by Jane Graves
“Headache?”
“Nah. There’s just this little man with a jackhammer inside my head.”
“You’re indoors. Any reason you’re still wearing sunglasses?”
“My eyes. I look like an alcoholic bloodhound.”
“Let me see,” he said.
“No way.”
“Come on,” he said with a smile. “Take off the sunglasses.”
With a sigh of resignation, she slowly slid them off her face, then turned to look at him.
“Wow. Alcoholic bloodhound? Not a bad analogy.”
“You’re teasing me,” she said, shoving them back on her face. “I am not in the mood.”
Brandon laughed. “Come on, Alison. You’re making too much of this.”
“No. It was awful. It was like I violated you, or something.”
“Violated?” He barked out a laugh of disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Not one man in ten thousand would look it like that.”
“Hey! People practically go to jail these days for just looking at somebody funny, much less invading their personal space. You wouldn’t believe the sexual harassment training we have to go through where I work.” She rolled her eyes. “See? I know better, so it makes it even worse!”
“I’m not your employee.”
“But we do have a professional relationship, so for me to jeopardize that—”
“You didn’t jeopardize anything.”
“Yes, I did.”
“It can’t be sexual harassment unless the harassee sees it that way. I didn’t see it that way.”
“Then it’s a good thing you don’t work for a big company. They’d send you for remedial training.”
“Alison—”
“You can downplay it all you want to, but it was still awful. I mean, I just dove right in there and—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Brandon grabbed her arm and yanked her up next to him. He dropped his mouth against hers, pulling her right up against that big, expansive, naked chest and kissing her until she nearly fainted in his arms. It was a hot, reckless kiss that thoroughly invaded her personal space and would have sent any human resources director on the planet into a frenzy. Finally he released her, but every nerve in her body was still sizzling like raindrops on a summer sidewalk.
“There,” he said. “We’re even. We’ve violated each other. We’re both practically criminals. Now, can we forget all about it?”
Alison just stood there, shell‑shocked, barely able to catch a good, solid breath. It hadn’t been remotely real. She knew that. He was just making a point. But…wow.
“Uh…yeah. Sure.”
“Good.” He opened the door. “I’ll let you know when I have your next match for you. It may be a while—I intend to get it right this time. And I’ll see you and your chain gang next weekend. Saturday morning, nine a.m.? Isn’t that what we decided?”
Alison just stood there, gaping at him.
“Alison. Nine o’clock?”
“Oh, yeah. Nine on Saturday.”
She walked out of the house, and he closed the door behind her, leaving her standing on his front porch wondering what the hell had just happened. Somehow he expected that kiss to cancel out what she’d done? No. All it had accomplished was to make her stop thinking about the kiss she’d given him and start obsessing about the one he’d given her.
She got into her car, but her heart wouldn’t slow down. She sat there for a long time, her hands on the steering wheel, her skin hypersensitive and her breathing just a little out of control. The strangest sense of exhilaration was boiling up inside her, giving her the weirdest urge to run around the block, or drop and do fifty push-ups, or maybe get on a bicycle and ride fifty or sixty miles just to release some of her pent-up energy. Unfortunately, exercise was that thing she did by walking to McCaffrey’s and having a burger and fries, so all those things were out. She’d just have to live with it until her heart decided to save itself and calm down, or she came to her senses and could truthfully say she wasn’t falling for Brandon.
She waited a minute. Two minutes.
Nope. She was definitely falling for him. And not in a small way. She was falling for him like a skydiver fell to earth from twenty thousand feet. And she could no more stop it than the skydiver could reverse course and get back into the plane. But it wasn’t only because of the kiss he’d just given her. This had been coming almost from the first moment she met him. But since he was her matchmaker, he was supposed to find her a man, and it wasn’t until now that she actually started to let herself think about what it would be like if he was that man.
She touched her fingertips to her lips, telling herself he hadn’t meant a thing by that kiss. He was merely trying to make a point. More to the point, trying to get her to shut up, which was embarrassing enough in its own right.
She took deep yoga breath and tried to put it out of her mind, even though she knew it was going to linger there for a long time to come. If a fake kiss could generate these kinds of feelings, what would it be like if he ever gave her the real thing?
Chapter 18
The next Saturday morning, as Alison stepped out of the shower, her phone rang. She threw on a robe and ran to answer it. She looked at the caller ID. Brandon? Just seeing his name brought back memories she’d been trying all week to forget. Her next thought, though, was considerably more panicked. Oh, please don’t be calling to back out of the home tour.
She punched the talk button. “Brandon? What’s up?”
“About everybody coming here this morning,” he said. “Small problem with that.”
She came to attention. “Oh, no. You’re not backing out on me, are you? You can’t do that. You promised we could use—”
“Will you take it easy? It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“It’s supposed to get to a hundred and three degrees today.”
“That’s a problem?”
“It is when my air conditioner is acting up again.”
Alison slumped with dismay. “Oh, that’s just great. Can you fix it?”
“I haven’t had much luck up to now. I can call a repairman, but if the offer of your father’s help is still open, that’d be great.”
“Oh. Yeah. No problem. He was planning on coming to help today, anyway. I’ll give him a call.”
“Everybody else will be here in an hour and a half.”
“We’ll get there as fast as we can,” Alison said. She started to hang up, only to have another thought. “Brandon. Wait.”
“What?”
“I meant to tell you something before today.”
“Tell me what?”
“Well, my father doesn’t know you’re a matchmaker. He especially doesn’t know you’re my matchmaker. Can we keep quiet about that?”
“He wouldn’t approve?”
“There are only five truly manly occupations. Firefighter, policeman, mechanic, soldier, and truck driver.
“Cowboy? Astronaut?”
“Second tier, but acceptable.”
“Which one was he?”
“Firefighter.”
“Where does real estate investor fall on his list?”
“Probably neutral. But if you have tools and fix things, you get extra points. And he’d definitely turn his nose up at me paying a matchmaking man to find me a husband. As far as he’s concerned, the only people licensed to matchmake are nosy friends and relatives.”
“Gotcha. I’m a real estate investor, and we met at McCaffrey’s. In case it comes up.”
“Oh, it’ll come up. Trust me. See you soon.”
Alison hung up and called her father, who said he’d meet her at Brandon’s house. She threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and left her condo. Later, as she was pulling to the curb in front of Brandon’s house, her father pulled up behind her. Thank God she’d beaten him there. It was always best for her to be around as a buffer the first time anybody met Charlie Carter.
Charlie grabbed his toolbox, and
together they walked toward the side of the house. She wondered what the odds were of her father getting through this day without offending somebody. Just about everybody who got to know him eventually saw beyond the perpetual frowny face and tidal wave of unsolicited advice, but sometimes it took a while.
“Do me a favor, will you, Dad?” she said as they walked.
“What’s that, sweetie?”
“Try not to be crabby today. And remember—your way is not the only way.”
“That’s true.”
“Wow. I’m glad to hear you finally admit that.”
“But it’s always the right way.”
Gee, maybe this wasn’t going to be bad after all.
It was going to be terrible.
Brandon was already there, with the cover of the air conditioner off and more tools than he’d ever use scattered around. He wore a pair of wrinkled cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. How in the world could he dress so shabby and still look so gorgeous?
He rose as they approached. Alison introduced the two men, and they shook hands.
“I was going to get a repairman out here,” Brandon said, “but Alison said you’re pretty good with air conditioners.”
“I’ve piddled around with a few of them.”
Charlie squatted down and peered into the unit. After a few minutes, he said, “There’s your problem. You just need to get the fan blade seated right.”
“I haven’t had a lot of luck with that.”
“It’s not easy, but we’ll get it done.”
Charlie grabbed a wrench, and soon he had the fan blade off.
“What do you do for a living, Brandon?”
Alison shot him a furtive glance. Told you so.
“I’m a real estate investor,” Brandon said.
“Yeah?” Charlie said. “Real estate? Fixing this one up to sell?”
“No. I’ll be staying here for a while.”
“What kind of real estate do you usually invest in?”
“Apartment buildings, strip centers, single family homes if the potential profit is good enough.”
“So how’s business? I hear the real estate market stinks.”
“You’re right about that,” he said. “So I’m taking some time off to settle my grandmother’s estate. She died several weeks ago. Hopefully the market will rebound soon and I’ll be back at it.”
Charlie turned his attention back to the air unit. “So where do you two know each other from?” he asked, and Alison shot Brandon another I told you so.
“McCaffrey’s,” Alison said. “Everybody who lives around here eventually ends up there.”
“Well, don’t eat the turkey burger,” Charlie said. “Tastes like crap.”
Brandon smiled. “That’s because turkey doesn’t belong on a bun.”
Charlie turned to Alison. “I like this guy. Listen to him, will you? No more of the damned turkey.”
For the next few minutes, Brandon and Charlie held this, twisted that, and threw a few tools around.
“Are you married?” Charlie asked Brandon as they worked.
“No, sir.”
“Ever been married?”
“Dad, stop. You’re being intrusive.”
“No, I haven’t,” Brandon said.
“Seeing anyone?”
“No. Not right now.”
“Dad!”
“I just thought maybe he’d like to date a nice girl. That’s all.”
Alison’s face was so hot it could have set off a brush fire. “Could you embarrass me anymore, Dad? Could you? Is it even possible?”
“What makes you think I’m talking about you?” Charlie said with a wink, making Alison want to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt in after her. This was worse than the time she was at her father’s house and the UPS guy showed up. Her father invited him in and tried to set them up with all the subtlety of a charging rhino. What made it even worse was that he was a really cute guy, and she was wearing sweatpants, a beat‑up Hard Rock Café T‑shirt, and no makeup, with her unwashed hair in a pink scrunchy. After that humiliating incident, Alison hadn’t ordered anything online for three months on the outside chance that she’d open the door and it would be that same poor guy delivering the package.
Yeah, her father thought it was just fine to try to fix her up and embarrass the crap out of her in the process. But did it go both ways? No, it did not. The one time Alison had tried to suggest that perhaps her father might want to consider meeting one of the woman she worked with, he’d tossed down his newspaper and left the room.
“Let me tell you something about Alison,” Charlie said. “She has a college degree. A good job. If you’re looking for a wife—”
“Dad!”
“What? You’d make a great wife.” He turned to Brandon. “Don’t you think she’d make a great wife?”
“Of course,” Brandon said.
Alison sighed. Oh, what the hell. She was thirty-one years old. It was time to stop worrying about her father foisting his opinions on the entire human race. Even if those opinions were loud.
And numerous.
And made people wish they were anywhere else.
“Brandon couldn’t go out with me even if he wanted to,” Alison said.
“Why not?” Charlie asked.
“Professional ethics,” she said.
“Professional ethics? What’s professional ethics got to do with real estate? You live in the wrong neighborhood, or something?”
“Okay, Dad,” Alison said on a sigh. “We lied. Brandon used to be a real estate investor. Now he’s a matchmaker.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow. So we’re going there after all?
“Huh?” Charlie said.
“You know. He matches people up. His grandmother died, and he took over her business.”
“So that’s what that sign is out front? Matchmaking by Rochelle? And now he’s the matchmaker?”
“That’s right.”
He turned to Brandon. “Might want to think about changing the name.”
Brandon smiled. “I’m working on it.”
“But what’s the matchmaking thing got to do with him going out with you?” Charlie asked Alison.
“He can’t date his clients,” Alison said, trying to shelve the issue once and for all. “I’m his client.”
Charlie blinked with surprise. “So he’s your matchmaker?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Because I thought you’d think it was weird. First that I hired a matchmaker. And second that you’d think Brandon was weird because he was one. No offense, Dad, but sometimes you’re a little judgmental.”
“I’m not judgmental. I just tell the truth.” He turned to Brandon. “So why do you want to be a matchmaker?”
“I want to continue my grandmother’s business.”
“Good money in matchmaking?”
“Yeah. Not bad.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“My daughter’s wrong, you know. I’ve never been one to give a damn what a man did for a living, as long as it was legal and he could support his family.”
“Oh, come on, Dad,” Alison said. “How about the guy I dated who was an interior decorator? He made eighty grand a year, and arranging furniture isn’t illegal.”
“That was different. He was gay.”
“No, Dad. He was straight. The guy I dated who owned the Harley shop—he was gay.”
“I still don’t believe that.”
Alison just shook her head.
“So does this mean you’ve been setting up Alison on dates?” Charlie said.
“A few,” Brandon said.
“How’s that going?”
“I haven’t found quite the right match for her yet.”
“But he’s getting closer,” Alison said, even though a guy with lesbian dreams wasn’t exactly moving in quite the right direction.
“Good,”
Charlie said. “It’s about time she started dating men who are good enough for her. She wants to get married, you know.”
“Yeah, she’s mentioned that a time or two.”
Brandon gave her a furtive smile, and she decided to just quit being embarrassed by all this or it was going to be a very long day.
A few minutes later, Charlie gave a wrench one last twist. Brandon went into the house to flip the breaker, then try the unit. When it came on again, she heard was the low rumble of the ancient appliance chugging back to life.
Brandon came back outside. “Thanks for the help, Charlie. You saved me a bundle of money.”
“No sense paying somebody through the nose to do something I can do for free. If you have any more trouble with it, you just give me a call.” He looked back and forth between them. “So what’s next on the agenda?”
“I have a list,” Alison said. “We’ll go over it when everybody gets here.”
As Charlie gathered up his tools, Alison looked at Brandon and mouthed I’m so sorry, then gave a little eye roll in her father’s direction. He just smiled.
Alison heard a car door slam. She looked to the curb and saw Tony and Heather.
“Oh, good,” Brandon said. “Heather. She hates me.”
“I wouldn’t say she hates you. It’s more like she’s wary of you. Big difference.”
“Gee. That makes me feel way better.”
A minute or two later, Bea showed up, and everybody jumped in to get things done. Her father volunteered to paint, so he and Bea started spreading drop cloths in the kitchen. Tony and Brandon moved furniture so they could polish the floors and clean the rugs. Alison and Heather joined forces on the windows, starting with the ones in the kitchen and breakfast room. They hadn’t been washed in years, and it was a heavy-duty job to scrub them clean. Once they were finished with those, it was time for Bea and Charlie to start the painting.
Bea pried open the first can of wall paint. “So. Girls. What do you think of the color?”
Alison and Heather glanced over. It was a rich, creamy gold. Perfect for a Victorian kitchen.
“It’s just right,” Alison said.
“It’s going to be beautiful,” Heather said.
Charlie crinkled his nose. “It sucks.”
Alison sighed. “Dad—”
“It’s a re-creation of a popular Victorian color,” Bea said. “We had it expertly mixed.”
