Page 11 of The Match

She smiles and tucks her blond hair behind her ear. “Oh yes. You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve been likened to a man.”

I cringe, thinking back to that comment. The reminder that I was horrible to this woman hits me in the chest. “Right. In that case, can I get you a muffin as well?” I aim a smile at her, but when I realize it probably looks flirtatious I wipe it away.

“Chocolate chip, please.”

Once we both have our coffees and pastries in hand, we make our way to a table by the window. We sit down, and I note that her dog, Charlie, lies down at her feet without her even having to ask.

I honestly had no idea dogs could be that well-behaved. He’s huge. If he wanted to, he could be knocking over tables and swiping all the muffins off the barista’s counter, but instead he’s nearly invisible. It’s impressive the way he tucked himself at her feet, with half his body under the table. I wonder if Miss Jones was the one to train him.

She must see me staring at him, because she smiles down at him. “This is Charlie. He’s four years old and a major bed hog.”

I’m choosing to pass right over the thought of Miss Jones in a bed.

“Is he a potential dog you would match with my daughter?”

“Only if I meet my sudden unfortunate end today.” Her comment is so shocking that my eyebrows shoot up. She laughs and picks at her muffin, taking one small bite—a chocolate-chip-only bite. “Charlie belongs to me, not the company. He’s been my personal seizure-assist dog for the last three years.” Did she say seizure-assist dog? Charlie is her service dog? She sees the look on my face and continues, “That’s partly why I was determined to speak with you yesterday. I know exactly what it’s like to be in your daughter’s shoes. Although, I really shouldn’t have been so pushy.”

Oh, well, great. Now I really am an ass.

“I had no idea,” I say, still trying to absorb the information.

She laughs, and the sound trickles down my back. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have known when you wouldn’t let me say more than three words at a time?” Her smile slants.

I like that she’s not letting me off the hook easily. “Yeah. About that. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you. It wasn’t like me, and you kind of caught me on a bad day.”

“Said every jerk since the beginning of time.” Her mouth is still curved in the corner as she pinches off another chocolate chip.

“Is now a good time for me to start groveling?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. I’m hoping I can squeeze at least one more muffin out of it.”

Are we . . . flirting? And is it my imagination or is she giving me a look that says she’s taken off her suit jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Business forgotten. I contemplate buying her the whole display case of pastries.

There’s not one part of me that likes where my head is at. Miss Jones is capturing my attention like no one has since Natalie. It doesn’t feel safe. In fact, this has got to be how a bug feels right before it gets zapped.

I clear my throat after a sip of coffee burns my mouth and nod toward her binder. “I feel like I should be honest with you. I’m not completely sold on the idea of a service dog for Sam yet.”

“Okay.” She draws out the word like she can sense there’s more and doesn’t know how to respond yet.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up that I’m going to purchase a dog since there’s only a small chance that I will. Today I’m just hoping to get more information.”

She’s smiling at me curiously. “Mr. Broaden, this is twice now that you’ve made a comment implying that I am desperate for you to buy one of my dogs. Why is that?”

I tell myself to not say what I’m thinking, but it doesn’t work. “I’ve seen the average price of one of your dogs. They cost a fortune. I can only imagine that the commission is enough incentive for you to pressure me into buying one.” Wow. I had no idea I could be any ruder to this woman than I already have been. Turns out, I had more left in the tank than I suspected.

Miss Jones’s eyes are surprisingly full of amusement—looking at me like I just ate cat food, thinking it was caviar. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as if she’s about to tell me a juicy secret.

“Jacob—Can I call you Jacob?” I consider telling her to call me Jake but decide against it and just nod. “To continue your metaphor, these dogs are not used cars I’m trying to move off a lot. They are highly trained animals that enhance the quality of—and often save—the lives of those living with disabilities. They do cost a lot of money to purchase, but that’s only because it costs an enormous amount to care for a service dog. Not only do we have to pay a breeder, but the extra health tests that a service dog has to undergo are not cheap.”

I open my mouth to say something—anything—but she’s apparently revoked my talking privileges, because she plows on. “And then there is food, grooming, training equipment, and the teeny-tiny salary that my colleague and I make in order to eat. And if you still don’t believe that I’m not making commissions off our dogs, I will be happy to show you my checking account, and you’ll be impressed to see that the total is exactly the same as my age.”

At this point, I’m wishing I could crawl under the table and disappear.

She still doesn’t give me a chance to talk (not that I blame her). “I’m not in this for the money. I train and match dogs with recipients because Charlie gave me an independence and security that I thought I would have to sacrifice when I first started having seizures. I want others to have a chance at that same security.”

I know she’s telling the truth. I can see it in her eyes. They are like perfect open windows to her soul. Her passion is contagious, and I wish I hadn’t made that stupid comment about the price of the dogs. I knew she wasn’t making money off them. I think I’m self-sabotaging because I’m scared of how impressed I am by her. Trying to talk myself down from liking her too much or something.

I drag in a deep breath. “I’m not sure how many times I’m allowed to say I’m sorry to someone in a single sitting . . . but I’m going for the record. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything I said a minute ago. I’m just . . . looking for reasons to not get a dog for my daughter.”

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