Karen Whittenburg - The Matchmaker's Plan

“I’m experimenting,” he said.

“With eyestrain?”

“With the theory that this constant bombardment of Christmas music will be less irritating in the dark.”

“Well, bah humbug to you, too.” Ainsley thumped him playfully on the arm. “But never fear. We are here to improve your attitude, lighten your spirits and take you out for lunch. Our treat. And we won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even bother with an excuse.”

“I just got here,” he said. “I had a breakfast meeting that lasted all morning and I have about ten minutes before I have to meet Jessica for lunch.” He paused, then added. “A working lunch.”

Ainsley and Miranda exchanged a look—one of those sister moments they seemed to be sharing on a regular basis these days. Then, having come to some mutual and mysterious understanding, Miranda walked around the desk and picked up the phone. “T.J.,” she said a moment later, “call Ms. Martin-Kingsley and tell her Matt has an unexpected family situation and won’t be able to keep their luncheon appointment.” She listened for a moment, then laughed. “That’s right. She’ll have to work without him. Thanks, T.J.”

She hung up, smiled at Matt. “Fancy that. You’re free for lunch.”

“Is this an unexpected family situation?”

Ainsley slipped her arm through his, beamed up at him. “You weren’t expecting us, we’re family and we’re hungry.”

Miranda gestured voila! “An unexpected family situation. Besides, Matthew, you do not want to spend any more time with Jessica than you absolutely have to. It gives me a headache just to think about her.”

It often gave him one, too, but then, lately, thinking about women in general had the same effect. “Great,” he said. “You two are taking me to lunch. Where are we going?”

“The Red Parrot?” Miranda suggested with a questioning glance to Ainsley.

“Suits me.” Ainsley gave Matt’s arm a gentle tug. “Is Peyton here today?” she asked as they moved toward the door. “We should ask her to join us.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Miranda’s comment was so quick, so close on the heels of Ainsley’s impromptu thought, that Matt would have had to be thicker than a slab of bacon not to realize this whole lunch scheme was a setup, put together and practiced ahead of time by his sisters for his ultimate good.

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem with women.

They believed a man could be improved, should be improved, and they were always eager to introduce him to a woman they thought was up to the task. He loved his sisters, liked and respected the men they’d chosen, believed each of them was better for having found the other. But that kind of relationship wasn’t for him. And it sure as hell wasn’t for him with Peyton. He’d come too close for comfort to thinking it might be possible not so very long ago and gotten burned for his effort. No, thank you.

“I’ve no idea where Ms. O’Reilly might be,” he said with a smile meant to convey benign indifference. “But I can guarantee she won’t want to have lunch with me.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” Ainsley’s eyes sparkled with secrets and innuendo.

“Oh, maybe the fact that our every conversation seems to turn into an argument.” Which wasn’t true, although it wasn’t entirely a lie, either. “Or maybe because she’s been avoiding me as much as possible for the past two months.” Which was true. He’d been avoiding her, too, but that was irrelevant. “Or maybe it’s because I’m on to this little matchmaking plan of yours and, for the record, I’m not interested. Never have been.” Which was a lie. “And never will be.” Again. Which was the truth.

The sparkle in Baby’s eyes merely brightened. “Wow, you’ve obviously given that a lot of thought.” Her gaze went to Miranda and some glimmer of understanding passed between the two women again. “Guess we won’t invite Peyton to lunch today.”

“Guess not,” Miranda said. “Guess we’ll just have to keep him all to ourselves.”

“Guess so.” Ainsley gave his arm a squeeze. “But, don’t worry, we’ll share you when the right woman comes along.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied. “Because the right woman isn’t going to come along for a very, very, very long time. If ever.”

Ainsley’s laugh conveyed more clearly than words just how much confidence she’d gained as a matchmaker during the past year. The smile she exchanged with Miranda told him she clearly had her romantic wand aimed at him. And clearly, Miranda also thought that he was a prime candidate for a makeover.

Protest was futile. But forewarned is forearmed, and he happened to know a few facts his sisters didn’t know. Weren’t ever going to know. So, let them plot to their hearts’ content. It would come to nothing, anyway. He and Peyton had agreed. And as far as he was concerned, that was the end of it.

PEYTON PUSHED her plate away, hoping no one would notice that she’d managed to massacre the cheeseburger, mangle and scatter the fries without eating a single bite. But, of course, no one would notice. The waiter was just trying to survive the lunch crowd. He didn’t care what food she left on her plate as long as he received his tip. Her lunch companion was even less interested than the waiter. Scarlett, at fifteen, was consumed with her own orbit, and barely aware that anyone else had a life apart from how it intersected with her own.

“You are not going to believe what she said after that.” Scarlett talked with a French fry, waving it like a baton before dipping it into first ketchup, then mayonnaise, then biting off the end. “‘It’s the silver Donna Karan or the blue Vera Wang, Scarlett.”’ She imitated their mother’s voice down to the imprecise slur of her Louisiana drawl. “‘You cannot have both. You do not need both. You may choose one, not both.”’ Scarlett double-dipped and bit again, chewing the fried potato as she pondered their mother’s complete ignorance. “I mean, puh-lease! As if I’d be caught dead in Karan or Wang! How can she think for one second I’d want to wear anything by a designer she likes?”

It was taken for granted, of course, that Peyton would agree. She was Scarlett’s main sounding board. At least when it came to discussing their mother. “How could Mother think you’d be interested in a dress by either of those very famous, very talented designers?” Peyton said. “Honestly, sometimes I think she does it just to torture you.”

Scarlett raised her perfect eyebrows and leveled a ketchup-smeared French fry for emphasis. “Don’t side with Mom, Peyton. Just because they couldn’t afford to buy you nice clothes when you were my age is no reason I should have to wear something I hate.” The ketchup end of the fry went into the lump of mayo and from there into Scarlett’s mouth. “Besides, this is a very special date for me. It’s important, and the dress has to be perfect.”

Here was the subject Peyton wanted to talk about and she chose her words carefully. “To impress Covington?”

“No, to impress Covington’s mother and father.” Her green eyes nailed Peyton’s best intentions. “I want Mr. and Mrs. Locke to see that even Louisiana swamp rats look pretty good in expensive clothes.” Scarlett was quick and had that uncanny teenagers’ knack of putting others on the defensive. “You have such a chip on your shoulder, Peyton. I don’t know why you bothered to move up here with us if all you’re going to do is find fault with every single boy I like just because he can trace his ancestry back to Plymouth Rock!”

“That’s not fair, Scarlett. I simply think Covington is too old for you.”

“He’s twenty. Five freaking years. Big deal.”