Page 13 of The Match

I’ve instructed at least twenty of these training camps over the past three years, but never have I been as nervous as I am now standing outside Jacob Broaden’s front door.

He and I have not interacted at all outside of updates concerning Sam’s application and scheduling days to meet the dogs. No texts. No phone calls. And he’s been all business when we correspond through email.

I had thought that he was flirting with me that night he texted (and a few times over our coffee meeting), but I guess I was wrong about whatever I thought I was picking up on. My antenna must be busted. And now I’m staring at the black front door of his gorgeous, expensive house, and I can see just how wrong I was that he would ever have been interested in me.

I knew from Jacob asking me to meet him and Sam at his office for the last two visits that he is an architect and owns his own firm—Broaden Homes. But this place is the physical representation of just how out of my league this man is. Like, he’s playing for the major leagues, and I’m not even on the farm team. I’m in the nosebleeds eating a box of candy that I snuck into the game, just happy to have scored a free ticket from one of my friends.

I may come from a prestigious family with a fortune that could solve the nation’s debt crisis, but none of it is my money. I’m just Evie. A girl floating from cereal box to cereal box, trying to figure out exactly what it is I want out of life (and also trying to collect all the prizes in those cereal boxes to get that free MP3 download).

I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my dress and then ring the doorbell. I’m armed with a service dog on either side of me (Charlie and Daisy), and I’m eager to get going on this day of training. Also really hoping there’s going to be some snacks inside. My stomach rumbled loudly on the way over, making my Uber driver look even more uncomfortable than he did when I first got in his car with not one but two service dogs.

Why does this woman need two of them?!

While I wait, I assess the large modern swing on the front porch. My mind takes a speedy nosedive, and suddenly I’m sitting on the swing and Jacob is joining me. He’s wearing the same Henley from the day in the coffee shop, highlighting the muscles in his shoulders and arms. His grin is playful as he takes a seat beside me, and he says he has wonderful ideas for groveling today, and next thing I know we’re making out as the sun is setting behind us.

The door opens, and I jolt as if Jacob might have just caught me kissing him in my imagination.

Dammit. He looks good. Too good. He’s wearing a black T-shirt (it fits him so well I’m skeptical that he didn’t pay a fortune to have it tailored), brown chinos, and a watch with a leather strap around his wrist. How does this man manage to make wrists look sexy? It’s not fair, and I’m worried that I might be drooling.

Nothing about Jacob Broaden screams money. At least not in the way Tyler’s ridiculous suits do. But he has this air of confidence that says he should be taken seriously, and it leaves me feeling a little shaky-legged.

“Good to see you, Evie. Come on in.”

Now, that is one thing that has changed. After our heart-to-heart at the coffee shop, Jacob has stopped calling me by the formal Miss Jones. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still polished and businesslike, but I like to imagine that maybe he sees me as a friend now. Not sure why that gives me hope, because remember, I’m up in the nosebleeds just lucky if my binoculars reach as far as the field.

“Good morning!” I step inside the house, and a choir of angels starts singing around me.

This place is . . . glorious. That’s the only word I could possibly use to describe it. It’s a big open floor plan with high vaulted ceilings lined with dark wood beams, and from where I stand at the doorway, I can see everything from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen. There are massive windows all around the house, letting in tons of natural light, and, oh look, there’s a pool outside too.

I grew up in a mansion with a maid staff, and yet it never gave me the urge to dive onto the plush living room rug and make snow angels the way this house does. Everything is white and light-colored wood with contrasting black-steel trim on the massive windows. It’s sophisticated yet homey, and it smells like vanilla and teakwood and something else that I’m realizing is Jacob’s natural scent.

I’m really trying to control myself and not dive onto that big gray couch. What I wouldn’t give to take a nap nestled into those puffy cushions.

And, oops, I apparently said that out loud, because Jacob replies with a grin, “Is there a naptime factored into the schedule every day?”

“There is now that I’ve seen your couch. I’d even be content on your carpet. It’s so plush. . . . How is your carpet this nice?”

“I’m starting to think you actually weren’t joking about the nap.”

“What made you think I was joking in the first place?” He laughs as I continue running my eyes over every inch of the house that I can see. “Did you design this house?”

“Depends. Do you like it or not?”

“I love it.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh of relief. “Then, yes. I did design it.”

“I think I could fit twenty of my apartment inside it.” I probably didn’t need to say that. In fact, I wish I hadn’t. It’s only going to prove to him what a small fry I am compared to him.

I’m resisting the urge to open my arms wide and turn a full circle in slow motion. That’s what living in a five-hundred-square-foot apartment will do to a person.

I turn just in time to catch Jacob’s eyes dart up to mine as if he had just been checking out my legs.

It gives me a nice little boost of confidence until he says, “Your shoes . . .”

I look down at my scuffed-up white running shoes, and now I’m a ripe strawberry. “Oh. I’m sorry. Are you a shoes-off house?”

I’m frantically trying to toe out of my sneakers when Jacob’s calloused hand lands on my forearm, but then he pulls it away just as quickly. “No, I wasn’t insinuating you had to take them off. I was just going to tell you I like them.”

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