A Few Days Earlier

I take one last look out at the view from my office window. I have a perfectly depressing view of the mold-crusted apartment complex next door. It’s not all bad though. If I squish my cheek against the glass I can almost see a sliver of blue sky. Almost. It’s more like a reflection off a window, but hey, if you can’t find positivity, make your own. At least that’s what mom always said.

“Are you ready for this?” Amy, my business partner, asks. She’s sitting across from my desk on a cardboard box that was supposed to serve as a temporary chair. Through some combination of being broke and laziness, it ended up becoming the permanent second chair in the cramped space I call a workplace. Amy’s just a few years older than me, maybe just barely in her thirties, but she has the somewhat irritating habit of getting prettier every year.

“Ready? No,” I say with a little laugh. “What if she takes one look at me and changes her mind?”

Amy hops off her box and moves to where I’m standing by the window. She gently puts her hand on my shoulder and leans in until I’m forced to look at her.

“Mila, listen to me. You’re going to be fine. Fan-fucking-tastic. Okay? I’ve never found a woman you couldn’t match with the man of her dreams. Never once. This isn’t going to be any different.”

“Except this time the client is paying us a small fortune,” I say. “And I’ve never let a client pick the guy I’m supposed to match them with. I’m really starting to wonder how I let you talk me into this.”

“You’re the one always telling clients the nerves they feel are in their head. Right?”

“You’re right,” I say, taking a deep breath. I can do this. It’s just like any other client. Except this time, the client is offering us enough money to change our lives overnight.

“I’m usually right,” Amy states matter-of-factly. “You should probably just get used to it.”

It’s only then I notice the small suitcase sitting beside the box Amy was using as a chair. “What’s that?” I ask.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go out there by yourself, did you? C’mon. You need me! Besides, I can do my job from this,” she says, holding her phone up and winking at me. “I won’t miss a beat. Promise.”

I narrow my eyes. “Since when do you volunteer for extra work?”

Amy makes a show of being offended. “I’m your best employee. You take that back.”

“You’re my only employee.”

She shrugs. “Still.”

“Don’t you think two strangers showing up out of the blue might draw some attention?”

“No,” she says, “because I already cooked up a cover story for us. We’re reporters!”

I wait for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. “A cover story? Since when have we used cover stories?”

“Since when have we gone on the road for a match? Hm? Exactly. See? This is just a perfect example of why you need to have me come along.”

I sigh. “It might actually be useful if people thought we were reporters. It would explain a lot of behavior that’d normally seem weird.”

Amy waits for my final judgment with raised eyebrows and a hopeful grin.

“Fine. You can come.”

“Yesss!” she shrieks, throwing her arms around me and squeezing like she’s trying to pop me.”

Wade’s Creek is more different from my world of steel and concrete than I ever could’ve imagined. A cheery little blue sign on my way into town said: “Population 497, plus you! Welcome to Wade’s Creek!”

I drive over a small, rickety wooden bridge that spans a peaceful stream about ten feet below. After climbing a relatively steep hill, I’m given a full view of the town, which is nestled on either side of the quaint little creek that winds its way down through a valley and cuts the town in two.

The main boulevard of town is like a picture out of a postcard, except it’d be a picture from a sixty or seventy-year-old postcard, because everything from the whitewashed fences, the well-dressed men and women, and the rustic but clean feel of the town screams of a time long gone.

Shops with hand-painted signs are lined up, each looking so pristine I wonder if they re-paint the entire town every year. People stroll the street without the normal rush I see from New Yorkers trying to catch the next train or hurrying to grab a taxi. Every person I pass stares after my car for so long I begin to wonder if something is wrong, but then it occurs to me that there are so few people living here, they probably recognize me as an outsider just from my car.

I pull up beside K.C.’s General Store and step out, flashing an awkward smile to an elderly couple that waves to me as they pass by. I’ve got a room booked at a bed and breakfast nearby, but my rumbling stomach and a hefty dose of curiosity prompt me to check out the store.

I breathe in deeply and close my eyes, letting it all sink in. My big chance. If I land this match for my client, she’s going to pay us enough money to set us up for years. I could expand the business with new employees, a real office, new technology, maybe even a second chair for my office that isn’t made out of cardboard.

I open my eyes because my little mental pep talk only succeeded in making me feel nauseous.

Thankfully the scenery here is beautiful enough to take my mind off everything. The mountains are so far in the distance they’re as blue as waves. The air has a crisp, cleanness that makes me want to suck in as much as I can hold and never let it go. It even sounds peaceful here, like a blanket of quiet hangs over everything, muting even the occasional car engine to little more than a soft hum.

I never thought of myself as a small town kind of woman, but Wade’s Creek is already making a pretty good case for a more laid-back lifestyle. Then again, I’m sure actually living here instead of visiting couldn't possibly be as ideal as everyone is making it look right now.

It takes me a second to realize a shadow has fallen over me. I turn and nearly fall back when I see the mountain of a man standing in front of me. Broad shoulders, lean legs, and a plaid button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal the most to-die-for forearms I’ve ever seen. My eyes climb and climb for what seems like ages before I find the stranger’s face--which somehow puts the rest of his body to shame, if that’s even possible. He has a jawline that makes me want to swoon, thick dark hair, and blue eyes with just a hint of laughter in them.

The man pulls off his cowboy hat and dips his head to me just a fraction, still showing me that cocky half-smile. “Did I startle you, darlin’?” he asks.

Darlin’? I have half a mind to tell him off for assuming he can just walk up and start calling me pet names, but the butterflies and chills that run through me quickly drown out my protests. You’re a matchmaker for God’s sake, Mila. Don’t act so starstruck. Do what you’d tell your clients to do.

“No,” I say, searching for a way to avoid looking like a lovestruck puppy. “But you are in my way, if you don’t mind,” I say, moving past him and toward the entrance of the general store.

My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I’m afraid he’ll hear it. Once I’m inside, I have to remind myself to breathe before I pass out. My God. When things went south with my last ex, I swore I was done with men. And one look at this small-town cowboy already has my years of bitterness flying out the window?

“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself. Just don’t think about getting a grip of those biceps. Annnd it’s too late. I close my eyes, trying to suppress the spreading heat that’s slowly creeping down from my belly and threatening to make me use something other than my brain to do my thinking.

“Funny,” says the cowboy’s familiar voice. “You didn’t look like you were in a hurry when you were closing your eyes and sniffing the air.”

I feel my cheeks redden. “Do you always stare at strangers when their eyes are closed?”

“If they’re pretty enough.”

My throat suddenly feels dry, and I’m unable to shake the feeling that I’m one step behind him, playing catch up. What would I tell a client to do? I’ve made a career out of walking clients through situations just like this, yet now I feel like I can hardly string two words together without stuttering.

“You think I’m pretty?” I blurt. It’s all I can do not to smack my own head in frustration.

He steps so close I can smell his masculine cologne and see the little flecks of gray in his blue eyes. “No. I think you’re fucking gorgeous. And I think you should take your gorgeous ass back to the city where it belongs. We don’t need you here.”

My head pulls back in shock. I frown after him, mouth opening and shutting wordlessly as he moves past me with that same, cocky surety to his steps and without even a hint of the anger his words imply.

“Do you have a name? Or should I just call you asshole.”

He only half turns as he grabs a huge bag of animal feed. “Might as well just call me Country. We’re all the same to you city people anyway, right?”

“I’m a reporter, you know,” I blurt, hating that I’m using Amy’s little lie to give myself leverage with this guy.

He nods to the clerk, hoisting the bag over his shoulder and heading to the door, where he sets his hat back on his head and squints back at me. “Yeah? Well I can give you something to write about, but I doubt they’d let you put it in the paper.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I say, even though my heart is pounding from his implication.

“I’ve been told,” he says with a grin. “See for yourself though. 514 Terry Road. I’ll give you something to remember the country by before you head back to the big city.”

I shake my head, glaring after him as he lets the door slam on his way out. Somehow I can’t help feeling like even the little bell that jingles by the hinge is mocking me too. I squeeze my fists at my side. “What kind of town is this?” I ask the man behind the counter.

“Don’t pay him no mind, miss. He’s going through somethin’ wicked right now. Best you just steer clear of ‘em.”

“He’s a brute,” I say. “I don’t know what kind of ‘somethin’ wicked’ would excuse that.”

“His old man just passed two months ago, for starters,” says the clerk with a shrug. “That, and he’s got a little brother who has been trying to get his paws on the family ranch since the minute their dad passed.”

“Why does his little brother want the ranch?”

“Big oil companies been comin’ out here for years trying to buy the land and suck all the oil out of it. Said they’d pay him millions and millions of dollars, but he won’t budge.”

I frown. “Couldn’t he just build a new ranch with the money and pocket the rest?”

“He’s not like that,” says the clerk. “Always been a man who keeps his nose to the dirt and works his ass off. Doubt he’d even sell you a floorboard out of that place if you wrote him a check for a million dollars right now.”

I blow an annoyed breath out of my nose. “Well, the man you’re describing and the one I just met seem like two different people.”

“Like I said,” the clerk says. “He’s going through a rough patch. Give him a little time to cope and he’ll come around.”

“Well, I should get going,” I say. “Stories to write,” I add with a nervous laugh. Somehow the crackers I wanted to buy for a snack don’t seem as important, so I make a quick and painful exit.

Outside, I shake my head when a stupid, dangerous thought starts to form. Don’t you do it, Mila. Don’t you even think about it.

I have a job to do, and even if Country, as he stupidly calls himself, presents an undeniable temptation, I’m not the kind of person to give into that kind of thing.

Then again, I haven’t really felt anything resembling attraction to a guy in what seems like forever. Being a matchmaker has its drawbacks, I guess. Spend enough time breaking down the science of a relationship and every guy ends up seeming too simple. But Country? He’s different, and I have to admit I’m intrigued.

Intrigued, yes. Going to do anything about it? No.

And it’s precisely at that moment a car engine rumbles by, tires splashing up cold, dirty water all over me.

I watch after the blue truck and see Country’s eyes in the rearview. I ball my fists, wishing I had something to throw--or better yet, a rocket launcher. He sticks his tanned arm out the window and has the nerve to give me a casual little wave as he drives off, not even bothering to stop.

514 Terry Road? You’re about to wish you hadn’t told me your address, asshole.