Page 7 of My Mismatched Valentine

The answer to my internal question greets me the instant the door closes. Ah. Not moved in at all. The mansion is a cedar log shell. The foyer is bare of furniture, the living space has a small TV sitting on a coffee table and a bean bag stationed in front of it. “Is there even a bed in here?”

“Oh, there are a few of those.” I might be imagining the suggestive twinkle in his eyes. Seems all I managed to do with that damn toy was to open a flood gate of want. A quiver low in my belly warns me I have to keep moving or I won’t be able to stay focused. This is about saving my career—mydream. Not about living out some wicked fantasy to sate my womanly needs.

“Is there anywhere we can sit?” I ask, stepping forward and pretending to scan the empty house so I can avoid meeting those fatal blue eyes. Maybe I need to consider getting laid. A fun flingsomewhere tropical? Or maybe nestled in a cozy, private cabin? Hell, at this rate, I’d let some good looking guy pick me up in an Anchorage bar. Preferably one who’d promise to call and never make good on it. I need to get penetrated by a real cock andbad.

“The kitchen,” Dustin suggests, resting his hand lightly between my shoulder blades to nudge me in the right direction.

We walk side-by-side, the warmth of him drifting near me despite the distance between us. “I hope you’re prepared for a long night,” I say, hoping I sound intimidating. Or at least like I’m executing some annoying task so he won’t be inclined to be too friendly. This is a job, after all.

“I ordered pizza,” he says. “It should be here soon.”

The kitchen takes my breath away. Every detail is top-end—the marble countertops, the floor to ceiling cabinets, the commercial grade gas range. I can hardly process it all as I fall onto a barstool stationed at the island bigger than my bed. I lived a semi-luxurious life in L.A. I’m no stranger to high-end finishings. But I’ve yet to see a kitchen that could fit my entire rental house inside it.

“How does this work?” Dustin asks, pulling open the fridge. It appears bare inside, other than a six-pack ofCaribou Creek Lager, a gallon of milk, and a carton of eggs. He retrieves a single beer and sets it on the counter. I expect him to take a seat, but instead he pulls a bottle from a wine rack. He holds up the sauvignon blanc in offering.

I nod at him, shocked that the only bottle he happens to have is my favorite.It’s a coincidence, Maggie. It’s a common wine. Lots of people drink it. “I’m going to ask you each question and record your answer. Yourhonestanswer. I’m the only one who will ever see the responses, in case that wasn’t clear the first time around. Then tonight, I’ll enter your answers in the database and see which local women come up as the best matches. I’mhoping we can find someone right here in Caribou Creek, since you’ve apparently decided to make this place home.”

“What can I say? It’s a charming town.”

I ignore the impulse to ask him what on earth convinced him to buy a house in a town he’s never been to. We have more important things to cover if I’m going to find him a wife before time runs out. “I have potential matches in mind, but this questionnaire—answeredhonestly—will help me narrow it down so we’re not wasting time.”

He slides a two-thirds full wine glass across the counter. “So, you operate mostly off of data?”

“And instinct.” I pull the stapled booklet from my messenger bag and set it on the island. Though typing his answers might be faster, I prefer to hand write so the details are better committed to memory. “I never rely on data alone.”

“Ah, so that’s your secret then.”

“One of them.” I take a sip of the crisp wine, pretending as though I’m not watching Dustin round the counter and take a seat next to me. There are four bar stools stretched out across this side of the island. Why does he have to pick the one closest? Unless the man is purposely trying to torture me…

“How is that fair?” he teases, twisting the cap off his beer and taking a sip. I hate to admit how badly I envy that bottle right now. I’m grateful my new toy is rechargeable. I’m going to need it tonight. Probably more than once. “I can’t have secrets, but you can?”

“You’re not marryingme.”

“What if I did?”

It takes a moment to realize he’s posing a potentially serious question. The intense look in his eyes is unsettling. I reach for my wine glass again so I can compose myself before answering. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Sure, why not?” He turns in his barstool, his knee bumping mine. “We already have great chemistry.”

The mischievous twinkle in his eyes suggests he’s teasing, but the quiver low in my belly apparently isn’t registering that detail. For a fleeting moment, I entertain the ridiculous proposition. If I downed a couple glasses of wine and surrendered myself to this unfairly attractive man, I could be convinced to marry him with little more than a heated kiss. Until I woke up tomorrow and realized my career was over. “I don’t date my clients, Dustin.” I probably shouldn’t have called himDustin. “It’s my number one rule.”

“Then fire me.”

I shake my head, refocusing my attention on the questionnaire. Hoping he can’t sense the nervousness in my laugh. “We have a lot to cover, so we better get started. I don’t have a lot of time to figure this out for you.”

“Bet you get off on a challenge though, don’t you?” He’s leaning on the counter, his gaze fixated on me. Our knees brush again, and dammit if the contact doesn’t send an electrifying zing right to my core. The way my body responds to his every touch warns me the nasty headlines floating around the internet are the least of my worries.

For the first time in my matchmaking career, I sense I’m in real trouble. Trouble called Dustin Wilde.

CHAPTER 6

Dustin

Isit alone at a small corner table, sipping aCaribou Creek Lagerat the local brewery, waiting for a date I already know won’t show. The rustic tin walls greet me like an old friend, though I’ve only visited twice before. The brewery with its small-town atmosphere, rugged elegance, and warm vibe has quickly become a must-stop for me whenever I’m in town.

Both times I made the trip to Caribou Creek I was hoping I’d run into Maggie. I’d read an article somewhere that mentioned the once most sought-after matchmaker had closed shop in L.A. and retreated to her hometown in the mountains of Alaska. I had hoped to find out she was happy. That she’d set up a boutique matchmaking service in town or that clients traveled from all over the world to seek her out.

I also wanted to see if the spark I felt between us atThe Blue Sapphirewas real or imagined.

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