Here's my card. What's your hurry? You look like a woman whose youth and desirability are rapidly waning. Let me put you on the matrimonial fast track.
Though she didn't say that. She was charming, friendly, and so upbeat that she radiated with it.
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Too many thoughts. Too much spinning. Too little data. I didn't like to overanalyze things. There was no way to have all the data necessary to make a completely informed decision. I did my research, collected as much data as was available, and then trusted my gut to guide my decision. But a matchmaker? I'd never considered using one before, but now the thought had wedged itself in my mind.
I'd been sitting on her card for days, wondering what I should do. Waffling. I wasn't usually a waffler. Why did I become one when mulling over matters of the heart?
In my business life, I was what I liked to call a unicorn hunter. I had an inborn talent and ability for spotting trends before they became hot. For picking winning designs, products, and businesses. Companies paid me big bucks to consult with them and tell them which of their ideas had the best chance of catching fire. My ability had served me well in another way. I used my talents to build a nice investment portfolio.
I had a gut feeling about Ashley Harte. If anyone could find me my man—wow, that sounded medieval—she'd be the one who could do it. I sensed a business opportunity in there somewhere, too. I had conflicting questions—if Ashley couldn't find me a soul mate, where did I turn? What did I do? And on the flipside, how would sharing my life with a guy change me? Would it dampen my unicorn-hunting abilities? Change my focus? Turn my mind into gooey, lovey brain mush? And as adept as I was at spotting unicorns in business, would I recognize mine in the wild?
* * *
Jeremy Marino
My friends call me "the accidental hero." I have a tendency to be at the right place at the wrong time for people. Or maybe I'm just plain bad luck. Depends on how you look at it. I've saved at least half a dozen lives in my nearly thirty-one years.
The first time, I was fourteen and swimming in the Cedar River on a lazy August afternoon. A girl about my age got caught in the current and swept out to the deep and swift-running center of the river. She panicked. I wasn't the world's strongest swimmer, but I was the only one who seemed to notice she was in trouble. Which made me the best shot she had. I was young enough, and foolhardy enough, to dive in after her and haul her back to shore. She fought me and tried to drown me every stroke of the way. Panic made her think it was safer to be on my back with her head above water and mine below.
Did I even get a kiss for my trouble? I think we know the answer to that—I was a geeky young guy. Some girls won't kiss a frog, even if that frog just saved her life.
Since then, I've run into burning buildings, been the first on accident scenes, and confronted a knife-wielding maniac in an alley. My buddies worry one of these days I'm going to rush into a situation I can't handle and be a casualty myself. It's a valid concern. I'm not a big guy, not your usual hero-looking type, and I wouldn't say I'm any braver than anyone else. Or any smarter. But my bud Lazer has made it his business to make damn certain I'm better trained than the ordinary guy.
I've come a long way with the ladies since that first rescue. You might say I've perfected my come-on.
Hello, my name's Jeremy. I'm working with a matchmaker to up my game with the ladies and find my soul mate. Hey, sweetheart, could you be the one? Would you like to have my babies? Give me your number and maybe I'll call.
How's that for an introduction? Too strong? Too slimy? Yeah, definitely slimy. Which made it hilarious if delivered the right way.
Ashley, my matchmaker, didn't train me to sound like a stand-up comic. She was more of a stick-with-the-tried-and-true, flatter-the-woman, be-a-gentleman-and-play-nice kind of matchmaker. My tongue-in-cheek come-on was something I imagined trying for fun, for the experience of it. Worst case? A slap in the face would give me machismo points with my buds and be something to talk about.
Fortunately, I'm not the kind of guy women generally slap. I'm more the kind they like to coo over and mother. It's my thin build and baby face. Damn my cuddly baby face. I have a dark beard. I'm half Italian. I can grow facial hair in the blink of an eye. But I look young and innocent. I'm trying to change that. It's a well-known fact that women like bad boys. I'm trying to find my edge. Not easy for a geek in the middle of his reformation. Yes, un-geeking oneself was, unfortunately, an ongoing process. A never-ending process. You know what they say about geeks, right? You can take them out of the game, but you can't take the game out of a geek.
Haven't heard that? All right. I confess. I made it up. But it sounds good.
If you couldn't tell, I have a warped sense of humor. At least, that's what they tell me. Cocky humor isn't my style. I don't have the arrogance and confidence to pull it off. My stutter would come out. I've mostly mastered it, but it rears its ugly head when I'm under pressure. As in when I'm talking to a woman I particularly like. The stutter would ruin the jokiness of my presentation and the effect. Stick with straight man around the ladies, Jeremy.
I stepped out of the gym shower and reached for a towel. I was running late after my workout with Stryker, my personal trainer. Now there was a guy who caught the ladies' eyes without even trying. Unfortunately, I was no Stryker. I was the slightest built, and shortest, of my group of buds. Translation—scrawniest. No matter how much I worked out, or how many protein shakes I drank, I didn't bulk up. I have long, lean muscles. That's what Ashley tells me.
Work it. Work it. Sell it. Sell it. Dating is half marketing. That's my mantra. Take scrawny and sell it hard as a feature.
Ladies, I look good in skinny jeans. Damn good. Eyebrow wiggle to turn them on.
My buddies and I are geeks, programmers, coders, and cosplayers. I'm the oldest of my group of four buddies. We met in college and have been inseparable since. A year ago, I was the first of us to turn thirty. On my birthday, three of my best friends and I decided it was time to settle down and find the girls of our dreams. My fourth buddy, Lazer, is a billionaire and, for the moment, a reformed playboy. He's engaged to Ashley, but they haven't set a date. He was still playboying at the time. The marriage bug hadn't bitten him. As a joke, and to prove that money can buy love, if used in the right way, he hired a matchmaker to give us a fighting chance of attracting a woman. It backfired on him. Lazer fell in love with our matchmaker. Haha, the joke's on him. But that's another story.
My buddy, Austin, was the first of us to fall from the ranks of the free and the single. In fact, we were fresh off returning from his wedding in Scotland. I have to say, it was the best, most exciting wedding I've ever been part of. It came complete with a serious death-defying sword fight, plus kilts. Anytime you can cosplay at a wedding is perfection to me. If only I could find a bride so willing.
It's my greatest disappointment that the odds are against any of the rest of us being able to top it. But still we strive to find the right girl and keep the fantasy alive. Maybe another of us will spur the fury of a nemesis who will attack during our marriage ceremony. A guy can dream.
I toweled off, wondering whether I should text Ashley that I'd be a few minutes late for our breakfast meeting at the Blackberry Bakery. Nah. Ashley knew me well enough to expect some lateness out of me. I was pretty sure she built it into her schedule. Ashley was always meeting clients and always on a tight schedule. I seriously didn't know how she had the energy to meet with people for breakfast, lunch, and late afternoon coffee. As an introvert, I shuddered at the thought.
I glanced at the time again. It was just a short walk to the bakery from the gym. How late could I be? By the time she got my text, I'd be there.
I threw on my clothes, ran my fingers through my hair, and stored my gym bag in my locker. Moments later, I was walking uphill to the bakery.
September in Seattle can be absolutely gorgeous. This was one of those perfect fall days. Cool morning temperatures with t
he hope of heat in the afternoon. Puget Sound was sparkling at my back. A cool breeze blew off the water. The sound was our natural air conditioner. The coolness felt good after sweating it out at the gym. Don't tell Stryker the health-food-advocate, but I was looking forward to a slice of something thick and decadent at the bakery. Like a nice, fat piece of cake. Fortunately for me, I ate what I liked and never gained an ounce. Yeah, hate me.
Sell it, sell it. Good genetics, ladies. Our children could be rails, too. And eat us out of house and home.
I was one block into my four-block walk when a stunning blonde merged from a side street into my path half a block in front of me. This area of Seattle, near the waterfront and Flashionista, which employed a lot of hot, young, fashionable women, was amply populated with beauties.
Stryker worked out of several gyms downtown. You know where's a good place to meet hot women? A gym. That's just one of the useful facts Ashley has drilled into me. Applying the logic that if I chose a gym located next to a ready supply of already good-looking ladies, that gym would have a disproportionately high amount of stunners, I worked out at the gym here, even though it was farther away from home than the others Stryker had available.
I had not been sorry since. The views here were stunning.
But this was a beauty I hadn't seen before. For one thing, she was wearing a dress and sandals, still looking summery in the Indian summer we were having. The Flashionista girls were already wearing fall colors and boots. I supposed you couldn't blame them—Flashionista is an online fashion retailer. I was glad the hot woman in front of me was hanging on to summer. She had legs it would have been a shame to hide beneath pants and boots.
Ladies, men like to see women in dresses. The way her hips swayed and her skirt flounced as she walked—whew. Let's just say it was seductive as hell and call it a day. She had one bad ass. I say that in the most flattering way possible. I was mesmerized. Petite. Straight blond hair gently blowing in the breeze and a great ass. What was not to love?
But, as Ashley had drilled into me, I was a gentleman. Gentlemen do not creep on the ladies, no matter how tempted they might be to resort to douchey geek behavior. I mentally sighed and kept my distance behind her. That didn't stop me from hoping for some small drama, like her heel breaking. And then who would swoop in to her aid? Not that I was a cobbler or anything. But I'd figure something out.
Failing that, if a stoplight detained her, allowing me to casually catch up to her, even if I had to sprint, it wouldn't break my heart.
She reached the corner. I was turning at that very corner, but prepared to make a detour if necessary to see where she was headed. Anything to buy time. I needed time to think up a way to introduce myself. Fortunately, she turned the corner. That had to be a sign.
I picked up my pace and turned the corner, too. The bakery was just another block ahead. There wasn't much on this street for the everyday walker or casual browser. A dry cleaner, a few restaurants, and a bunch of small shops. The bakery was the main attraction. I got my hopes up she was heading there. She was almost to the corner. The light was green—
And then I got lucky. A cop car came out of nowhere on the cross street, siren blaring. The stoplight went red out of sequence, holding my quarry up. How very convenient. Thanks, Seattle PD.
I picked up my pace, glad that my lean muscles were still pumped from my workout, flexed as much as possible without being too obvious, and came up next to her. I shook my head, happy we'd have to wait another cycle through the light together. "Don't you hate when th…that happens?" I used my mental tricks and got control of the stutter. "I'm already late for an appointment at the bakery and now this." All true.
Notice how I worked in the bakery and the information that I had an appointment, not a date? I didn't want her getting the wrong impression about Ashley. I was learning.
The woman's smile was radiant, reaching all the way to her sparkling blue eyes, crinkling them at the corners in a completely adorable way. She was the small kind of pixie-ish beauty I loved. "I know, right?"
"If they run out of torta gianduia before I get there, I'm going to be pissed," I said, impressing her with my culinary sophistication and love of Italian chocolate hazelnut cake.
Her answering laugh was as sparkling and enticing as the rest of her. "That's my favorite, too."
"Small world."
But not as small as I made out. I had it on good authority from the manager that the torta was the most popular dessert the Blackberry served. It was one of their specialties, after all. They were famous for it. Why do you think I led with it? Establish a bond. Make it look like you have something in common right off the bat. I was also fishing to see whether the Blackberry was her destination, too. The magic 8-ball said, It's a possibility.
Ashley admonishes us to be bold and leave as little as possible to chance. I screwed up my courage.
I was just about to introduce myself, make another charming comment carefully crafted to find out more about her, possibly offer to buy her coffee and cake, and get her number, when the sound of squealing brakes interrupted my suave moves. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look at the same time she did.
A loaded flatbed truck full of beer kegs was smoking and coming down the hill like it had gotten into its cargo and had one too many, veering directly toward us. Only a light pole stood between us and certain death. Holy hell.
I reacted on instinct. Adrenaline surged through me. I grabbed her to pull her out of the path of the truck.
What the hell? At the same time, she gave me a hard shove backward, like she was trying to push me out of the truck's path.
"Run!" she screamed. "Move!"
She threw off my mojo. And I threw hers off. I grabbed her around the waist. We stumbled awkwardly backward.
The truck continued its trajectory. I fell to the ground, flat on my back, on the concrete sidewalk, somehow managing not to crack my head wide open.
She landed on top of me, legs straddling me, eyes wide, hands splayed and pressed against my chest.
Now this was a view I could get used to.
Our eyes met and locked.
There was an earsplitting crash. The sidewalk rumbled and shook. The light pole tilted. Black smoke curled above us. The air smelled of hot rubber and gasoline. Kegs of beer rolled and bounced around us.
"Can I get you a beer? How about a nice, rolling IPA?" I said.
3
Jeremy
"If you can tap a keg on the move, I'm game." Her face was inches from mine. She had a cute spray of freckles showing faintly across her nose through her makeup.
Damn, my heart would not settle down.
Beer kegs bounced and rolled around us, coming faster and more frequently.
"Take your pick." I pulled her close and covered her head with my hands to protect her from flying kegs. Did she settle quietly down to let me gallantly protect her? Hell no.
She tugged her skirt down, pushed me away, and wiggled out of my embrace.
Why? Why did victims always fight their rescuers? I expected as much out of panicking people who were drowning, but on dry land?
She scrambled to her feet, her cross-body purse bouncing around her waist. At the same moment, I got a glimpse behind her. She turned to look over her shoulder.
The driver of the truck was slumped over the wheel, unconscious and still buckled in. The truck was leaking fuel. Smoke billowed up from beneath the hood.
I hopped to my feet, shoved her behind me to protect her, and made a dash for the truck. A tongue of flame began licking its way out of the engine.
"Stand back! The whole thing could blow any minute. Get help." I had to get the driver out before the whole thing went up. There was no time to think. I acted on instinct, shedding my shirt and using it as an oven mitt to protect my hand as I grabbed the truck's door handle.
Fortunately, the truck had hit the pole on the passenger side. The driver's door came open easily enough. But the driver was a
big guy with a beer gut appropriate for someone who drove a beer truck. He was buckled in and wedged snugly between the wheel and the seat.
Suddenly, she was behind me again. "Stand back hell."
"Get back!" I shouted at her, trying to shield her from the heat and smoke.
"You'll never get him out alone," she said in my ear. "Let me help." She reached for his seatbelt buckle.
Now this was a woman who looked like she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. How was she going to help? Brute strength didn't look like her thing, and that was what I needed most.
I coughed. Too damn much smoke. It was rapidly filling the cab. Soon we'd have no visibility and asphyxiate. Perspiration beaded on the driver's face. There was no time to argue with her. Flyweight or not, she was all the help I had.
Without speaking, we coordinated our efforts.
She unbuckled him and moved out of my way. I grabbed the guy around the waist. Free from the seatbelt harness, he slumped over farther. I managed to get a grip on him sideways beneath his arms. I pulled and struggled. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, trying to add her weight to the effort.
"He's not budging. He's stuck," I said, as if it wasn't obvious.
She let go of me, slid the flap of her purse open, and dug inside, pawing through the contents, mumbling to herself. "Why is it that what you want is always on the bottom? Ah-hah!" With a triumphant look, she pulled out a tiny jar of petroleum jelly.
I stepped aside to let her work. She greased the wheel and the guy's ample belly, coughing as she worked. "That should do it." Her eyes were watering as she stepped aside.
I nodded and took up my position again, getting a grip beneath his arms. He was still breathing. That was a plus.
She wrapped her arms around me from behind. "Together."
"On the count of three." I braced myself, trying to use my leg strength, not my back. "One. Two. Three!"
She pulled me back. I tugged on the guy, feeling the burn in my thighs and arms. His body resisted and finally slid free. Good old petroleum jelly.
Mr. Accidental Hero: Jet City Matchmaker Series: Jeremy Page 2
