Page 23 of Bargain Match

“But—but… How am I supposed to get back to the inn?”

“You have a phone. Use it.”

“Hadley. Honey, I?—”

“Don’t Hadley Honey me.” My voice threatens to break, so I clamp my lips shut for a moment and take several deep breaths. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to yell. I’m not going to let Burke see how much he’s hurt me.

“Please, get out of the car,” I say when I have control of my emotions.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

He gapes at me for another moment. Then, with a huff of frustration, he unbuckles his seatbelt and throws the door open.

“Sometimes,” he says as he slides out of the car, “you’re just too damn stubborn for your own good.”

“Ha!” I give a short, bitter laugh. “I’m the stubborn one.”

“If you only knew.”

Out of patience, and once again in danger of crying, I pull the open passenger door closed and merge back out onto the road.

“He called me stubborn.” I chew on my bottom lip. “He. The guy who made some sort of backdoor deal with the contest for God knows what reason.”

I stew the entire drive back to the inn. So much so that I make a wrong turn and get into a fight with the GPS before finding a detour to get back on track.

What could Burke have possibly been thinking by going behind my back to meddle with the matchmaker? More importantly, why had he done it?

Did he not trust my plan to work?

Was he trying to mess with me to get the other hand?

Did he think it would somehow help him to get that stupid grant he was going on and on about? I mean, I don’t know how this would help him get the grant, but I’m grasping here.

All of those questions, and there’s one thought that’s impossible to ignore, though I’d desperately like to avoid considering it.

Regardless of whether or not any of those possibilities are true, why did he take me to bed?

I suppose people have needs. God knows the man hasn’t dated anyone in longer than I can remember.

He probably gets tired of making love to his own hand all the time. I don’t blame him. But we’re supposed to be friends. Best friends. Why would he use me just to itch a scratch?

I put the very question to Glynis when I finally arrive back at the inn—my curly hair wild, and my eyes even wilder. Telling her the story requires me to admit that we aren’t newlyweds—that we were never really a couple—which seems to stun the poor, sweet woman.

“I just want to know what he possibly thought was going to happen by doing this in the first place and what he hoped to get out of it,” I whine into the nearly overflowing glass of wine she kindly foisted on me.

“Well, ye see, the heart of the matter seems perfectly clear.”

I frown. “How so?”

“Why, the lad loves ye.”

My mouth falls open. “What?”

“We could all see it as clear as the dawn.”

“Because we were pretending to be in love.”

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