It has mine.
He swipes away from the profile quickly and a woman’s face fills the screen. I barely get a glance before he’s showing the other guys.
“Total babe right?” he asks. “No sense in being a monk when there’s loads of gorgeous women dying to hook up with a former SEAL.”
“You made me a dating profile?” I ask not bothering to hide the exasperation in my tone. As one of the few single men on our crew, he’s been trying to drag me out to the bar to behis wingman for months. Unfortunately for him, I’m done with dating.
“Sort of,” he says with a guilty expression.
“That’s not just a dating app. It’s a matchmaking app for mail order brides,” Farmer Dan chimes in. “That woman wants to marry you.”
Exasperation melts into fury as I glare at the man I thought was my friend.
“You did what?” I growl.
“I didn’t send a proposal or even a message!” Casanova defends. “I just matched with her because she’s cute.”
Calhoun and Cole watch with avid interest as I begin to rip the local playboy a new one.
“You usedmyface, you jerk.”
“I have my own profiles,” he assures me. “Not on Pearl’s but the casual kind. It’s been a year since you moved up here and you haven’t hooked up with anyone.”
Distantly the sound of tires crunching on gravel and the loud rumble of an engine reaches my ears. It’s probably one of the wives.
The Carmichael Lumberyard is locally owned and operated. The three brothers who run the business are all married. Not to mention Calhoun and Cade who married a pair of best friends.
Between the older men like Buzz and the married men it’s not surprising that Casanova wants a wingman. His only other option is Famer Dan, and the kid is barely old enough to drink.
It’s not going to be me though. Three tours overseas and three failed relationships have made me swear off women. I never did casual, and while it might work for men like my buddy, it doesn’t work for me. I’m not built for fleeting pleasure.
“Carter Livingston?”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, the chatter of my coworkers fading into a low background hum as the softest brown eyes I’ve ever seen look at me with equal parts hope and desperation.
The woman standing beside our picnic table is a stranger.
She’s tall with long legs and toned arms. I don’t have to dip my chin to look her in the eye. Standing expectantly by my side with a determined expression it takes me an embarrassingly long moment before I realize she’s the match.
My match. My mail order bride.
“You proposed to her for him!” Farmer Dan screeches in outrage at Casanova.
“I didn’t!” he shouts back. “Swear on my dick!”
There’s a smudge of grease on her hand that transfers to her cheek when she rubs it absentmindedly. Her tan skin hides her embarrassment well but there’s a faint redness to her skin now.
She catches on quick. Her brown eyes darting from Casanova to the phone in his hand, to me.
Her face crumples into despair, and I’m grabbing her hand before I think twice.
“Hello Angel,” I greet her with a broad smile as I whisk her away. She follows me easily, eager to be away from my rowdy coworkers. I don’t even know her name, but I hate the dark circles underneath her eyes.
The way she flinches when Buzz laughs a little too loud has my protective instincts firing on all cylinders. I woke up this morning a single man, with no intention of ever dating again, but if the woman walking beside me wants to get married, I’ll have no objection.
Sloane
I didn’t pick Carter at random. Not truly. I’ve been friends with Delilah Henderson for years. She brought in her father’s truck a few years back. No mechanic in Texas would touch it, claiming it wasn’t worth saving, but I saw the way she looked at it. Sentimental value can’t be measured. So, she hauled the truck from Texas to Louisiana, and I did what I do best.
