by Sarah Adams
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Match © 2020 by Sarah Adams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First edition May 2020
Book design by Sarah Adams
Cover design by Sarah Adams
Editing by Jenn Lockwood
WWW.AuthorSarahAdams.com
This book is for all the four-legged superheroes of the world, saving lives, giving love and independence to those who need it!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
A Note From Sarah:
Also by Sarah Adams
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
EVIE
I wake up to the feel of Charlie’s tongue grazing my cheek. I don’t like being kissed like this first thing in the morning. Mainly because I don’t like mornings, and I wish that he would get it through his thick head that I need every minute of sleep possible. But just like every morning, he’s persistent. I am Sleeping Beauty, and he is the prince. Although, I’m pretty sure the prince didn’t roll his tongue all over Sleeping Beauty’s face like Charlie is doing now. What a different movie that would have turned out to be.
“Can you please just give me five more minutes?” I ask while shoving my head under the pillow in an attempt to block his advances.
But he doesn’t like this game. Never has. It worries him to not be able to see my face. We’ve been together now for three years—and he’s become the tiniest bit overprotective. But he’s the best snuggler in the whole world, so I allow his slightly domineering attitude.
Plus, he really does know what’s best for me. He’s improved my life in more ways than I can document. It’s why I adore him. It’s why I let him lick my face at 6:30 AM. It’s why I sit up in bed and roll him over onto his back and rub his tummy until his leg starts shaking.
Oh, right. Charlie is my dog. Did I forget to mention that?
More specifically, he’s my seizure-assist dog.
I was diagnosed with epilepsy when I was sixteen years old. It stole my adolescence. It stole my peace of mind. And more importantly—it stole my license. Turns out, the state doesn’t like it too much if you randomly black out and convulse. Believe me, they will—under no circumstances—let you behind the wheel of a vehicle once they get wind of the E word.
No one sympathizes more with the poor girl in the Beach Boys song about her daddy taking her T-Bird away than me. Except mine was a 1980 slate-blue Land Cruiser with a cream-colored top. My daddy bought it for me a month before my sixteenth birthday. Not even a week after that sweet sixteen, I had my first seizure that changed my life forever.
Those next few years were hard, to say the least. I was scared of going anywhere or doing anything. One day I was a teenager, blissfully carefree about everything besides the chip in my hot-pink glitter nail polish. The next, I was painfully aware of how little a part I played in my existence on this earth.
Charlie didn’t come into my life until I was twenty-three and still living with my mama and daddy because I was scared to live on my own. Actually, I thought I couldn’t live on my own. But then I met a woman in a coffee shop who had an adorable white Labrador retriever at her side, a bright-blue vest strapped around its body with a patch sewed on the side that read Working Dog, Do Not Pet.
I’ll be honest, the first thought that went through my mind was wondering if this dog could do my taxes. Turns out, they don’t do that sort of work. The woman was kind enough to field all of my stupid questions, because in her exact words, “No question is too stupid.”
But I figured if she gave me enough of her time, I could manage to change her mind.
The rest was history. Joanna Halstead, the woman from the coffee shop—also known as my fairy godmother—quickly became one of my best friends. I learned that she owned a service-dog company called Southern Service Paws, and she trained and matched dogs with people suffering from all sorts of disabilities. Disabilities just like mine.
That’s how Charlie came into my life. It’s how I regained my independence and security. It’s how I decided to live on my own. It’s how my parents came to hate the company that I adore and am being groomed to take over when Joanna retires next year.
Well, company might be a bit of a stretch.
Company implies monetary value. And money is not something that Southern Service Paws has. It’s more like Jo is grooming me to take over her heart. Something that has a whole lot more value than money, but a shockingly low credit score.
I am the only other employee that is paid a salary—the rest are volunteers. And, actually, salary is also another one of those deceiving words. When you hear it, you think benefits, 401ks, and down payments on pretty little houses. When I hear it, I just think of my apartment that is the size of my thumbnail and my kitchen pantry that is stocked with Ramen noodles and Froot Loops.
Luckily, I love Froot Loops.
I will eat nothing but sugary cereal for the rest of my days if it means I get to keep working for Jo and her company. Because I love what I do and the people I help. And as cramped as I am in this little place, I’m proud that it’s mine—not my parents’.
In this new world I have carved out for myself over the past three years, I’m just Evie. Not Miss Evelyn Grace Jones, daughter to Harold and Melony Jones of the prestigious Charlestonian family that resides SOB (South of Broad, aka Snootyville, and where I was raised). That name might not mean anything to you, but around here in Charleston, it’s everything.
My family comes from what’s known as “old southern money.” You know the kind: big historical houses, prestigious country clubs that only accept members with names who have been on the list since it was founded, garden cocktail parties served by men in white jackets, and a unique southern drawl that says, “I’m better than you.”
My daddy is an attorney and partner at Jones and Murray Law—the oldest and most elite law firm in all of South Carolina—and my mama is on the board of the Powder Society of Revolutionary Ladies. What is it they do? Mainly sit around in their finely tailored day dresses and drink martinis, planning more cocktail parties for their wealthy husbands to mingle and continue to pass their old southern money back and forth like playing cards.
Basically, I grew up exactly opposite of how I’m living now, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
That thought reminds me of my schedule for the day, and I reach over Charlie, my 90 lb. golden retriever—who is more of a bed hog than any full-grown man—and pick up my phone. I do a double take of the time. That can’t be right. It says it’s 9:
10 AM. How can that be when I set my alarm for 6:45 AM? Oh, wonderful. I forgot to set it. And now I’m going to be late for my client meeting.
“No, no, no,” I say, throwing off my white comforter and jumping out of bed.
Charlie sits up, ears at attention and body poised for anything, watching me race across my studio apartment to the closet. I’m wearing a pair of cute new pink undies, and it occurs to me how sad it is that Charlie is the only male in my life to see them.
I trip over a shoe before I look in my empty closet and remember that I put off going to the laundromat last night so I could finish binge-watching The Bachelor. Don’t judge me. It’s the only romance I have in my life right now.
Charlie walks up beside me and gives me a look that says, “I told you not to shirk your responsibilities.” He’s so much more adult than me.
I put my hands on my hips and frown down at him. “I have twenty minutes before I need to be at the coffee shop, and I have nothing to wear, so quit giving me that high-and-mighty look, or I’m going to shave your fur and wear it as a coat like Cruella de Vil.”
He rolls his eyes at me. You might think it’s impossible for a dog to roll his eyes. That’s only because you haven’t met Charlie. I smile and rub his adorable head because I can never be mad at him for more than two seconds.
Thankfully, I spot my turquoise summer dress I wore yesterday. It’s laying crumpled on the couch in a tight little ball that would make my mama gasp with disbelief. Her maid would never allow one of her dresses to crease. How atrocious.
Crossing the room, I shake out my dress, give it one good sniff, and then decide that wearing it one more day won’t hurt anyone. It smells a little too much like the burger I ate last night, so after pulling it on, I douse myself in vanilla body spray.
Now I’m a walking ad for Bath & Body Works, and I consider requesting some sort of royalty from them.
The clock continues to race, and I look like I’m in the middle of a challenge on a game show as I rush around my apartment trying to gather everything I need for the meeting, take my meds, and get Charlie fed. I better win a million dollars when I beat this clock.
“Charlie, find your vest,” I tell him while hopping on one foot and pulling my white tennis shoe on the other.
Yes, I wear tennis shoes with sundresses. Mama swears that this is the reason I’m not married yet. I think it has more to do with the shockingly small pool of men that want a serious relationship with a woman that has to take a service dog with her everywhere and might drop down with a seizure in the middle of their dinner date.
And to be honest, I just haven’t been looking for a man all that much. My days are full of work, and I don’t have much time to devote to weeding out the guys who only want to sleep with me from the ones who I can count on to show up if I mark him down as my emergency contact.
I check the time on my phone and then give myself two minutes to brush my teeth and wipe the mascara out from underneath my eyes. I wish I had more time to spend on my face. I hate feeling rushed or unprofessional for a meeting, because it makes me wonder if Mama is right and I don’t have my act together. But there’s just no time to worry about that now.
In record time, I swipe on some pink lip balm and knot a loose braid over my shoulder all the way to where it stops right above my hip. I’ve been growing my blonde locks out for a few years now, and it’s grown so long that I half-expect a prince to throw a rock at my window and tell me to let down my hair.
Do I have a fairytale princess obsession? I blame it on those Wednesday cotillion lessons I had to attend in high school.
Charlie pulls me out of my wandering thoughts and keeps me on track by dropping his blue vest at my feet. He’s better at finding things than I am. After buckling it around him, I give him a quick kiss on his head.
Since the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet my new client is right down the street, I plan on walking instead of calling a ride. Honestly, not being able to drive has been one of the hardest parts of living with a disability. There are so many nights where I wish I could hop in my car and run down to the drugstore to pick up a pint of ice cream. Or when I run out of tampons, it would be so nice to make a run myself, instead of having to call and wait for an Uber or order off of a one-hour grocery delivery service. Without fail, my delivery person ends up being a young guy. And every single time, he blushes when he makes the drop.
“Evening, ma’am. Here are your military-grade tampons and overnight pads. I hope you don’t die of anemia tonight.”
At 9:20, Charlie and I are on the sidewalk, jogging toward the coffee shop. Literally, jogging. My braid is bouncing around my face, and I realize that I probably should have worn bike shorts under my dress. Someone catcalls at me from somewhere across the street, and my suspicions are confirmed.
Somehow, I remembered to grab my binder full of information to share about our matching process as well as our training methods and fees before I darted from the apartment. I wish I could say that our dogs come free of charge to qualifying recipients, but we just aren’t there yet. Right now, our dogs come with a hefty price tag, and there are many people who could really benefit from having a service dog but can’t afford them due to the massive health bills that also come along with having a disability.
But, hopefully, after the big fundraiser Jo and I are putting on next month, that will all change.
For the past few months, we’ve been in contact with lots of major businesses and have coordinated a fancy silent auction of their goods and services that will raise money to help us be able to give away our dogs 100% free of charge to those who qualify. The recipients will have to prove that they are financially capable of providing food and necessary medications and vet visits for their dog, but that’s it. If all goes as hoped, we will make this a yearly event.
I clutch my binder tightly under my arm as I race toward Hudson Roasters. When a bead of sweat runs down my face, I wonder if it would have been better to just reschedule.
I’m meeting a man named Jacob Broaden to discuss having his ten-year-old daughter matched with one of our dogs. Maybe I would have canceled if it wouldn’t have been for her particular disability. Epilepsy. It’s not as if we’ve never matched anyone who shares my same disability before, but for some reason, knowing how young she is makes me feel a kinship to this girl. I feel like I owe it to her to show up today.
The dad sounded nice enough over email—if not a little…eccentric. Although, I think he might have been in a hurry when he sent off the email, because he misspelled a few words. His choice of five exclamation marks at the end of every sentence was intriguing as well. Actually, now that I think of it, I’m just hoping he’s not a psycho. I really don’t want to get stuffed in someone’s trunk today. That would really solidify my parents’ point that the lower class can’t be trusted. But he said he has a daughter. How creepy can someone with a daughter really be? Unless the daughter was just a cover…
Maybe I should have worn a longer dress. Suddenly, I’m very aware of how much of my legs are showing.
As we round the corner to the coffee shop, Charlie and I slow our pace. It’s as hot as Hades today, and I’m sweating like an overweight, fifty-year-old man that’s worked in a cubicle for the last twenty years of his life and has a drawer full of candy bars that he eats when he thinks no one is looking. Yeah, I’m secret-candy-eating-fat-guy sweating, and my vanilla body spray is emitting from my skin in toxic quantities.
Mama would be so proud. I’m really putting my best foot forward today.
Before I reach the door of the coffee shop, I come to a stop, closing my eyes and trying to catch my breath. I mentally remind myself of all the major points I need to cover today and hope I don’t forget anything. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing this for three years now; I never fail to grow excessively nervous before these first meetings. I think it’s because I know firsthand how much having a service dog can change someone’s life, and I don’t want to do anything to de
ter them from taking that step.
I look down at Charlie, and he winks at me. I’m telling you, my dog is special.
I take one last glance down at my florally patterned summer dress and do a quick check that all my lady parts are where they should be and have not escaped from the scooped neckline during my jog. But ha ha, who am I kidding? None of my lady parts are big enough to move, let alone escape their confines. There are perks of being tall and lean—being a member of the itty-bitty-you-know-what committee is not one of them.
I open the door, and Charlie walks through with a loose leash like a perfect little gentleman. During the first year after I adopted Charlie, I felt like my eyes were constantly glued to him and his to me. I used my face and hands, asking him to stay, wait, go ahead, or lie down at my feet. Now, it feels as if Charlie knows what I’m thinking before I think it. He and I are so tuned to one another that I honestly forget he’s there. He’s a part of me. My second skin. A very hairy second skin.
It’s an odd thing when there’s no one in the world you trust more than your dog. But that first time I had a seizure alone in my apartment, and Charlie did exactly what we had trained him to do—push the medical alert button on the wall that calls Joanna and then my parents, and then turn me on my side and lick my face to help me regain consciousness sooner—it sealed my trust.
And today, I hope I can help a little girl and her daddy find that same trust.
After stepping inside the coffee shop and letting the cool air rush over the beads of sweat on my forehead, I scan the room, looking for a man and young girl. Mr. Broaden gave me a brief description of himself in his email, so I scan the room, looking for a tall man with “hunny”-colored hair. Though, I really hope that his fingers hit the keys wrong and he actually knows how to spell the word honey.
