Page 3 of The Match

The cool air of the coffee shop rushes over my heated skin, and I dab away the beads of sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand while looking for a man with a young girl. Mr. Broaden gave me a brief description of himself in his email, so I know to look for a tall man with “hunny”-colored hair. I really hope that his fingers hit the keys wrong, and he actually knows how to spell the word honey.

I’m scanning, I’m scanning, I’m scanning, and . . . bingo!

There’s a tall man with dirty-blond hair, a to-go cup in each hand, walking toward a young girl sitting at a table. This has to be them. Charlie and I approach the two, and the girl notices us first. When she sees Charlie, her eyes light up with a look I recognize easily. It’s the same one most people give my dog. It’s a look that says she’s seconds from lunging at him, and I’m going to have to gently ask her not to pet Charlie while he has his vest on.

Mr. Broaden notices that something has caught his daughter’s eye, and he turns.

And then, BAM. The most spectacular pair of blue eyes hits me, and I almost feel like taking a step back. I’m staring into his eyes and dreaming of swimming in the shallow part of the ocean where you can still see your feet but the water is so blue that it looks like God dipped his brush in it after painting the sky. I immediately appreciate the way his eyes perfectly contrast the white cotton T-shirt that’s straining over his chest and shoulders.

I mean, wowza. Is this what dads look like these days? Where do I sign up?

I’ll take one dad with dirty-blond hair, tan skin, six feet tall, glittering blue eyes, and a chiseled body that makes my insides feel like molten lava, please. Actually, better yet, I’ll just take this one. Thanks.

It’s impressive how quickly my mind absorbs the information that his ring finger is blissfully empty. Not a tan line in sight.

“Mr. Broaden?” I ask, sounding a bit too excited for my taste. Take it down a notch, Evie.

“Yes?” He’s tentative as he scans me, eyes dropping all the way down the length of my body until they land on Charlie and stop. He frowns, then those gorgeous eyes bounce up to mine again.

His hesitation is odd. There’s a strange vibe, but I can’t pinpoint the reason for it.

I tuck my binder under my arm and then extend my hand to him. “I’m Evie Jones. It’s so nice to meet you in person!” My southern accent is friendly and inviting, and if we’re being honest, a little bit adorable. I’ve been told I sound just like Reese Witherspoon more times than I can count. But he’s not taking my hand. He’s staring at it like he’s just escaped from a deserted island he’s been stranded on for most of his life. Human contact is foreign to this man.

My smile falters, and an odd feeling settles in my stomach. Finally, he seems to remember some sort of manners and accepts my hand. The moment his skin settles against mine, my body breaks out in chills. Until this moment, I’ve been completely unaware of how important it is to me that a man have hands so large they completely engulf mine. My hand looks like a tiny baby hand inside his, and I love it.

Mr. Broaden pulls his hand back, and I’m pretty sure he takes a step away from me. The bad feeling returns.

“I’m sorry, but . . . do we know each other?” he asks, his voice deep with only the slightest touch of a southern accent.

I’m not exactly sure how to respond to his question since we technically have met, but only over email. But he should know that already. He looks blindsided, like I’m a threat to his safety. He’s concerned I’m going to try to kidnap his daughter and run away.

It’s at this point that I realize the little girl at the table is biting her lip and focusing intently on the paper cup in front of her. She looks just about the right age to spell honey with a u and two n’s.

CHAPTER 2

Jake

A thousand alarms are sounding in my mind. Who is this woman? Why is she standing in front of me, looking at me as if I should know her? She’s not a client of mine. I’ve definitely never met her before. Believe me, I would remember.

She’s exactly the sort of woman I usually take one long look at and then mentally enter into my little black book of DO NOT EVER CONTACT AGAIN. I’m writing her name inside, shutting the book, wrapping a chain around it, bolting it, and dropping it to the bottom of a lake.

I can tell immediately that this woman would be trouble for me. Gorgeous, tempting trouble.

She’s strikingly beautiful. And that immediately puts me on edge, because I just got off the phone with Strikingly Beautiful. Last night, Strikingly Beautiful was calling from Hawaii to tell me that she won’t be able to visit Sam this weekend like she swore she would, because her new Hollywood boyfriend surprised her with a trip to some tropical resort. She said it as if I should be happy for her and her good fortune. I’m not happy for her. I kind of hope that the shark from Jaws swallows Natalie up while she’s floating on a yellow tube in the ocean.

Fine, maybe not swallow her up—but definitely give her a good scare.

I haven’t always been this vengeful. Not sure if that makes it better or worse, but I didn’t get to my current level of anger overnight. It took months and months of watching my daughter cry in her bedroom when her mom didn’t show up like she said she would, didn’t call like she said she would, wasn’t there for Sam like she promised she always would be. It’s been two years since Natalie left us to move to Hollywood and pursue her dream of becoming an actress, and with each passing month it seems like we’re becoming less and less of a thought in her mind.

My sisters are always encouraging me to get back out there. But as I look in the eyes of the first woman I’ve found strikingly beautiful since Natalie, I feel the opposite of ready to date again. In fact, I’m terrified at the prospect.

The woman’s wide smile falters, and she looks at my daughter, Samantha, with a question in her eyes. This concerns me even more than the fact that I’ve already memorized the exact shade of green of Evie Jones’s eyes.

Mrs. Jones—the woman I know I’ve never met before this moment—comes to some sort of conclusion, and she looks back up at me. Her smile finds its way to her mouth once again, and my stomach tightens. For one absurd second I consider finding the damn key to my black book and fishing it out of the lake.

“I’m guessing you’re not the one who emailed me?” asks Mrs. Jones.

“Emailed you?” I feel like a patient learning he has amnesia. “No, definitely not.”

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