Karen Whittenburg - The Matchmaker's Plan

“More information than a brother needs…except for the fact that you’re happy. Ivan had better make sure you stay that way.”

“He makes me happy just by breathing,” she said, and the conviction in her voice made Matt almost envious.

He gave her a hug and began moving toward the edge of the dance floor as the song neared its conclusion, but Ainsley, in a clever countermove, managed to alter their direction and bumped him, a little forcefully, into another tuxedoed back. Her devious plan, Matt thought, was revealed. He’d suspected for some time that Ainsley, a matchmaker’s apprentice with two successful matches under her belt, had a specific someone in mind for him and had been trying to find a good opportunity to set him up with what she referred to as an introduction of possibilities. And here was the proof, standing right in front of him when he turned around. Peyton O’Reilly, possibly the most impossible woman of his acquaintance.

“Oops!” Ainsley said brightly, but this time her smile encircled only one. “Ivan! What a happy coincidence! You’re exactly the husband I wanted to dance with next.”

Somehow, in the lull between the end of one song and the start of another, Ainsley pulled another switcheroo and danced off with her new husband, giving Matt a little wave of encouragement and leaving him with two unappealing options. Walk away from Peyton or stay and dance with her. He didn’t want to do the latter but, as Jessica had accused, he was a gentleman. A liar, perhaps, on occasion. But still a gentleman. “Peyton,” he said with a polished warmth, “you look lovely tonight. Thank you for coming.”

Her smile was equally noncommittal. “Thank you for the invitation.”

An invitation, she knew, of course, hadn’t come from him. She and Ainsley were friends, worked together as volunteers at the new pediatric center. She knew, too—or believed she knew, at any rate—that if the decision had been left to him, she wouldn’t have received an invitation to the wedding at all. From the moment they’d met, Matt had somehow managed to rub Ms. O’Reilly the wrong way. And vice versa. But Ainsley refused to believe the two of them couldn’t be friends, that the sparks between them weren’t indicative of romantic possibilities, and Matt felt certain that was why she’d arranged this devious and awkward introduction of possibilities moment on the dance floor. Consequently, here he stood, face-to-face with Peyton, friction already established in the course of two overly polite sentences and not a possibility of rescue in sight. But this was Ainsley’s wedding reception. A happy occasion. He could spend ten minutes being nice to Peyton O’Reilly.

“Dance with me?” he asked, because it seemed the obvious thing to say. “This is my favorite song.”

Her eyebrows went up. The corners of her mouth lifted. And his lips moved upward in unbidden response. Which seemed the effect she consistently had on him. One minute she was the most exasperating, irritating woman he knew, and the next minute he got all tangled up in her smile. Peyton wasn’t a particularly beautiful woman, but there was something about her long, dusky hair, not quite black, not entirely brown, that made a man think it would feel thick and luxurious tangled in his hands. There was a trusting innocence in her hazel eyes that had a man standing taller before he even knew why. And her smile, as wide and warm and winsome as an early spring, got under a man’s skin before he could recall exactly why he was upset with her.

“Well, then,” she said in that soft Louisiana drawl that played so charmingly against the clipped New England accents all around them. “If it’s your favorite song, I don’t see how I can refuse.”

She moved into his arms easily and fit there as if she belonged. Which surprised him. He’d thought—if he’d thought about it at all—that the two of them, in close quarters, would be all odd angles and awkward adjustments, their bodies at the same cross-purpose as their personalities. Instead, it felt effortless to hold her, and more pleasurable than he would ever have imagined. She smelled fresh, clean, as if she’d been dipped in dew and dried in the morning sun. Her body swayed against his—not too close, but close enough—and he was aware—very aware—of her curvy, womanly physique. This was no pencil-thin, reed-slim female he held. Peyton was full breasted and nicely filled out, and if not exactly voluptuous, she was certainly well proportioned. A subtle and seductive response welled inside him and Matt reluctantly recognized it for what it was—sexual attraction. A sizzle beneath the surface. A spark waiting to be struck.

Okay, so he would give Ainsley credit for having picked up on something he’d missed. But this spark of attraction was going nowhere. He didn’t especially want to set himself ablaze, for one thing, and even if he did, he felt certain Peyton would stomp the spark out before it ever had a chance to catch fire.

“I’m really going to miss working with Ainsley at the pediatric center,” she said, destroying his moment of fantasy with her stilted, studied remark.

“She’s only going to Italy for two weeks, you know. She will be back.”

“Well, yes, but it won’t be the same, will it?”

He drew back slightly, kept dancing as he frowned down at her. “Because she’s married?”

Peyton blinked, then she laughed. Just a little gurgle of amusement in her throat, but still a laugh that wrapped its warmth around him like the hug of an old friend. “No,” she replied, drawing the syllable out long and low. “Because she won’t be volunteering at the center anymore.”

This was news to him. “Why not?”

“What she told me is that she’s getting so many clients, she has to curtail some of her volunteer hours.”

“Clients?” He repeated before he thought. “She has too many clients?”

Peyton drew back, returned his frown. “What? You didn’t think she was good at her job?”

“Ainsley is a match…” He bit back the rest of the word with a snap. He didn’t go around telling people his sister was a matchmaker’s apprentice, that she actually believed she could kindle romance simply by putting two people in proximity and waiting for the possibilities to erupt. Luckily, Ainsley didn’t go around telling people, either. Ilsa Fairchild Braddock, the founder of IF Enterprises, an elite matchmaking service, was wise enough—thank goodness—to insist upon discretion. Except, of course, that discretion had never been Ainsley’s strong suit and there seemed to be quite a number of people who knew that IF Enterprises had more to do with personal relationships than public relations. Still, he found himself hoping, rather fervently, that Peyton wasn’t privy to that particular information, that she didn’t suspect Ainsley wanted to set up a match between the two of them. “Ainsley is a match for whatever she sets her mind to,” he said, correcting his slip of the tongue. “I’m just a little surprised she told you she would be doing less volunteering before she told me.”

He saw the warmth recede in her eyes, knew he’d offended her in some inexplicable and mysterious way.

“Ainsley’s been a good friend to me ever since I moved to Rhode Island earlier this year,” Peyton explained in a stiffly neutral tone. “We talk about a lot of things and I’m absolutely certain she didn’t intend for you to feel slighted because she told me before she told you.”

“I don’t feel slighted. Only a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Oh, perhaps I misunderstood.”

It was clear from her tone she didn’t think so, and Matt had to wonder how his conversations with Peyton turned into these ridiculous and exaggerated attempts not to offend each other. Resulting in greater offense than if they’d either one meant to offend in the first place. “I’m sure she will tell me,” he said. “When she thinks of it.”