Page 24 of Love in Fine Print

Even though I knew he knew, I still said his name, “Ben Whitaker.”

“How did it go?” Trevor asked with his trademark faux innocence.

“I told you not to move forward with this matchmaking thing until I gave you the green light. And then you contacthimto find me a husband behind my back.”

“He’s a matchmaker.”

“He’s a football player. Not a matchmaker,” I corrected.

“Wow!” Trevor’s eyes widened. “I never expectedyou, of all people, to be aboxer,” he emphasized with disdain.

I rarely asked questions I didn’t already know the answer to, so I didn’t ask him what a ‘boxer’ was. From context clues, I doubted he was referring to the athlete who got in a ring with gloves.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked, calling my bluff.

“I think the more pertinent question is, do I care what that is?” I countered.

“Aboxeris someone who puts people in boxes. Just because Ben played football does not mean he can’t be a matchmaker.”

“Regardless, you gave him my home address. That’s unacceptable and dangerous.” I was playing the safety card, but that wasn’t why I was upset Ben Whitaker had shown up at my door. I was upset because I couldn’t shake the feeling that my space, my sacred space, myhomewas going to forever be tarnished because he’d been in it.

His big hazel eyes.

His chiseled arms.

His musky, manly scent.

All of those things had conspired together and tainted, no, infested my condo. This was worse than the time my dorm room had to be fumigated. There was no tent I could put over my memories to cleanse them.

“That’s how it works. He meets potential clients in their space to get a feeling for who they are.” Trevor tilted his head to the side. “If I had told you he was coming, would you have agreed to meet with him?”

“No.” The response shot out of my mouth like a circus clown out of a cannon.

Trevor’s reaction to my immediate refusal was an arch of his perfectly waxed brow. “Does he think he can help you?”

“Help me?”

“Yes, does the matchmaker think he can find you a match?”

I shook my head, sure that Trevor was doing something very uncharacteristic for himself and phrasing his query wrong. “Do you mean, didIthinkhecould help me?”

Trevor shook his head. “No. I meant does he think he can help you? The consultation wasn’t for you to decide whether or not you would use his services, it was for him to assess whether or not he would take you on as a client.”

“That makes zero sense. He owns a business; I’m a potential client. Whywouldn’the want to help me?”

“Youdon’t accept everyone who tries to retain you,” Trevor hit me with a serious checkmate.

It was true. I didn’t do it often, but I had turned down a handful of clients because I refused to fuck their soon-to-be ex-spouses out of what was rightfully theirs.

“The consultation didn’t happen,” I explained.

“Why not?”

“I told him to leave.”

“You did what? Why would you do that?”

“I don’t appreciate being ambushed.”

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