I reread the email, still not believing it. This is probably the thirtieth time I've read it in the last 2 days but every time it still says the same thing.

My application was accepted.

Even though I don't meet half the criteria to be one of Raven Swann's clients, she still accepted my application.

I have thousands of questions to start answering now. I stare at the .pdf file open on my desktop computer and scroll through the questionnaire.

If I thought the initial application was invasive, I had no idea what invasive meant but when I asked about the entirely too personal nature of most of the questions, Raven's explanation made sense. I mean, after all, she is a match maker. I understand that, for most people, sexual compatibility is an important part of what they're looking for in a spouse.

Looking over some of the questions in front of me, I feel myself blushing. I certainly don't think I'm a prude-- God knows how surprised I've been that some of the stuff I read soaks my panties and keeps me awake at night till I make myself come with my fingers and some fantasies that leave me sweaty but pleasantly exhausted-- but there's stuff on Raven's questionnaire that I just can't believe anyone would answer honestly.

Of course, sex is part of the deal. If I'm going through with this-- and I'm really going to agree to get married again-- then it's only reasonable to expect that my husband is going to want sex.

The heat in my cheeks flares again as I stumble into a series of questions on the form that cause me to press my thighs together tightly and squirm in the chair.

Let's face it-- part of the reason I'm doing this is because well...it'd be nice to have a man in my life for more than opening pickle jars. I should make sure I don't get paired with a man who expects me to tolerate a mistress on the side, and I feel I have an obligation to my future mate to make sure I don't misrepresent myself in a way that would drive him to need a mistress on the side. So I glance at the open door of my office, making sure my assistant is occupied and then I go back to the beginning and start answering the questions as honestly as I can bring myself to.

I came across Raven's website about 3 years ago. I remember thinking how practical it all seemed. Hire this woman to head a team of your most trusted friends and relatives, complete a series of interviews so the professional has a good feel for what you need in a partner, and let them decide on the man that's right for you...or woman, I guess, depending on the client.

Of course, when I had called for a consultation, I immediately discovered that Raven doesn't take her business lightly. She's no dating service and she was quick to explain that to me. She calls herself a marriage broker-- with heavy emphasis on the marriage.

At that time I wasn't interested in saying "I do" again.

Frankly, I'm still not thrilled by the prospect, but Raven is the only person in this line of work that I feel confident in giving my money to. So I finally filled out her application, explained my situation, and included my preferences for a union that would ideally be founded on friendship, mutual respect, and shared interests.

I certainly don't expect to fall in love with whoever I'm matched to and that's fine by me.

Love hasn't exactly been on my side and I'd just as soon leave it to starry-eyed romantics like the girls who bring me boxes of romance novels with broken spines and worn covers to trade in for more romance novels with worn covers. Girls like Bethany.

My assistant's voice wafts through the open door. I hit save on the form and exit the file quickly. I really ought to do this when I get home anyway. Probably after a glass-- or 2-- of wine.

Beth's not heading into my office though, she's just talking with a customer. I listen to her explain the way the store is laid out, with fiction up front and center and more than half the floor space dedicated to romance.

The man's voice isn't clear enough for me to make out his question, but Beth doesn't seem to need help.

That girl is a Godsend.

The little used bookstore I opened years ago has done much better than I expected.

There was one in the town I grew up in. It was just a little hole in the wall place in back of a real estate office in our old downtown district.

Now that I'm running my own shop, I can't imagine how Vera managed to keep that store open in that location, but I spent a lot of afternoons wedged in the narrow aisles between book cases overflowing with every kind of happily ever after a teenage girl could imagine.

I hired Bethany because she reminded me a little of that girl from my memory. She started coming in here to trade back books she'd already read before she was even in junior high school. It started with Judy Blume and turned into Anne McCaffrey and then it was handfuls of Harlequins. Then she was picking out racier stuff to trade for and her mom just shrugged when I asked if it was OK with her.

"I read some pretty filthy stuff at her age," her mom had assured me and I'd had to laugh because I know I didn't even wait till I was old as Bethany was then before I was sneak-reading some decidedly age-inappropriate stuff in bed after my folks fell asleep.

So when Bethany turned 16 last year and casually mentioned looking for a job on one of her daily after-school visits, I didn't hesitate to offer her a few hours a week here in the shop.

Beth giggles and the sound of one of our plastic shopping bags crinkles as the man's voice says something that sounds like a thank you. Then the bell on the door jingles and new voices fill the store outside my private office.

The ladies are here for their weekly book club meeting.

We moved the store just a few months ago to a bigger space and the book club ladies are just thrilled that I have room for them to gather for their meetings now.

Getting up from my desk, I head out to greet them. I need to make sure the table is fully stocked with snacks for them to devour while they rearrange the furniture in the back room and chatter away for the next several hours over whatever they've been reading this week.

As I make my way through the door of the reading room I see that Bethany's already on it, opening packages of cookies and making sure the bowls of sweeteners and creamers are full while Elizabeth talks the poor girl's ear off, harassing her about boys, no doubt.

I'm really looking forward to Bethany graduating high school in a few months, I could really use her around the store a lot more than just after school.