Their Matchmaker
A Love Equation Novel
Allyson Lindt
This book is a work of fiction.
While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Allyson Lindt
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Acelette Press
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
The Boyfriends and the Matchmaker (The Love Equation, #6)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Also By Allyson Lindt
About the Author
For my eternal dragon
Dear Reader,
Addiction, and the ups and downs that go with it, are difficult for everyone involved. Please know I don’t take the rehabilitation and recovery process lightly. I understand it’s different for everyone. No two experiences are the same, but that doesn’t make any situation any less important or stressful.
Fortunately for my characters, they live in a fictional world. While I do my best to keep their realities real, there are times when I take artistic license. I don’t mean any offense, and I hope you’re able to enjoy the book in the nature it’s intended.
Thank you for your support and readership.
Sincerely,
Allyson Lindt
If you or a loved one needs help, please reach out to a treatment center. If you’re not sure where to start, and you’re in the US, call 1-800-662-HELP (4357), or visit https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline.
Chapter One
REGARDLESS OF HOW MUCH money the participants had, the game never changed; the stakes just got higher. Curiosity made Aaron want to watch the scam in front of him play out, but propriety and the lack of desire to see someone hustled won out.
If Gavin were here, Aaron would probably be distracted enough he wouldn’t notice. Fortunately for the group of gentlemen clustered around a woman in a blue dress with a plunging neckline, Aaron’s partner was sitting tonight out.
The pack stood near the back of the art gallery. They all wore tailored suits, and the woman in the middle—Aaron was calling her Ms. Blue while he observed—held their attention. Except for one man, who spent more time searching the faces of those around him, than trying to catch a glimpse down the front of Ms. Blue’s dress. That must be her backup.
“It’s a tragic story.” Aaron pulled his wallet from his back pocket and plucked out a bill. “I’ll give you twenty dollars and two cough drops for the painting. I hate to see a lady in distress.”
Her partner snorted. “You’re insulting a mourning woman.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled among her pack.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, miss.” Aaron kept the sympathy in his tone. “I feel for your situation, but if the painting isn’t worth anything...” If he walked into the middle of the group and proclaimed her a gold-digger, out to steal someone’s money, no one would listen. She had them captivated. But if he looked like he was on her side, trying to stop these men from taking advantage of a grieving woman, the hustle would break up, and he and his business partners wouldn’t have to deal with it happening on their property.
“This isn’t about the worth of the painting.” Her partner pushed. To the woman, he said, “You don’t need any more grief in your life. I’ll give you two thousand, for this unremarkable piece of art.”
She choked on her champagne. “How much? For a worthless piece of canvas? But why?”
The mark cut in. “Because he’s a cheapskate. I’ll give you five thousand.”
Aaron feigned shock. “So many generous strangers.” He leaned closer to Ms. Blue, and spoke in a stage whisper. “I’d be careful, miss. I believe in charity, but if he’s willing to pay you more than a couple of bucks for a worthless painting... perhaps it’s worth more than he’s saying.”
The mark flushed bright red. “Are you implying I’d take advantage of this poor woman?”
“I would never.” Aaron kept just as much indignation in his voice. Then he winked at Ms. Blue. “I totally am. I’d get out now, if I were you, before this man tries to steal more than your priceless Picasso.”
Ms. Blue nodded at Aaron, no longer looking at anyone else. “Thank you.” The sweetness vanished from her voice. “Apparently I almost made a terrible mistake.”
“Don’t mention it.” He turned his attention back to the photography exhibition, as the group dispersed. He’d enjoyed watching the hustle as a throwback to his teenage years. However, he was here for the art. It held a kind of joy and innocence the world didn’t display in long stretches. A charm that was pleasant to drift into for moments at a time.
A hand on his arm drew his attention. “Aaron Birch.” It was Ms. Blue. “I’m Katy. I’d have ditched the loser and low-end hustle, and come learn from you, if I’d known the Four-Billion-Dollar Master would be here tonight.”
He hated that nickname. “I don’t normally give lessons.”
“I can make it worth your time.” She traced a finger along the plunging V of her dress.
If her version of playful banter was as good as or better than her hustle, he’d see this through, to find out whose bedroom they ended up in. “What kind of conversion rate do I get on that?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is this a penny-per-minute thing? Three-ninety-nine an hour?”
She frowned. “I’m not a whore.”
“I never said you were. It’s about the back and forth, see? Worth my time leads to conversion rate, which segues to value...” He shook his head. It was no fun if it had to be explained. “I’m sorry, Ms. Blue. I don’t think we’re on the same page.”
“It’s Katy. I’m just a little tired. Not paying attention. I get it.”
Aaron trailed his gaze around the room, stopping on each face before moving to the next. “We both know you’re as much a Ms. Blue as a Katy. Thank you for adding a little spice to my evening, but my date is waiting, and—fair warning—she’s the jealous type.” And there she was. Or rather, he hoped she’d act like his companion long enough to kill Ms. Blue’s interest.
The woman he spotted was spending more time looking at the art than the people. Her glass was still full. She was the least likely to push him away before she had a chance to analyze the situation. It didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous—golden hair piled high, with a few ringlets loose around her face; a long, slender neck;
and a dress that hugged every inch of curve, without showing a whole lot of skin. Elegant and classy.
He strolled up to her, the clack of heels behind him telling him Katy followed. The stranger met his gaze, and he said, “I’m glad you made it, love. I was worried I wouldn’t see you tonight.”
The stranger wore a half-scowl as she looked between him and Ms. Blue. “Love, this is Katy,” he said.
“Cynthia.” The blonde extended her hand. She was playing along. Perfect.
Ms. Blue’s smile slipped, and she returned the handshake. “Pleasure.”
Aaron rested a hand on the small of Cynthia’s back, hoping to strike the balance between looking involved and not pissing the woman off before the gig was up. “My tempting Cyn and I are going to enjoy the rest of the show. Good luck selling your priceless Picasso, Ms. Blue.”
IT WASN’T THAT CYNTHIA disliked people. They were fine, one at a time. But she preferred numbers. If she added one to one, she got two. Not three, or seven, or a brokenhearted point five. Two. She turned to the man who’d adopted her as an accessory. “She owns a Picasso?” Not the most brilliant thing she could have said, but she was piecing together what happened.
“No. But she wants people to think she does. Thank you for saving me, by the way. Aaron.”
He was attractive. Dark hair brushed his ears, and he had pale-green eyes she had to tilt her head up to see. It was rare for her to meet a guy taller than her, especially when she wore heels. His suit was made to accentuate and hang from every place a good suit should, showing off broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
“Cynthia. But you already know that.” Why was she flustered? She was familiar with his type. They thought they were smooth as shit until someone called them on it, and then they fell apart. Their reaction to someone seeing through their façade was an unknown variable in a world she preferred to keep ordered.
He looked her over, gaze lingering on her hips and breasts before returning to her face. “And you are a sinful temptation.”
The cheesy play on her name was enough to snap her reason back on. The attention was flattering, but she knew better than to be sucked in. When she’d started her matchmaking firm, she let guys like this Aaron in the door, along with every other client. Everyone deserved a chance, and she didn’t make sweeping assumptions about people.
She’d never been able to match one, though. Guys like him didn’t work with her algorithm, because they were so focused on impressing the world, they had no substance of their own. These days she sent them on their way with a smile, an apology, and the assurance they’d have better luck without her computer’s interference. “Is that considered an opening line in a place like this?” she asked Aaron.
He raised his brows in question.
“Hi. I’m Katy, and I own a priceless Picasso. Is that how the pick-up works here?”
He chuckled—a casual, throaty sound that sent pleasant tingles across her skin in a way she tried to ignore. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he said. “It’s a hustle.”
“Like... guess which cup the ball is under?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. He was comparing high-end art to street tricks.
“Exactly like that that, but with a more impressive payout. She finds her way into a gathering like this, usually with a friend to help nudge the crowd, and convinces people she owns said priceless Picasso but has no idea how much it’s worth. They believe they underbid her. To them, it’s worth twenty million dollars, and they offer her five or ten grand. When they go to pick up the art, she either hands them one of fifty convincing replicas, or more likely, she takes their money and runs.”
“That’s horrible.” She couldn’t believe the casual way he said it. “And you let her walk away?”
“She didn’t do it yet. And any of those men she was talking to thought they were scamming her, too.”
The concept left a bad taste in her mouth. “But still...”
“You think I should call the police? She hasn’t done anything wrong this evening.” He looked at Cynthia like she was the one not making sense.
She definitely preferred numbers. It was time to wrap this up. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Wait. You’re right. It is disturbing. On both their parts.”
She should keep walking. So why was she facing him? “You’re only saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear.”
“I’m saying it because I stopped her from doing it. Doesn’t matter if everyone in that group was trying to screw everyone else over, it still wasn’t right.” He quirked his mouth in a smile he probably thought was seductive. It was kind of cute. “If I was saying what I thought you wanted to hear, I’d feed you a line about being one of the owners of this building, ask if you wanted the grand tour, and watch you get flustered again.”
“Is giving me a tour of the building a euphemism for trying to talk me out of my dress?” She was making a bit of a leap in logic, that his hitting on her was meant to lead to more. She was bothered that part of her liked his line, though. The notion of being talked out of her dress by this gentleman who knew exactly how to flatter her was more tempting than she wanted.
“You’re assuming a lot. What makes you think I don’t have a date?” he asked.
She raised her brows in disbelief. “You’re here with me. I’m your girlfriend. Isn’t that what you told Katy?” Earning her living hooking people up had taught her a lot of important lessons, number one being that a successful Evening One didn’t have to lead to an Evening Two, as long as everyone was on the same page.
“In that case, I don’t have to use euphemisms to get you to join me upstairs. You already know how incredible I am, and you’re curious to see what we get up to next. You’re wondering if we can top how much fun we had at that last place.” His smile shifted to something almost challenging.
“Is that what I’m wondering? Considering I struggle to remember the last place... Oh wait—the back room of that place in Chinatown?”
“I love that place. Best dumplings. Do they have a back room?”
This was more fun than she expected. He didn’t flinch, and he had a counter at each roadblock. “If neither one of us remembers the back room, it won’t be a hard night to top.” Despite the derision in her words, she hoped he kept playing along, rather than getting offended.
“We can’t have completely forgettable. Let me make it up to you. That was the pickup line, if you’re keeping track.”
“I need to start, if you’re going to show me a night I’ll remember forever.”
His frown caught her off guard. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m your type.”
He was right, but now seemed like an odd time to point it out. She couldn’t hide her curiosity. “What is my type?” According to the program she used to match clients, no one she’d met came close. Not that she would date a client—talk about unethical—but she kept her name in the database for strictly educational purposes.
“Intelligent,” he said.
“And that’s not you?”
He shook his head. “You don’t just want someone who keeps you on your toes with his wit. You want someone who knows the difference between”—he studied her again, this time keeping his attention on her face—“tabs and spaces.”
Tabs. Always tabs. “They’re two different keys on a keyboard. Mystery solved. I didn’t realize you were offering anything long term enough for that to matter.” Every time she opened her mouth, she got sucked further into this ridiculous but tantalizing conversation. All she had to do was stop talking and walk away, but no. Something propelled her to say new things.
“I’m not. Does that mean your criteria for letting a random stranger make you moan are different?”
“After that night in Chinatown, my criteria are higher than they used to be.” She smiled, to let him know she was still teasing.
“I like it.” He dipped his head, and she caught the faint scent of musk. He smelled good too. It wasn’
t fair. “If you’re considering saying yes”—his warm breath caressed his skin, and his voice was low—“let’s pretend I already talked you into it. There’s an office on the fourth floor that’s staged for rental, and I’m curious about whether the couch is good for anything besides sitting on.”
And there was the arrogance she was looking for. The assumption the conversation would lead to sex. It should bother her more than it did. “Why would I say yes?”
“Because you think there’s nothing to me but what’s on the surface, and the curious bits of you are begging for proof that I’m all talk.”
He was perceptive. That probably made a lot of things easier for him. She wouldn’t be one of them, despite enjoying the conversation. “In other words, you think I’ll go upstairs with you in hopes of being disappointed?”
“I do. And you’ve set your expectations pretty high.”
“You make me sound cynical.” Which she was, but it was jarring for someone else to point it out.
“Not at all. Just realistic.”
It was time to wrap this up. “Disappoint me before we make it upstairs, and it’ll save us both time.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“If I have to tell you, it’s not your idea, is it?” She had no clue what the challenge would get her. Being unable to second-guess him was exhilarating.
He rested one hand on her hip, thumb tracing tiny circles, and cupped her cheek with the other. When he locked his gaze on hers, her breath jammed in her chest. Captivating. He dipped his head, then brushed his lips over hers. The barely-there touch raced through every inch of her, drawing her senses to life.
He stepped back, challenging smirk returning, and cool air mingled with disappointment to take his place. “I’m not interested in talking anyone into an evening they don’t want.” He grasped her fingers and kissed the tips before releasing her. “Enjoy the rest of the exhibit, my temptation.”
She leaned against a nearby wall with a soft oof as soon as he was out of sight. What the hell was that?
Chapter Two
Their Matchmaker Page 1