I pull up to the bed and breakfast I booked online just after sunset. It didn’t seem strange at the time, but now that I’ve seen the town in person, I’m shocked they even have internet access here, let alone web advertising.

I haven’t been in Wade’s Creek a full day and I already have a swollen ankle, a bruised ego, and a dangerous image of Mr. Cowboy’s shirtless form locked in my mental spank bank. I’ve made one hell of an entrance. All I want now is to go straight to my bed and sleep. I’ve had just about all the small town craziness I can handle for one day.

“Pete!” calls a small girl in a high pitched voice.

“C’mon, Pete!” cries another child--a boy, I think.

I see a pig the size of a small handbag scuttle past me on the sidewalk. A moment later, a little boy and girl who could pass for twins come tearing around the corner, shouting after it.

“Pete!” screams the girl, who musters an impressive amount of motherly scorn into her small voice. “You get back here right now or you’re not getting a treat!”

Before I have time to react, the miniature pig and kids have already turned another corner and are nowhere to be seen, leaving me wondering if I just imagined it, or if two little kids really were chasing a miniature pig down the sidewalk at this time of night.

I shake my head and hobble inside the bed and breakfast. My ankle is tender still, but it’s manageable, and the more steps I take the more the stiffness and pain seems to melt away.

Inside, the bed and breakfast is a picture of quaint living--lace curtains, busy wallpaper mixed with wood paneling, thick carpets, and warm yellow lamps casting everything from the family photos on the wall to the handmade furniture in an inviting glow.

My hopes of making it in quietly are dashed when I see the couple who owns the place sitting at the kitchen table, reading newspapers and sipping coffee.

They both stand when I step inside, greeting me with huge smiles.

“You must be Mila!” says the elderly woman, who shuffles her pink-slippered feet toward me to wrap me in a surprisingly tight hug. “I’m Martha and this is Frank, my husband--God help him,” she adds with a conspiratory waggle of her eyebrows.

Frank’s blue slippers aren’t far behind, and he’s reaching to shake my hand as soon as Martha breaks the hug. He clasps my hand with both of his and shakes it energetically. “So good to have you, young lady. And don’t mind Martha, she’s still riding a wave of misguided excitement.” He leans in like he’s letting me in on a state secret. “She thinks she’s winning at Scrabble, but she’s spent the last few days walking right into my trap.” He makes a cutting motion across his throat and winks.

I look past them to the scrabble board on the table, which is flanked by two dictionaries and about a hundred old ring-shaped stains on the table, presumably from their drinks of choice while they play.

“A few days?” I ask.

“Martha takes ages to play her words,” Frank explains.

She purses her lips and plants a fist on her hip, giving him an impressive glare that she’s obviously spent years perfecting. Apparently, he has spent just as long learning to ignore it though, because he looks unphased. “And Frank always disappears to the bathroom for half an hour when his turn comes.”

Frank throws his hands up. “We talked about this! I have irritable bowels. I don’t think our guest wants to know about it, though.”

I’m not sure what to do or say, so I settle for standing there, forcing something between a smile and a grimace.

“I’m actually really tired,” I say. “I just have one suitcase in the car but I can bring that in tomorrow. I was hoping to find a bed and crash right now. Maybe we can talk more over breakfast?”

“Of course, of course,” says Martha, who leads me toward the stairs. She looks over her shoulder. “Go get her suitcase, Frank! And make her up some tea!”

Martha shows me to my room and nods toward the door across the hall. “Your friend Amy is going to be staying right across the hall from you. She came in a few hours before you did, but said she was going to ‘see the sights’. Said she wouldn’t be back till later. I don’t know how you young girls have so much energy.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, stepping inside my room.

“Sleep tight, dear. Frank will just set your suitcase outside the door when he brings the tea.”

Once I’ve closed the door and laid down on the bed, I pull out my phone and see four texts from Cynthia Styles, the client who dragged me into this whole mess and the woman I’m supposed to set up with a man named Lucas Tate.

Cynthia S. (6:12 p.m.): You here?

Cynthia S. (6:14 p.m.): Lets meet 2 talk about Lucas

Cynthia S. (6:14 p.m.): Want 2 get started 2morrow

Cynthia S. (6:17 p.m.): Call me

I sigh, flopping to my back. Sleep is calling to me so strongly I know I could just close my eyes and drift off, but I can’t afford to piss off Cynthia. There’s way too much money on the line. I tap her name on my contacts list and hit call, I frown in confusion when I hear a ringtone chime from downstairs, just as Frank and Martha’s voices rumble up through the floor to me.

I cancel the call and the ringtone stops, but the conversation continues. It sounds like Martha is trying to protest with someone, but a louder, younger voice pushes over everything and I soon hear rapid footsteps coming up the stairs.

I sit up on the edge of my bed, watching the door, which swings open a few seconds later.

“Cynthia…” I say, sounding a little more dazed than I mean to. “Er--Miss Styles. I didn’t think we were contracted to start work until tomorrow.”

Cynthia pays me no mind, strutting into my room like she’s moving down the catwalk. She has platinum blonde hair, a pert little nose, and full lips that I’m sure most men would drool over. Despite the wicked little self-satisfied smirk plastered on her face, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Even if I’m sensing a heavy dose of bitchiness from her, my matchmaker brain kicks in, already working out my best approach to landing Cynthia her man. The good looks will definitely help. Depending on the guy, the self-satisfied thing may or may not be a turnoff, but I can work on that with her.

“So,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, setting a manilla folder down on the desk at the corner of the room.

Before she can continue, Frank and Martha poke their heads in the door. “We’re sorry,” Frank says. “She insisted on--”

“It’s completely fine,” I say. “She’s actually a client of mine. Don’t worry about it, please.”

They look a little relieved, but glare suspiciously toward Cynthia before leaving us alone again.

Cynthia tosses the file down on the dresser by my bed. “I’m sure you do your own research and all that, but I pulled a few strings and dug up as much as I could on Lucas. You can study it all tonight so we’re in better shape for tomorrow. I’m thinking we can start early. Seven-ish sound good? Great.”

I nod my head, unable to escape the feeling that I’ve just been sucked inside a bitchy, former prom-queen whirlwind and there’s no way out.

“I’m so excited to get started. Tomorrow,” I add with a touch of emphasis.

“So what’s the first step? How does this whole thing work, exactly?” she asks, half-speaking over me and clearly ignoring my subtle hint to get out of my room and let me sleep.

“Well,” I say. “We’ll have to set you up with some equipment. I don’t do hidden cameras, but I’ll have a wireless mic on you and an earpiece you’ll be able to hear me through. And…” I trail off a little, swallowing hard when a surge of guilt and confusion washes over me. I’ve never felt guilt about matchmaking until now--after all, I’m helping women find love. Nothing about my job is coercive, it’s just… I’m lending a helping hand, that’s all. Then again, I’ve never let my client pick the man, either. There’s no way to sugarcoat it. I compromised my morals on this one for the money Cynthia is promising, and the full weight of that is starting to settle down on me now that I’m out here.

“Mila?” asks Cynthia, who doesn’t bother to hide her annoyance.

I clear my throat. “Sorry, I was just saying we’ll make sure I know what’s going on and that you can hear me. After that, we just need to arrange a run-in with Lucas.”

“Good.” she taps the pile of papers. “Do your homework tonight, because I want you to be firing on all cylinders tomorrow. I’m not getting rejected by him again.”

“Again?” I ask. I have a specific line of questioning I put potential clients through, one of which is whether they’ve ever tried to date or dated the man I choose, or in this case, the man she chose. Maybe the money she was offering would’ve made me take the job even if she had told the truth, but I’m already wondering what else she lied about.

She doesn’t have the grace to look embarrassed, instead opting to wave it off with a dismissive flap of her hand. “All that matters is nobody says no to Cynthia Styles twice. I’ve been the fucking queen of this little shit town since high school, and Lucas Tate is about to learn why.”

“So I know we didn’t go into a whole lot of detail in our initial interviews, but why Lucas? I need to know as much as I can to help make this work.”

“We were high school sweethearts. I was captain of the cheerleading squad and he was the quarterback of the football team. Everyone wished they were us.”

“What happened?” I ask, mentally noting that she didn’t just lie about trying to date him, she also lied when she said she had never been in a relationship with him.

“I broke things off. I had bigger dreams than this town. I moved out to California and took the newscasting world by storm.”

I nod politely, even though I remember her file said she was the weather girl for a local station until her husband passed away and she inherited most of his money. “And when your husband passed… You decided to come back here to start over?” I ask.

She nods. “I knew marrying Jack was a mistake from the day we said our vows, but I stayed by his side anyway. When he passed away, it was my chance to make up for lost time and--” she pauses, smiling a little self-consciously. “It was horrible, the accident that took him, and I miss him so much, but you understand what I mean. We’re both women here and I can talk frankly, right?”

I give her a tight lipped smile and nod my head, even though my brain is screaming for me to do the right thing and end this while I still can. Every mental warning bell I have is going off over this woman, and I can’t shake the feeling that she’d be terrible for Lucas and I don’t even know the guy.

“So anyway, I’m back now. It’s time to put my life on the right track again Things have never been the same since I left Lucas, and I just know once we’re together again, everything will be perfect.”

I smile as politely as I can even though my stomach feels like it’s turning over. Once I’ve asked a few more basic questions, I manage to shoo Cynthia from my room with the promise that we’ll be in touch first thing tomorrow.

Once she’s gone, I sink down to the floor, staring at the far wall like a soldier who has seen too much for the brain to process all at once.

“Was that her?” Amy asks, slipping into my room.

“Jeez!” I say, jumping in surprise. “Is there just a line of people outside waiting to come in or something?”

“Busy night?” Amy asks, sitting down in front of me cross-legged.

I sigh. “Yes. And that was Cynthia. She’s worse than we guessed from her file and the preliminary interview. She’s a deluded egomaniac and no man should be put through the trial of dating her, let alone marrying her.”

“Mila…” says Amy slowly. “You’re not thinking of backing out. Tell me you’re not.”

“No. I’m just trying to decide how long I need to feel soul-crushing guilt for this fiasco. I’m thinking about forty-five years to life.”

“You can sip away your soul-crushing guilt poolside with cocktails and shirtless men in the Bahamas. If you make this match work, that is. C’mon. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I met a guy,” I say.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Here?”

I nod, unable to look her in the eye. “I met him twice, actually.”

“Mila! We’ve only been in town half a day. How the hell did you ‘meet’ this guy twice already?”

I tell her everything that happened, watching as her face darkens with every passing sentence. When I’ve finished, she leans back, resting her weight on her palms and looking critically at me.

“So you’re into him.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I’m not into him,” I protest.

“Bullshit. I could practically hear your hormones humping pillows when you talked about him. You must’ve bit your lip and twirled your hair between every sentence. You’re ankles-above-your-head in lust, girl, whether you admit it or not.”

I feel my cheeks burning, but manage to glare at her despite my embarrassment. “I’m still going to stay focused. I know the job comes first. Mr. Country can wait his turn if he’s actually interested.”

Amy raises an eyebrow. “Mila, I know I was riding you about this, but if you really aren’t up for it, we can back out. The money would be nice, but at the end of the day this is your business. You’re the captain and I’m just--”

“The statue of a naked woman at the front of the boat,” I say a little gloomily.

She grins. “Sure. As long as this statue has a pair as spectacular as mine,” she says, “My point is, it’s your call. I’ll back you up, even if I already have vacation plans lined up,” she mutters under her breath.

“No,” I say firmly. “We’re going through with this. I’ll live. I’m not going to throw away the future of our business to go chasing some guy I barely know.”

Amy exhales with relief and claps her hands together. “Whew. That’s good. Because I was just trying to say the right thing but I wasn’t sure if I’d really be able to let you throw away that much money for some rodeo cock.”

I narrow my eyes at her, shaking my head in disbelief. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re just a thirteen year old boy stuck in the body of a woman.”

“And what a body it is,” she says, standing and striking a pose that falls somewhere between ridiculous and seductive.

I laugh. “Would you please go to your room so I can sleep now?”

Amy leans down and kisses the top of my head. “You’re making the right choice. Just think about cocktails on the beach, girl. We got this.”

I smile after her, falling back into my bed with exhaustion once I’m finally alone again.

Despite how wiped out I feel, my mind races all night with images of Country’s shirtless form stooping down to pick me up, the way his hand felt between my legs and how wet it made me thinking about his touch on the ride home. Worst of all is the image of him smirking down at me with that stupidly sexy cowboy hat and winking with the fading sunlight behind him, like some picture stripped directly out of every woman’s dirtiest fantasy made real.

Somehow, someway, I’m supposed to keep him off my mind and get my job done, starting tomorrow. Yeah. We’ll see how that goes.