Page 8 of The Merry Matchmaker

Frankie added more pertinent information and Mitch’s picture. Okay, that was it. He was good to go.

She hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t do this. Maybe Mitch won’t appreciate it.”

“Do ya think?”

“But he will if I bring him the perfect woman.” Frankie gnawed on her lip, considering. “I do want him to be happy, and he obviously needs help getting there.”

Viola washed her last bite of pizza down with her cola. “Most of us do, I guess. Just keep in mind, if you find him someone, it’s going to change your relationship.”

“Don’t be silly,” Frankie scoffed, then thought of the man-eater in the pink coat. Candidates needed to be screened.

So, online dating it was. She finished the process. “Okay, we’re official. Let’s see what kind of Mrs. Claus we find.”

Frankie decided not to share about Operation Match Mitch when she joined her family at Adele’s house for their usual late afternoon meal after the shop closed. It would only inspire her mother to give her a lecture about meddling. And this wasn’t meddling. It was helping.

She also decided not to tell Mitch when they met up later that evening to watch their favorite reality TV police show. She’d checked earlier, and he’d already attracted plenty of interest. Hardly surprising, considering how good-looking he was.

Plus, she’d made him sound perfect. Saint Mitch. He could be stubborn. What man couldn’t? Both his office at the store and his home tended toward clutter, but a good woman could help him organize that.

“My house next week,” he offered after the show had ended.

“You going to have eggnog?”

“Of course.”

“Then your house next week.”

Although by the next week he could be out with someone.

No, not on Sunday night. That wasCop Stopnight.

The shop was closed on Mondays, so Viola came over to Frankie’s cozy two-bedroom cottage for brunch and joined her at the kitchen table to check out Mitch’s prospects.

Babe Number One looked ready for an ugly Christmas sweater contest, wearing a bright green sweater overpopulated with reindeer and felt baby Santas dangling from the bottom like fringe. She was wearing a tiara on her head that said Queen.I love glamping!she declared.Do you cook? Love me a man who cooks.Uh, no.

Babe Number Two did not look even remotely fit enough to keep up with Mitch.I hate football, she confessed.But I love Super Bowl parties. Wait till you taste my Hawaiian sliders and Coca Cola cake! I’m about to join the gym. I could use a coach, by the way.

“Coca Cola cake,” said Viola with a grin.

“Mitch would not have the patience to coach someone into fitness,” said Frankie.

She moved on. One woman had put up a picture of herself and her “three fur babies”—ironically, hairless Sphinx cats, one perched on each shoulder and one in her lap.Do you love cats?she wanted to know.

No. Mitch was a dog man. His German shepherd, Whizzer, had recently crossed the rainbow bridge, and he was already considering taking in a rescue come the new year. Knowing Mitch, it would be a big dog, the kind that would eat all three cats for breakfast.

Yet another woman was pushing eighty and claimed she needed a younger man who could keep up with her. It wouldn’t be Mitch.

Two more applicants sounded...desperate.

Another had a smile that Frankie pronounced fake. “There’s a beyotch hiding behind that mask.”

Next came a blonde wearing a business suit. “How about this one?” suggested Viola.

“She’s not a fit.”

“Why?”

“She’s too...polished.”

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