Page 4 of My Mismatched Valentine

My heart sinks down through my toes and ends up somewhere on the diner floor. I stare at Dustin’s phone, choked for words by what’s on the screen.Infamous Matchmaker Still Breaking Hearts with Scandalous Mix-up. The headline alone promises any hope of reviving my career is quickly circling the drain.Andshe had to bring up my ex-husband. The asshat who got to play victim in our divorce, though he was anything but.

“I can help you fix that, Maggie.”

I’m too stunned by how quickly Marjorie Collins wrote and uploaded her article to care that Dustin dropped the formalities. What the hell does it matter anyway? My career is over. My dream of helping soulmates find their way to one another is dead, once and for all. There is no comeback to make. Not anymore.

“I need a wife by—”

“By Valentine’s Day. I heard what you said,” I snap. “I don’t see how that insane request helps your case any. Or helps me fixthis. It’s only four days away. And you completely forgot the part where I’m not interested in helping a liar.” My hand trembles as I shove the phone at Dustin, nearly dropping it into his pile ofpancakes. “In case it wasn’t clear, I’m not interested in helping you with some proposition. I’m in the business of love, Mr. Wilde. Not contracts and business transactions.”

“Iwantlove.”

The admission doesn’t throw me for a loop, but the vulnerability in his tone does. Dustin Wilde may have fudged a few details on his application, but I’d bet the remainder of my quickly dwindling savings that he’s being honest right now. Those blue eyes hold a hint of pain. Perhaps loss? But also … familiarity. As if I’ve seen them before. Which, of course I have. In the photo he submitted. The same one tucked into the folder beneath my plate.Duh, Maggie.

“I hate to break it to you, but love at first sight is incredibly rare.” And sometimes the biggest red flag of all. A red flag I’d clearly missed when it came to meeting my ex-husband. I’d been so blinded by what I thought was fate that I ignored all the warning signs.

“Rare, but not impossible.”

It’s only because my plate still has half a stack of my favorite banana pancakes that I resist the urge to grab my coat and march out of the diner. I’ve been running around all day, trying to put out one fire after another since Dustin showed up, and haven’t given much thought to eating. My stomach is still growling, demanding my favorite pancakes not be left uneaten or to the tender mercies of a to-go box.

I’m also, admittedly, curious.

“Okay, I’ll humor you.” I stab another bite, making sure to get a strawberry caught on the fork tines. “Let’s say I miraculously find you a woman willing to marry you in four days. How does that benefit me? And if you say money, I’ll throw a pancake at you.”

“I’ll let you use the success story to drown out your bad press.”

I shake my head, already imagining how this plays out. “That’s no good to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because, as soon as that business clause expires, you’ll get divorced. That’ll be the new headline a short year from now that washes away any ounce of success I might’ve gained reviving my career. This isn’t my first rodeo with this type of arrangement. I lived in L.A. for years, you know. This happens more than you’d think. I refuse to match people who have no real interest in outliving their contractual obligations just so they can have some hot sex before they go their separate ways. It’s messy.”And heartbreaking.

“Hot sex?” Dustin repeats.

“Thatwouldbe the only thing you heard out of what I just said.” I reach for the syrup decanter and slather my remaining stack, trying my damnedest not let any tempting visuals slide into my imagination. “Love is a gift. Something that should be cherished.” My parents got it right. They never gave me any illusions that their relationship was easy. It was definitely work. But love? Thatwasthe effortless part. But only because they took such care of the precious gift.

“Sex isn’t a gift?”

I look up to find the corner of Dustin’s mouth tipped up. A smudge of whipped cream lingers there. I clench my fork, aggressively resisting the urge to wipe it off then lick it from my fingertip. I contain myself, barely, but it’s not enough to keep the wicked little fantasy from playing out in my mind. We could have a lot of fun with a can or two of whipped cream… “Sex can go either way. It can be about love. But all too often it’s about lust. You can’t build a lasting relationship on lust alone.”

“I want more than lust, Maggie. I have to stay married fortenyears.”

“Ten?”

“Yeah.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’d prefer to marry someone who will forget all about that business clause when that ten-year mark rolls around. Not just because the sex is mind blowing—which I guarantee it will be—but because we actually care about one another.”

I shiver unexpectedly at the promise of great sex, struggling to remind myself he isnottalking about me.

“I’m only getting married once,” he adds, “no matter how the chips fall. Might as well make this one count.”

My brain feels a bit scrambled at this unexpected twist. The matchmaker in me is already compiling a list in my head of potential candidates in Caribou Creek, but I’m not ready to admit that to Dustin. I don’t want him to think he’s gained the upper hand. Before I officially agree, I need more information. I also need to set some ground rules. “How long have you known about this?”

“Almost a year.”

“Ayear?” Though the patrons are scarce, every single head in the diner turns toward us at my outburst. Including Kinley from the kitchen. I give her a quick wave to assure her everything is good. I do wonder if she’s seen the article, though. It was only last summer that the two of us sat down in a booth together. She encouraged me to plan a comeback event. It was a simple suggestion, but one that took root. It almost worked. Damn nosy reporter chasing a story.

“My parents passed away a year ago,” Dustin explains. “I wasn’t really focused on finding love when that happened.”

I reach across the table to cover his hand with my own. The gesture is automatic. The contact warm and oddly soothing, though I’m not the heartbroken one. It’s as though I can feel his pain. As though we’re connected on some deep soul level that shouldn’t be possible. I can’t deny the spark that zips through my fingers and up my arm, though I do my best to ignore it. Thelast thing I can afford to do is get involved with a potential client. That would be the last nail in my matchmaker coffin for sure. “I’m so sorry, Dustin. I didn’t know.”

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