Page 22 of The Renegade Billionaire
What the hell is happening right now?
“Yup,” the woman says as if it doesn’t bother her in the slightest. “Then again after…you know.”
“Yes, but before Mark down at the station,” Peter says with a laugh.
“It’s really not as strange as it sounds,” Jenny says quietly. “It’s a small town. Everyone has dated someone else’s ex at one point or another.”
“That’s…interesting,” I mutter, still unsure why I’m irrationally upset by this conversation.
“Half the time, Madi’s simply matchmaking, but Pops insists they’re dates. It’s what she does, she’s the very best matchmaker I know. Pops just wants her to be happy,” Jenny says.
“The first week she came to live with us, she had a pet wedding between a neighbor boy’s rabbit and Mrs. Cracken’s cat, Louie.” Pops voice fades as he speaks. When he blinks hard three times, he chuckles. “She’s gotten a hell of a lot better since then.”
“She sure has. We’re living proof. Nice to meet you, Braxton.” Peter takes Jenny’s hand and guides her back to the sidewalk while I put all the supplies in the bed of the truck and Pops sits up front.
“Where to next?” I grumble, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Pops pulls out three sheets of paper. “I’ve got a list,” he says.
“I see that.” Giving him the side-eye, I wonder just how wily this old man is. “How’d you know I didn’t have to work or something?”
“Ya said you didn’t know how long you were staying. You didn’t come with much luggage, and you don’t seem to be in a hurry to go nowhere. Figure if you’ve got the time, might as well make an honest man out of ya.”
My spine slowly curves in, releasing my shoulders from my ears in the process, because now it’s my turn to laugh. Pops doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and you have to appreciate that about a man. “All right, Pops. Where to next?”
His expression is something I’d expect to see on a naughty little boy, and I have the distinct impression that we’re both going to be on Madison’s shit list by the time we make it home.
It might even be worth it.
6
MADISON
“That was fabulous,”Derek, my producer, says as I exit the small recording studio at the Chugaloo. “People are going to flip for this week’s podcast. Absolutely flip. Do you think you can prep six more by next week?”
Next week! Has he lost his mind? No. The answer is no, Derek. I can’t do that and fix the inn, and run the Chug,andkeep Pops out of trouble, make sure the football team is on track with their grades, get the donations at the church sorted for Betty, and produce Clover and Savvy’s podcasts all by next week.
“Sure thing” is what I actually say.
“This is what I wanted. I wanted people to rely on me, and I wanted to be needed,” I mutter to myself as we walk down the hall.
When I was in high school, I started a podcast calledThe Matchmaker Manual, and it took off faster than I could keep up. It’s always been my little slice of happiness. I learned early on what love shouldn’t look like from my parents, and living with my grandparents showed me everything I’d been missing out on.
I became obsessed with finding true love for everyone in my orbit at a very early age. By the time I was in college, I had syndication offers.
Well, until it all came crashing down and I scrambled to modify every plan I had ever created for myself because what kind of matchmaker could I be if I can’t even find love myself?
But for the last couple of years, with encouragement from my friends, I’ve been building it back up. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost who I was, but matchmaking is in my soul—it’s in my blood.
Thankfully, my loyal listeners came back in droves. Last month I was offered a new syndication deal, but I’ve been dragging my feet on accepting it. After The Ones We Don’t Name left a bad taste in my mouth, I find it hard to trust anyone in a suit with an offer that sounds too good to be true.
Derek stops my stroll through memory lane with a hand on my forearm when we reach the main room.
“Thanks, Derek. Sorry I’m a little behind. We’ve got an unexpected guest at the Hideaway, so I’m shifting some stuff around this week.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ve heard all about Mr. Braxton Mitchell. They’re calling him the hometown hottie.”
My mind freezes as though I’m stuck in the Matrix.
