Page 4 of Love in Fine Print

“Why do you work for those slimy pieces of shit?”

I had been wondering the same thing lately. But I’d come too far, sacrificed too much to walk away now. I deserved partner, and I would do anything to get what I deserved.

“I have my reasons,” I answered coyly.

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Always the woman of mystery. I love it.”

2

BEN

"You need a wife."

"Right. Let me add that to my to-do list." I pretended to write on an imaginary piece of paper as I humored my well-meaning, if not somewhat delusional, next-door neighbor, Beverly Jones. She and my late grandmother Pearl had had a friendship that outlived three husbands and spanned seven decades. When Gran passed away, her house, dog, and business weren’t the only things she’d left me in her will. I’d also inherited Miss B.

With the back of my hand, I wiped the sweat dripping down my forehead and looked up from the weeds that I was pulling in front of the hundred-year-old Victorian I’d inherited from my Gran six months ago. Sunny, ninety-degree days were a rarity in San Fransisco, and after spending the better part of the past thirteen years playing professional football in Minnesota, my body was not acclimated to the higher temperature.

"I'm serious, young man." Her tone was just that, serious. “If you want to save Pearl’s business, you need to make an honest woman out of someone. Or man. I don’t judge. If you like the beef, I get it.” Miss B gently swayed in her porch swing, fanningherself with a bamboo fan that was worthy of the Queen of Sheba.

“I don’t think my marital status has anything to do with the standing of the business.”

“Oh, you don’t. Do you?”

“No.”

“And let me ask you, what color is the sky in the land of delusion you’re living in?”

“What difference could it possibly make if I’m married or not?”

“First of all, why would anyone take a matchmaker seriously that isn’t matched up themselves?”

I wanted to point out that there were several high-profile examples that disproved her theory, but I didn’t see the point. Once Miss B decided that something was the way it was, there was no arguing with her. My grandma had been the exact same way. They both complained about the trait in the other but never recognized it in themselves.

“Second, any guy that comes in and finds out that you’re single is going to think that you’re competition. And third, what woman would give any man a chance after meeting you and knowing you’re single?”

“Miss B, are you flirting with me?”

“No. But I bet I’m the only woman you know that’s not. Look at you.” She waved her fan in my direction. “You’ve got dreamy brown eyes, a thick head of hair that’s actually your own, dimples that rival the Grand Canyon, and a body that makes women want to dip you in chocolate and eat you up.”

“Chocolate, huh?” I hadn’t heard that one.

“Or caramel, or whipped cream, you name it, women want to lick it off your washboard abs.”

“You’re not shy, are you, Miss B?”

“At my age, I don’t have the time or patience to beat around the bush.”

“Well...” I stuck a handful of crabgrass into the bag and stood. My back ached as I did. I winced as I headed to the trash bin. The years I’d spent getting tackled were definitely catching up with me. On the outside, I might look like I was in peak physical form, but inside was a different story.

When I’d finished throwing the debris away, I said, “As good as you are for my ego, I think you might be overestimating my appeal.”

“Really?” She twirled her fan my direction. “Turn around.”

“What?” I asked as I shifted my attention toward the street.

When I did, I saw two thirty-something women with strollers standing on the sidewalk, staring. Well, gawking would be more accurate.

I lifted my hand in a small wave. One woman waved back, the other ducked her head, clearly embarrassed, and kept walking.

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