’m ready to extract only the information I need.

I open the door to the coffee shop and the scent of roasted beans hits my nose. I’ve already had two cups of coffee today because I woke up at 4:30 A.M. and couldn’t go back to sleep after my dream about Ev—Miss Jones, but I still plan to get another because no one likes that guy who shows up to a coffee meeting and then says he already had his coffee that morning.

I fall into line behind a man in a nicely tailored suit and wonder if I should have dressed up too. Maybe it would have aided my efforts of being professional with Evie—dammit—Miss Jones!

I’m looking down at my jeans and gray Henley tee when I feel a warm hand on my forearm. I turn and my eyes collide with a woodland forest. “Mr. Broaden, good morning.” Miss Jones is all business too. This is good. I’m definitely not wondering if her lips would feel as warm and soft in reality as they did in my dream.

“Miss Jones, thanks for meeting me. Can I get you a coffee?” I notice that she has the same binder from yesterday tucked under her arm. The dog is here again too. Maybe she brought him to give me a demonstration of his skills.

Something different, my eyes note without my approval, is that she’s wearing a pair of jeans with a rip on the thigh that shows a sliver of tan skin.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Moving on.

“I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” I frown at her, and so she adds, “I buy all my potential recipients a coffee during these meetings.”

“But did all your potential recipients insult you when you first met?”

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