Page 11 of Dating Her Brother's Best Friend

There’s a moment of overwhelming silence while I watch the three little buttons dance and stop. They dance a little more, and I’m starting to get hopeful until the final response ends that glimmer of hope.

Unknown

Drop dead.

I sigh heavily, a kind of resigned amusement edging into the corners of my mood. Whoever this matchmaker is, she’s certainly got flair. But her rejection hangs heavier than the previous ones, because if anyone can see where I went wrong, surely, it's be her. It’s easy to see, whoever she is, she’s part Cupid, part drill sergeant, running her matchmaking empire with cunning strategies and a no-nonsense attitude.

Armed with the fire of determination and a plan that's as foolproof as a sieve, I decide to solve my own problem now that the matchmaker has turned me down flat. If she won’t help me, then dammit, I’ll just have to unmask this elusive Cupid and reason with her directly. As schemes go, it feels like one of my grander ones—but hey, what’s life without a bit of an audacious spirit?

First things first, I need to enlist the help of someone who knows their way around confidential information. Giant Carmichael, owner of Carmichael Security, is fortuitously known for having inside information on everything that happens in this small Texas town. If anyone can help me track down this mysterious puppet master of love, it’s him.

I grab my phone and dial his number, pacing my living room while the ring tone drones on. For all my cocky confidence, there's a nervous tick in my step. Finally, his voice crackles through the line, gritty but warm.

“Jeremy,” he greets, already knowing I wouldn’t be calling on a lazy day unless I need something. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I’ve got a job for you, kind of off-the-record.”

There’s a pause, the low buzz of consideration. “I don’t do any off-the-record shit that will come back to bite me in the ass,” he warns.

Not beating around the bush, I tell him, “Don’t worry, this won’t get you in any trouble. I’m just trying to track down the town matchmaker. I could use some help persuading her to do me a personal favor.”

Giant’s tone shifts, losing a bit of its humor. “The matchmaker, huh? Damn, Jeremy, everyone in this town respects her. Plus, she’s got this whole ‘invisible’ set-up that no one quite cracks. I’m not brave enough to fuck with her again. My ass is still doing penance for the last time I got involved when someone asked for help. I wouldn’t wade back into this mess even if I didn’t like my job. Which I very much do.”

“Yeah, but,” I start, willing Giant to understand the urgency of my situation, “can’t you help me out a little bit? Anything? I’m fucking desperate.”

“Look, there’s no bulletproof way to trace her without getting my ass caught up in it,” Giant explains, his words slowing as he weighs his next thought. “But the gossip column, Silver Spoons Single Serve, has all the info on her former clients.”

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” I grumble.

“See if her past clients can help you out. I’m staying out of this shit. I’m not gonna risk pissing her off,” he chuckles, resigning me to my quest. “Good luck,” he adds before hanging up.

I let out a sigh and dive into research mode, scrolling through past editions of the Silver Spoons Single Serve, hoping for awink or nod in the text that might give me a new direction. It’s like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle with mismatched edges, but eventually, I stumble across a list of names that reads like the who’s-who of local legends. These people are the ones the matchmaker has supposedly helped find love.

Undeterred, I start with the most well-known name on the list. Sterling Midnight is a billionaire from Midnight Falls who’s used to getting what he wants. I dial, half-expecting the call to end as soon as someone picks up. Surprisingly, Sterling answers, his drawl oozing through the receiver like warm molasses.

“Sterling here. Who’s this?”

“Hi, Sterling, it’s Jeremy Head. I’m calling to see if you could help me out with identifying the mysterious matchmaker in Silver Spoon Falls.”

“Oh, fuck no,” he says, humor coloring his voice. “Count me out. I’m not doing anything that could piss her off. My wife would have my ass.”

“Please,” I beg, but he’s resolved, ready to invest in my predicament with platitudes rather than actionable intel.

“Sorry, man. You’re on your own,” comes his final, unhelpful declaration before turning me loose. Dead end. “Good luck.”

Asshole. I hang up and scratch his name off the list before dialing the next one. Josh Brunts, another insanely rich resident and another alleged beneficiary of the matchmaker's uncanny skills. His laughter booms down the line, sardonic and unfeigned.

“Good luck wrapping that mystery up, Jeremy. You’ll need it,” Josh quips before hanging up, leaving me with more frustration.See if I give any of these fuckers tickets to the playoffs next time they ask. Not many people know I’m part owner of the Houston Riggers, but all these men have called in favors in the past to secure tickets from me. Not happening again, assholes.

Finally, I take a shot with Hunt Sola, a former athlete whose golden years generated stories and fans across the nation. Hunt, too, offers little more than a friendly chuckle at my naive endeavor, dropping a, “Sorry, can’t help,” before sending me packing back to square one.

After my last call with Hunt Sola fizzles like a dud firecracker, I slump back against the couch. My spirit, which once felt indomitable, is starting to feel stretched thin over the loom of this matchmaking mystery. The who’s who of Silver Spoon Falls haven’t proven as helpful as I hoped, and I’m teetering on the precipice of desperation.

My phone vibrates like an insistent bumblebee on caffeine, jolting me from my brooding reverie. I glance at the screen, and my heart does a funny little hop-skip maneuver.

Unknown

Leave my clients alone, jerkwad.

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