Betsy Taylor, Matchmaking Queen of Stewart Island, wouldn’t let a little thing like paranoia ruin Christmas Day.

Hell no, as the youngsters said.

Even though, for the past two hours presiding as the VIP of the celebrations at Oban’s community hall, she’d been eyeing up every single male over the age of fifty. Of which there were a few. She wasn’t delusional enough to think she could interest a man who was under half her age, but thirty years younger? Eh. Stranger things had happened. Just look at that blond pop star who once upon a time wore a cone bra on stage—she managed to score a boyfriend thirty years her junior.

Betsy snorted into her glass of fruit punch. She wasn’t a pop star who could contort her body into weird sexual positions. At least not anymore. And she certainly wasn’t looking for a boyfriend at her age, now was she? She chuckled, set the glass down, and gave the empty chair beside her a sideways glance.

She’d already had visiting chats from a number of potential secret admirer candidates.

Laurie had sat a spell and promised her a nice fresh crayfish within the next week. Possible, but not likely. Unless the poor fella’s idea of romance was bringing a woman a bucket of snapping crustaceans.

Old Smitty had stopped by and brought her a plate of pavlova, fresh strawberries, and cream for dessert so she wouldn’t have to trouble herself to get up to the buffet tables. Kind of him, but—please, Lord—no.

Then there was Arnold Peterson, who trapped her with a monologue about his digestive problems, Larry Chapman, who continually farted and blamed an invisible dog, and Sully, her friend’s husband, who complained about his wife’s knitting addiction—“I counted twenty-two scarves, fourteen jerseys, twelve pairs of gloves, and ten knee rugs. Is the woman expecting snowageddon next winter?” Sully was the best of a bad bunch, but Betsy didn’t think he was looking for a little on the side considering June was always complaining in return that her husband’s libido was probably stashed in the garden shed under a pile of power tools he didn’t really know how to use.

“Is this chair taken?”

Betsy jumped at the sudden appearance of a tanned hand on the back of the seat next to her. Her gaze flicked up from the hand to the purple, yellow, and mud-brown striped hand-knitted cardigan behind it. Then farther up to Walter Nolan, his mouth set in an unreadable straight line.

“No. No one’s sitting here, so help yourself.” She hadn’t meant to sound such an old harridan, but she had three settings around Walter—tongue-tied, snippy old bat, or babbling fool.

One of his neatly trimmed white eyebrows rose, almost to the height of his bald head. His eyes—still as bright and clear as the Blue Lake in Nelson where she and her husband had spent their honeymoon—seemed to study her face with the concentration of a sniper. Oh, she was always so unsettled around Walter Nolan, and their sparse interaction over the years had made it clear that she was one of his least favorite people.

Would it hurt the old codger to smile once in a while? Her stomach tightened around a little pinch of hurt. He did smile, just not at her.

Without a word, Walter eased into the chair beside her. He shoved the too-long sleeves of his cardigan up to his elbows and rested his forearms on the table. Betsy’s gaze was drawn down to the sinewy cords of muscle flexing beneath surprisingly smooth skin for a man in his seventies. While Walter walked with a cane, the old fella apparently hadn’t been neglecting his upper body strength.

The old fella in question cleared his throat. Blast! She’d been staring at Walter’s arm like a moony-eyed teenager. Eighty-plus-year-old brain cells panicking to find something charming or at least sensible to say, Betsy opened her mouth.

“That is the ugliest, most ridiculous cardigan on God’s green earth,” she blurted.

Listen to me flap my lips.

The atomic blasts on Bikini Atoll in the forties were nothing compared to the heat detonating in her cheeks. Her gaze flew to Walter’s face, expecting to see cold derision or stiff insult. Instead, laughter lines creased the corner of his eyes and a deep belly laugh emerged from between his lips.

“It sure is,” he said between gusts of laughter. “My eldest granddaughter sent it down for Christmas.”

“Poor lamb. Is she color blind?”

“I suspect so.” A wide, fierce smile flickered over Walter’s mouth.

Oooh. It was a very nice smile. And that, for some reason, made the muscles around her mouth contract upward in a returning smile. So she sat there grinning at him like a numbskull while folks hustled back and forth moving tables and chairs out of the way to make a clear space for dancing. Even with all the noise going on around them—including young Zoe and Jade Harland belting out “Jingle Bells” at the top of their lungs—it felt like a bubble of silence descended around her and Walter. A bubble that was both familiar and strange at the same time.

Could he be my secret admirer?

Pfffft. What a load of old nonsense, likely caused by the extra gin and tonic she’d consumed during the nibbles and party games earlier. It was Christmas after all.

Walter held up a finger then reached onto the empty seat on his other side, turning back to produce a sparkly foil-wrapped Christmas cracker. “I’ve been saving this one for you.”

He held out one end and she wrapped her fingers around it, quietly mortified that her fingers were shaking. Silly old duck, she scolded herself. Get a grip, as the youngsters said.

“Ready?” he asked. “Go.”

They both tugged at the same time and the cracker split in half with a loud pop. Something in a little organza bag dropped onto the table, followed by a slip of paper that fluttered down beside it. Raised to always read the accompanying card before opening a gift, Betsy reached for the paper but Walter stilled her hand with his. This time her fingers really trembled and her heart raced like she’d been forced to climb a flight of stairs.

“Open the bag first,” he said.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She slid her hand out from under his warm palm and untied the bag’s silk ribbon. Wrapped in a wisp of tissue paper were a pair of delicate amethyst earrings that winked at her in the glow of strung fairy lights above.

“Oh,” she whispered in a little voice.

“Do you like them?”

For the first time in any conversation she’d had with him over the years, she heard a glimmer of nervous anticipation in his voice. He always seemed so confident and self-assured she just assumed he’d no interest in listening to her prattling on. But what if she was wrong? What if his quiet reserve wasn’t dislike but simple shyness?

“Oh, Walter. They’re beautiful. Far too beautiful for the likes of me.”

He chuckled. “Codswallop. They’re perfect for you.”

“Just like all the other gifts you left me?” she asked.

But Walter merely smiled and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his ugly cardigan. Dear Lord—Betsy’s pulse raced even faster—he wasn’t going to do a Magic Mike for her, was he? Fortunately he didn’t continue to unhook any more buttons, which could have led to a small coronary on her part. He reached inside to the breast pocket of his shirt and drew out a small but perfect red rosebud.

“This particular variety’s called Thinking of You,” he said. “It seemed appropriate.” He laid the rose on the table in front of her. “Now you can read the note.”

The first notes of music came through the hall’s sound system, but Betsy was so addled and off guard that she couldn’t have identified it if her life was on the line. She picked up the note, squinting at it in the dim light.

Betsy,

They’re playing our song. Will you dance with me?

Yours always, Wally.

That’s when she recognized Frank’s seductive voice crooning “The Way You Look Tonight.”

Betsy’s hand fluttered to rest at the pulse thundering in her throat. “It was you all along?” she said.

He smiled again and eased to his feet, extending his arm. “It was me all along, my dear.”

She stood and slipped her arm through his and let him lead her out into the middle of the room. He took her gently into his arms, and even though they no longer had the oomph to cut it up on the dance floor, they both still had some moves.

As the youngsters said.

Suddenly she wasn’t an eighty-something-year-old widow and he wasn’t a seventy-something-year-old widower. They were just two people with a world of possibility between them, with Frank singing them home.

Maybe love and romance wasn’t just for the young, but instead for the brave who were willing to take a chance on a little Christmas magic.