“Grilled squash, because I love a good squash. That might not be typical of your diners, though.” I shrugged. “The sweet potato fries were excellent.”
“Okay, so if you had to lose two items?—”
“The carbonara and chicken marsala.” I nodded decisively. “They were good, but they don’t have the same summer zest. You know, I could create some really beautiful table settings to go with these. Something vibrant and colorful.”
“Well, it’s a retirement party at the Brett and Fitz legal offices. I don’t know that flowers will fit the vibe.”
“Ah, bummer. I was feeling inspired.”
He laughed. “I can tell!”
My cell phone rang and I picked it up, frowning at the unknown number. The area code was local and my phone hadn’t flagged it as spam, so I hit answer. “Hello?”
“Maverick, is that you, dear?”
I tried to place the voice. I’d heard it before. An older woman, with a friendly but brusque tone. She wasn’t hesitant at all. “Yes…”
“So glad I caught you! This is Iola with Matchmaking Mamas.”
“Iola, of course, how are you?” I said as the name clicked with the voice. Iola had been the school nurse when I was in first grade.
“I’m doing fantastic, my dear, and soon you will be too because I’m already working on a match for you!”
The rest of what she said sank in belatedly. “Wait. You’re calling with Matchmaking Mamas?”
“Yes, yes, I said that. Remember?”
Iola sounded concerned, as if I might be losing mymarbles at age twenty-seven. Maybe Iwasbecause I didn’t remember signing up for any matchmaking.
“Sorry, there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I didn’t request matchmaking services.”
Jamie leaned in, shamelessly eavesdropping as Iola said, “Don’t be silly. I have your profile right here! You love playing darts at The Stag Pub.”
Jamie snorted.
“Long drives in big, macho trucks. The bigger the wheels the better. Hmm. I’ve heard of size queens, but that’s a new one. Is it a euphemism of some kind?”
“What? No?—”
“Don’t be embarrassed. We all have our preferences. I just want to make sure I get the matchmaking right. Beer. Sports. Well, finding men who like those things are a dime a dozen in a town like this.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“How do you feel about dogs?” she asked.
“Uh, well…”
“Never mind. Everyone likes dogs. If they don’t, they really don’t deserve love.”
That seemed a bit harsh. For some reason, I didn’t want to be lumped into a group undeserving of love. “My best friend has dogs. I play with them.”
“Good, good. So we’re agreed, then? I’ll match you up with a dog-loving, pickup-driving, beer-drinking?—”
“Absolutely not,” I snapped out.
Iola stopped in her tracks. “What? But your profile…”
“I didn’t set that up. I don’t know how you got it. Maybe there was some sort of mix-up or…”
