Miss Matchmaker: A Small Town Romance

  Miss Matchmaker

  A Small Town Romance

  Penelope Bloom

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Mila

  2. Lucas

  3. Mila

  4. Lucas

  5. Mila

  6. Lucas

  7. Mila

  8. Lucas

  9. Mila

  10. Lucas

  11. Mila

  12. Lucas

  13. Mila

  14. Lucas

  15. Mila

  16. Lucas

  Epilogue

  17. Knocked Up by the Dom - Sneak Peak

  18. Kylie

  19. Damian

  20. Kylie

  21. Damian

  22. Join my Mailing List

  Also By Penelope Bloom

  Prologue

  His fingers are rough against the tender skin of my neck--calloused from a life of hard work. The faint lines at the corners of his deep blue eyes speak of countless days squinting into the sun, of laughter, and of experience. Lucas Tate. The absolute last man on Earth I should be touching or even thinking about romantically.

  “I can’t do this with you,” I say, trying to pull back, but there’s something magnetic drawing me to him, despite the alarm bells going off in my mind. Do not get involved. Do not get involved, Mila. No matter what you do…

  “You don’t have to do a thing, darlin’,” Lucas says with an irresistible smile. “Just put those pretty lil’ hands over your head and let me take care of the rest.”

  Air rushes from between my parted lips, as if pulled out by the sheer magnetism of him, as if my body is trying to give itself over to him no matter what my brain is telling me. Just tell him the truth. Tell him why you can’t. “I can’t…” I whisper, but the rest won’t come out. The truth stays lodged in my throat, as thick and heavy as molasses.

  He’s not shaken by my refusal. He only brushes my chin with his thumb, tilting me up to look into those eyes that are so blue they send a chill down my back despite the heat. “Tell you what,” he says, voice so low and smooth it rumbles through my chest. “Give me one good reason why you can’t, and I’ll walk away. One reason. That’s all, darlin’.”

  I meet his gaze, trying to summon up any of the thousand reasons this is a terrible idea, but every last one of them refuses to come up, leaving me speechless and helpless, knowing with a sinking inevitability that I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

  1

  Mila

  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 mak
ing 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.

  2

  Lucas

  I strip off my shirt, using it to wipe away the sweat that already beads from my forehead, and toss it to the grass beside me. Fucking city girl.

  With a growl of annoyance, I hoist the fifty pound fence post over my head and slam it into the hole I dug, twisting it hard to make sure it sticks. The last thing I need in my life right now is some woman, let alone a city girl. I look over my shoulder, toward the setting sun and my ranch. It’s what I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. I just didn’t want to get it like this.

  Flirting with her was a bad idea, but I honestly couldn’t help myself. I may want people like her to stop gawking around our small
town like it’s some kind of tourist attraction, but I also want to know what it would feel like to grip her hair and hips in my big hands. Hell, right now a little human contact would be welcome. Aside from running into town for the basics or grabbing a bite at my usual spot, I’ve cut myself off from everything lately.

  I snatch up another fence post from the ground and slam it into the next hole, grunting with the effort. If I close my eyes too long, I still see how the red and blue lights looked coming through my window that night. I can still feel the crushing certainty I had back then--that it was dad. Something had happened.

  I’m about to grab the next fence post when movement draws my eye. There’s a little red Corolla driving straight through my pastures. The fucking woman drove around the main gate and let herself in one of the grazing fields? My fingers dig into my palms and I stand with the sun beating down on my bare shoulders and back, burning into me with a heat that only fuels my building anger.

  I don’t need to wait to know who it is. It’s the city girl. And she’s barking up the wrong tree. I don’t give a shit if she’s gorgeous. She’s driving her car straight through my pastures, and I’m not going to let that slide.

  She stops the car a few dozen yards from me, at least having the good sense to park before she drives any closer and scares the cattle grazing nearby.

  She steps out, tight jeans, long legs, and a pair of the most distractingly perfect tits I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s also splashed from thigh to shoulder with a dark brown stain of muddy water. I should probably feel bad for that, but it’s not like I was trying to get her dirty. She should thank me anyway. She looks a little more like she belongs around here now.