The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

She laughs, and the sound trickles down my back. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have when you wouldn’t let me say more than three words at a time yesterday?” Her smile turns mischievous, and my stomach tightens.

I like that she’s not letting me off the hook easily. “Yeah. About that. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you. It really wasn’t like me, and you kind of caught me on a bad day.”

“Said every jerk since the beginning of time,” she says with a smirk as she pinches off another chocolate chip.

“You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?” I think I might be flirting again, but honestly, it’s not my fault. She’s giving me these eyes that say she’s taken off her suit jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Business is forgotten.

“Possibly. I’m hoping I can squeeze at least one more muffin out of it.”

I contemplate buying her the whole display case. There’s not one part of me that likes where my head is at. Miss Jones is capturing my attention like no woman has before. It doesn’t feel safe. This must be how a bug feels right before it gets zapped.

I clear my throat after a sip of coffee burns my mouth and nod toward her binder. “I feel like I should be honest with you. I’m not completely sold on the idea of a service dog for Sam yet.”

“Okay.” She draws out the word like she can sense there’s more and doesn’t know how to respond yet.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up on my purchasing a dog since there’s only a small chance that I will. Today, I’m just hoping to get more information.”

She’s smiling at me curiously. “Mr. Broaden, this is twice now that you’ve made a comment implying that I am desperate for you to buy one of my dogs. Why is that?”

I tell myself to not say what I’m thinking, but it doesn’t work. “Well, to be honest, I’ve seen the average price of one of your dogs. They cost a fortune. I can only imagine that the commission is enough incentive for you to pressure me into buying one.” Wow. I had no idea I could be any more rude to this woman than I already have been. Turns out, I had more left in the tank than I suspected.

Miss Jones breaks out in a mirthless laugh. She’s looking at me like I just ate cat food, thinking it was caviar. She pulls her feet up in her seat and sits cross-legged, and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table like she’s about to tell me a juicy secret.

“Jacob, may I call you Jacob?” I consider telling her to call me Jake but decide against it. “To continue your metaphor, these dogs are not used cars I’m trying to move off of a lot. They are highly trained animals that enhance the quality of—and often save—the lives of those living with disabilities. They do cost a lot of money to purchase, but that’s only because it costs an enormous amount to care for a service dog. Not only do we have to pay a breeder, but the extra health tests that a service dog has to undergo are not cheap.”

I open my mouth to say something—anything—but she’s apparently revoked my talking privileges, because she plows on. “And then there is food, grooming, training equipment, and the teeny-tiny salary that my colleague and I make in order to eat. And if you still don’t believe me that I’m not making commissions off of our dogs, I will be happy to show you my checking account, and you’ll be impressed to see that the total is exactly the same as my age.”

At this point, I’m wishing I could crawl under the table and disappear.

She still doesn’t give me a chance to talk. “I’m not in this for the money. I train and match dogs with recipients because Charlie gave me an independence and security that I thought I would have to sacrifice when I first started having seizures. I want others to have a chance at that same security.”

I know she’s telling the truth. I can see it in her eyes. They are like perfect open windows to her soul. Her passion is contagious, and I wish I hadn’t made that stupid comment about the price of the dogs. I knew she wasn’t making money off of them. I think I’m self-sabotaging because I’m scared of how impressed I am by her.

I drag in a deep breath. “I think I should just wear a sign around my neck that says I’m sorry any time you’re around. I honestly didn’t mean anything I said a minute ago. I’m just…looking for reasons to not get a dog for my daughter.”

“Can I ask why you’re here then? What made you text me and schedule another meeting?”

There are two answers to that question. I’ll only give her one of them.

“Ever since Samantha was diagnosed with epilepsy, six months ago, she’s changed. She used to be such a vibrant little girl, and now she’s closed off. She doesn’t smile as much, and she’s acting out in ways that seem too grown-up for a ten year old.”

Miss Jones smiles. “Like breaking into your email and impersonating you to get a meeting with a service dog company?”

I smile back and n

od. “Like that. And yesterday, when I turned you down for the meeting, Sam wouldn’t speak to me all the way home and then slammed the door on me after we got there.” I can’t believe I’m telling her all of this. And the way she never looks away from me is making me want to squirm. “Anyway…this has been the only thing she’s shown any excitement or interest in since learning of her condition, so I thought maybe I should at least hear you out.”

Miss Jones holds my gaze. Her eyes narrow slightly, and I wonder what she’s seeing. Her head tilts, and some of her hair spills over her shoulder. It’s curled in long, loose waves today, and before I can tell my brain to stop it, I wonder if she’s curled it for me.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?” she asks.

Her question is so out of left field that my head kicks back. How does she know that? Why is she asking? I’m curious where she’s going with this, so I answer honestly. “No. I wake up every hour to go check on her. I wanted her to sleep in my room with me, but she refused. She thinks my room is too boyish.”

I recall how I went to the home improvement store and almost bought three cans of bubble-gum-colored paint for my room before I chickened out.

“Does she spend most of her time in her room by herself?” she asks, and I nod. “And I’m guessing you’ve probably stopped letting her go to her friends’ houses?”

How could she possibly know that? Suddenly, I’m in an interrogation room, and she’s just grabbed the light and shined it in my face. It feels blinding.