Page 5 of Lonely Beard
“What’s the first thing your matches see when they enter the home of a man they don’t know? Oh, look. The serial killer starter set, hung proudly on the wall.”
I scratch my beard, frowning at the knives. “They’re for whittling. Carving wood.”
A flash of private amusement dances across her brown eyes, then Grace folds her arms.“You know I’m right about this, Mr McRae.”
“Aiden.” And okay, yeah. I could see how the knives might not help,ifI planned on trying any more matches. But I’m done. “This doesn’t matter,” I remind her, but Grace strides past like I never spoke. A whiff of vanilla trails in her wake.
“These, on the other hand, are perfect.” She stops in front of my paintings again, raising her arms like she’s praying to the paint-splattered canvas. “Men who can paint are super sexy.”
…They are? Does Grace think that, or is it supposedly common knowledge?
“Doesn’t matter,” I grind out again.
But even with my protests, I still trail the matchmaker around my cabin, listening to her assessment of the first impression I make. My sofa: austere. My bookcase: says I’m thoughtful. My bed: very inviting.
My gut swoops again at that last one.
“I mean it looks comfortable,” she explains quickly, and thank god I’m not the only one blushing. We stand near the edge of the mattress together, determined not to meet the other’s eye. “The covers look soft and recently laundered, and you actually made the bed when you got up this morning. That’s good.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Low bar.”
Grace’s chuckle throws me off balance. “You have no idea.”
But I think I do, actually. I read those emails from my matches, bemoaning the lack of decent men in their real lives; I’ve pulled up a stool in the Cloudy Lake bar and overheard the local women’s woes. I know that it’s rough out there when you’re looking for love.
“Maybe it’s my demeanor.” I mean it as a joke, but it comes out bitter. And Grace elbows me gently, her mouth curving into a smile.
“We can fix that too. Want to show me your moves?”
Oh, let me think about that.
That’s right: I’d rather die.
Three
Grace
“Itold you.” Aiden looks thunderous as I drag him by the elbow, positioning him in front of the door. “I don’t have moves, Grace.”
Yeah, right. “Pretend I’m on the deck and you’ve just answered the door. It’s too cold and wet out there, but you get it. I’m your bride.”
“Oh, I think I can keep up,” he snaps. He’s so irritated that two bright spots of color burn on his cheeks, and his broad shoulders are rigid beneath his fresh gray shirt. I keep stealing glances at his sturdy collarbone peeking from his open collar, my eyes moving of their own accord.
I don’t want to be a perv, but Aiden McRae makes it very hard not to stare. Seriously, how could those idiots turn this man down? He’s tall and strong and broody and capable. He paints and he smells like pine. If someone were to create my dream mountain man in a lab, well…
I shut that thought down, pronto. Aiden is a client. Or he will be again soon, anyway.
“Okay.” I wave a hand at him, bouncing on my toes. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Grace.” Aiden looks ready to walk out into the storm and toss himself down a ravine. “I never tried any fucking moves, and I’m done anyway. This is pointless.”
“You must have donesomething—”
“I spoke,” he bites out, green eyes narrowed on mine, daring me to mock him over this. “I spoke, and the first two matches heard my voice and turned on their heels. Is that something you can fix?”
I stop bouncing, suddenly queasy. The cabin is so warm, maybetoowarm, the fire crackling in the burner, and I’m weirdly lightheaded. “That’s why they canceled the match? Your voice?”
Aiden folds his arms over his chest and glares at me.
