The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Where would the fun be in promising that?

Chapter Five

JAKE

Walking into Hudson Roasters, I have a distinct feeling that I’m walking right to my death. I don’t know exactly why I feel this way. It’s not rational. It’s not as if I suspect that Miss Jones is going to pull out a knife and stab me. But it’s more that I’ve been putting up walls around myself since the day Natalie left—big, ugly forcefields of solitude that keep beautiful women far away—and I’m a little afraid that the woman I spent most of the night dreaming about might have a really tall ladder.

I woke up in a cold sweat the moment her pink lips collided with mine. It was ridiculous, and I blame it on my late-night texting with her. I didn’t mean to flirt. I had only intended to apologize and request a very professional meeting between the two of us to discuss the potential of purchasing one of her company’s dogs. All business. Very buttoned up.

But the moment I pictured her green woodland eyes, the flirtatious replies rolled off my fingers like it was a newfound superpower. I wanted to make her laugh. Why?

Because I’m stupid, that’s why.

But not today. Today, I plan on being the epitome of professional. I am a neurosurgeon walking into the operating room. I’ve scrubbed up, gloves are on, scalpel is in hand, and I’m ready to extract only the information I need.

I open the door to the coffee shop, and the smell of roasted coffee beans hits my senses. I’ve already had two cups of coffee today because I woke up at 4:30 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep after my dream about Ev—Miss Jones.

No one likes that guy who shows up to a coffee meeting and then says he already had his coffee that day, so I fall into line behind a man in a nicely tailored suit and wonder if I should have dressed up too. Maybe it would have aided my efforts of being professional with Evie—DANG IT—Miss Jones!

I’m looking down at my jeans and gray Henley tee when I feel a warm hand on my forearm. I turn around, and my eyes collide with a woodland forest. And just like that, I’m dead. She brought a freaking ladder.

It’s all over for me.

“Mr. Broaden, good morning.” Miss Jones is all business too. This is good. I’m definitely not wondering if her lips would feel as warm and soft as they did in my dream.

“Miss Jones, thanks for meeting me. Can I get you a coffee?” I notice that she has the same binder from yesterday tucked under her arm. The dog is here again too. I wonder if she’s brought him to give me a demonstration of his skills.

Something different, my eyes note without my approval, is that she’s wearing a pair of tight jeans with a rip on the thigh.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Moving on.

“I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” I frown at her, and so she adds, “I buy all of my potential recipients a coffee during these meetings.”

“But do all your potential recipients insult you at your first meetings?”

She smiles and tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes. You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve been likened to a man.”

I cringe, thinking back to that comment. The reminder that I was horrible to this woman hits me in the chest. “Right. In that case, can I get you a muffin as well?” I aim a smile at her, and then when I realize it probably looks flirtatious, I wipe it away.

“Chocolate chip, please.”

Honestly, I’m a little struck that she agreed to the muffin so easily. Usually, women would never admit to wanting a pastry full of calories and sugar. I expected her to reject it or suggest a veggie omelet bite instead. I like this better, though.

Once we both have our coffees and pastries in hand, we make our way to a table by the window. We sit down, and I note that her dog, Charlie, lays down at her feet without her even having to ask him.

I honestly had no idea dogs could be that well behaved. He’s huge. If he wanted to, he could be knocking over tables and swiping all the muffins off of the barista’s counter, but instead, he’s nearly invisible. It’s impressive the way he tucked himself at her feet, half-in/half-out of the table. I wonder if Miss Jones was the one to train him.

She must see me staring at him, because she smiles and looks down at him. “This is Charlie. He’s four years old and a major bed hog.”

I’m choosing to pass right over the thought of Miss Jones in a bed.

“Is he a potential dog you would match with my daughter?”

“Only if the good Lord calls me home today.” Her comment is so shocking that my eyebrows shoot up. She laughs and picks at her muffin, taking one small bite—a chocolate-chip-only bite. “Charlie belongs to me, not the company. He’s been my personal seizure-assist dog for the last three years.” Did she say seizure-assist dog? Charlie is her service dog? She sees the shock on my face and continues, “That’s partly why I was determined to speak with you yesterday. I know exactly what it’s like to be in your daughter’s shoes.”

Oh, well, great. Now I’m sure I could win an award for being so rude to her yesterday. Any day now, I’ll be receiving a pin that I’ll be forced to wear on my shirt that says, I’m the biggest jerk in the world! Ask me how I accomplished it!

“I had no idea,” I say, still trying to absorb the information.