As she inhaled air deep into her lungs, long strands of ivy crept over her shoulders, wrapping around her arms and torso. Dylan relaxed into the embrace, letting her plants comfort her.
Though she disliked camping and hiking, Dylan was still a wood nymph. She might prefer houseplants to nature, but she still needed living things around her. Her backyard garden was lush and beautiful, filled with plants, trees, and small forest creatures who were drawn to her magic.
"No more humans," Dylan murmured. The ivy seemed to agree with her for it squeezed her briefly.
Another vine flowed to the side table where she'd thrown a stack of mail earlier and lifted the envelopes toward her.
"Thank you," Dylan sighed, taking the stack.
Idly, she began to go through the envelopes. Bill. Junk. Bill. Junk. Oh, a catalog from Ulta. Beneath that, there was a large postcard emblazoned with gold script.
Mystical Matchmakers. Frowning, Dylan turned the card over.
Out of touch with the times?
Have trouble connecting?
Are phones, apps, and computers too confusing?
Mystical Matchmakers can help!
All immortals welcome.
Find the paranormal romance you've been searching for.
Dylan scoffed. How in the hell had they found her address? She didn't need a matchmaking service. She didn't need a matchmaker to tell her if she was compatible with someone else. Dylan could decide that for herself.
She started to toss the postcard to the side, but the ivy nudged her.
"What?" she asked. "Are you seriously suggesting that I use the service?"
The ivy nudged her again.
"Fine," she sighed. "I'll think about it."
The vines lifted the card from her but she knew she would see it again. All living things had a sort of spirit, an intelligence. It was only that creatures such as herself were able to communicate with them.
The plants in her home were like friends. And like friends, they didn't always agree with each other.
She didn't intend to go to that matchmaking service. Not now. Not ever.
ChapterTwo
Clay Dugan was at the end of his rope.
It wasn't financial problems or issues at work that were plaguing him.
It was women.
One in particular and he couldn't get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried.
"Mother, I've told you no every time you've asked me this. When will you accept it?" he asked in exasperation.
"When it becomes yes," she retorted, her voice tart. "You are thirty-five years old, Barclay. It's time you provided me with grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them."
Hiding his wince at her use of his full first name, he gestured to the three trollings running amok in the yard outside his woodshop. "And what are they?"
Sydney Dugan huffed in annoyance. "Your sister’s children are a joy, but I have baby fever."
