Chapter 9

Ijoined the Matchmake Me dating app months ago, because I lost a bet with Cole’s girlfriend. Holly didn’t think I could get a piece of balled up paper into a trash can across the bar, and it turns out she was right, dammit. So I swallowed my pride in my nonexistent basketball abilities and joined the app.

I’ve ignored it ever since.

Lots of women have contacted me through it—beautiful, interesting women who supposedly have plenty in common with me. But I haven’t made a date with anyone.

Until last week. Two pretty blondes got in touch with me. I let down the new owner of the bookstore, and I set a date with the other.

Mind you, it’s not a real, romantic date.

Ivy Anders messaged me through the app, because according to the algorithm controlling the whole thing, she and I are a match.

Six months ago, this might have been welcome news. Ivy’s funny and hot, a guaranteed good time. She’s also the kind of woman who wouldn’t start planning the second date before the appetizers come out—a perfect match for a short-term relationship that would lead nowhere. The kind of relationship I’ve always sought out.

But I don’t have any romanticinterest in Ivy. I’m only meeting her tonight because she says she has something “interesting” to discuss—and also because she wants us to go on a double date with her father’s lodger. Double dates are a guaranteed bad time, but I’m curious about what she’s up to.

Based on what little I’ve seen of her and this guy, Lou, there’s some mutual interest between them. Far be it from me to tell someone else what to do, but I don’t understand why she’s encouraging him to go out on a date with someone else when she likes him herself. Then again, I know dick-all about relationships, so who am I to cast stones?

I show up a couple of minutes early to the appointed meeting place—Christmas All Year Coffee, a Highland Hills original where it’s Christmas every day of the year. It’s hell for most reasonable people, but the tourists eat it up, from the perpetual Christmas decor to the non-stop Christmas carols piping over the speakers. I’m standing by the ordering counter, under hanging snowflakes, when Ivy comes in with Lou.

Hell, yeah, they’re into each other—they’re trading looks as if they’d like to be each other’s final meal. I hide a smile as they come up to me and we trade greetings. Lou shifts his attention to me, and even though he’s polite enough, it’s obvious he wouldn’t object to taking a hammer to my head. Here’s my confirmation: Ivy’s interest in him is returned and then some.

And a good thing for Lou, because within five minutes of us finding and introducing ourselves to his date, Rosalie, I can tell she’s the kind of woman who’d throw all his stuff out onto the lawn and burn it at the faintest hint of disinterest on his part.

And, yes, I’m speaking from experience, although not with her.

Ivy offers to get everyone a round of drinks, and the two of us join the ordering line, which is so long it might as well lead straight to the North Pole.

“So you wanted to talk to me about something?” I ask in an undertone, glancing back at the table where Lou and Rosalie are engaging in uncomfortable conversation.

“I’m doing some research for my book,” she says.

“The one about working at a brewery?”

“That’s the one,” she confirms with a nod. With a sidelong look, she adds, “You know, the heroine’s inspired by Brittany.”

This makes me smile, because I have a feeling Brittany’s not too keen on having her private business written into a book, even if it’s heavily fictionalized. Maybe this is why she’s a little prickly about Ivy despite seeming to like her.

“Couldn’t have picked a better one,” I say, rubbing my chest and glancing at the menu board above the cash register.

“When was the last time you got laid?”

I swear, because hell, I didn’t see that one coming. My gaze shifting back to her, I ask, “What kind of research are you doing, anyway?”

“I thought I was being straightforward,” she says with a grin. “It’s about sex. It’s a smutty romance book.”

I laugh, but my mind is spinning. An image of Brittany rises to the surface. Brittany in my tow truck, wearing my necklace, her cheeks pink from the cold. Brittany in that copse of trees, our breath rising up in puffy mist, her lips swollen from my kiss.

I clear my throat. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not the best person to ask. I’m kind of taking a break from all that. It’s been a couple of months, I guess. Maybe three.”

She grins as if she likes my answer, and my skin itches with nerves. Did I get this wrong? Is this her roundabout way of making a pass at me? I’d have to say no. I’m uncomfortable with that scenario, because I feel like rejecting a woman like her would mean something, and it would make me have to confront a reality I’ve been avoiding.

“So,” she says slowly. “Is there someone particular on your mind? Because if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d go a couple of months without any action.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say with a scowl. “It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” she says, twirling one of her long curls and glancing over at the table where Lou and Rosalie are sitting. “Love is stupid.”

My heart thumps faster. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, lifting my hands. “I never said I was in love with her.”

At the same time, those words don’t feel inaccurate, and maybe that’s what’s making me most nervous of all.

“In love with whom?” she says, her eyes sparkling, but then they shift back to Lou and Rosalie, who’s very attractive despite having the personality of a wet cracker. Maybe she’s worried he’s into wet crackers.

“I thought you wanted to set him up with someone?” I ask softly.

She clears her throat and looks away. “I do.”

“Don’t kid a kidder,” I tell her as we move forward in line.

“I know who you’re not in love with,” she says, her big blue eyes full of conviction. “I’ve seen you and Brittany together often enough to know. Two people don’t pretend to hate each other that much unless they’re desperate to bone, and you honestly couldn’t do better than that badass woman. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You strike me as a man who needs some sense slapped into you.”

I look away. “Well, goddamn. You’re writing us into this book of yours aren’t you?”

“The book isn’t the point,” she says, which isn’t a no. “You’re messing up.”

I shake my head, a chagrined smile on my face, because when she’s right, she’s right. “It’s too late. I’ve already messed up. I think she really does hate me now.”

She’s certainly acted like it. I haven’t come around to the bar much lately, because every time I do, I feel like the failure I am. She asked me to stand up, to be a man, and I didn’t. I was afraid that I couldn’t give her what she wanted—that I’d publicly fail and everyone would realize that I’m a man who can’t deal with big emotions, a man who buckles under the pressure, under grief, under love.

I was afraid I’d disappoint my big brother, when I feel I’ve already done enough to disappoint him.

Do I regret that now?

Hell, yes, I do. But I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision. Because I couldn’t bear to try giving her what she deserves and let her down. Although that’s a stupid thought, because it’s obvious I’ve already let her down.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Ivy says, staring at me. “But she’d like to. She’s worried you’re too much like her ex-husband.”

“I’m nothing like that dick,” I snarl. Because Tommy DeLuca is a whiney, piece-of-shit loser. Always has been. He’s the kind of guy who always has a sob story about why he’s stuck in a rut but wouldn’t get out a shovel if someone else asked him for help. The kind of guy who’d luck out by marrying a dream girl and then disrespect her again and again. He works as a handyman—self-employed because every halfway respectable company in the county has already fired him.

“So why don’t you show her?” she asks. “I’m not just saying this because my book is about you two, because let’s be honest, I’m going to make you do the smart thing in fiction whether you do it in real life or not. I just really think you’ll be making a mistake if you don’t go for it.”

“You’re really writing your—”

“I feel like you’re missing the point here,” she says, putting a hand on her hip.

I give her a long look. “And it seems to me you should take a bit of your own advice, friend. You’re interested in Lou. It’s as obvious to me as the nose on my face.”

But we’ve reached the front of the line, and it’s time for us to order our ridiculous hot chocolate drinks, which I definitely don’t want—give me a beer or a shot of the good stuff, any day. I don’t forget our conversation, though. I’m thinking of it throughout the double date, which is laughably bad and gets worse with every passing minute. Rosalie keeps talking about herself, and Ivy and Lou bicker the way two people in love like to do—according to her.

So when Ivy pulls me aside again, probably because she’s as anxious to get away from that table as everyone sitting there is, I find myself saying, “We’re going to make ourselves a deal, Ivy Anders. If you want me to give it a shot with Brittany, you have to give it a shot with Lou.”

“But he’s only in town temporarily,” she complains.

“So you better work fast.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” She looks back at the table again as Lou touches Rosalie’s arm. Her flinch does not go unnoticed.

We join them again and play Charades, God help us, which doesn’t do much to improve the collective mood. Everyone’s fixing to leave, at last, when my phone rings. I hold up my hand to let them know I need a minute and step aside to answer it. I can see Lou jetting toward the door, not that I blame him—Rosalie’s out for blood—but my focus shifts to the call when I see my brother Cole’s name on the screen.

Did something happen? We’re more likely to text than call, and he knows I have plans tonight.

My mind shifts to other phone calls. To our parents, dead. To Cole’s wife…

I fucking hate that my mind goes there—but when you’ve been dealt that bad of a burn before, it creates a fear of hot things.

I answer, my breath ragged. “Everything okay, man?”

“No,” Cole says, obviously agitated. “I need you to get down to Ziggy’s right away, man. Holly and I are a few hours away at a concert, and there’s trouble. A fight. The cops are coming, but Brittany’s holding down the fort alone until they get there. I want to make sure she’s all—”

“Fuck, I’m going now,” I say. “I’ll update you as soon as I know anything.” And I shove the phone into my pocket and run outside without grabbing a coat, because I need to be with her. Nothing else matters.