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Copyright Information
Title
Summary
A Piece of Cake
Also by T.M. Franklin
About the Author
Originally Published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop
Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2013
Copyright 2nd edition © T.M. Franklin, 2017
Published by Enchanted Publications
The right of T.M. Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Emily Valentine is a matchmaker who doesn’t believe in love.
Well, at least not the hearts and flowers, see-your-soulmate-across-a-crowded-room-and-the-world-stands-still kind of love. No, Emily is a pragmatist and she’s abandoned her family’s tradition of matchmaking based on instinct and uncanny intuition for a more scientific approach to pairing people up. Emily believes love is more about compatibility and common interests than anything mystical.
But a run-of-the-mill job turns her world on end when swoony cake designer Sam Cavanaugh pops up as a potential match for her newest client. The attraction she feels for him throws a wrench in her plans, but Emily’s not giving in without a fight.
Emily is nothing if not practical. And reasonable. But she’s about to learn that sometimes the sweetest things in life…are neither.
Shaking hands was the worst.
Emily pasted a smile on her face as the woman across from her offered her hand. She’d tried, at first, to avoid shaking hands altogether, but people expected it, thought it odd when she’d clear her throat and offer the weak explanation of having a cold or something equally pathetic. So, Emily braced herself, reaching out to shake her hand as briefly as possible. She felt the tendril of awareness but fought it, reinforcing the wall blocking out the sensation. It was easier after years of experience, but she still had moments when she was caught unaware and the slightest touch send a surge of knowing through her. Knowing she didn’t want.
This time, though, the wall held strong. She pulled back her hand, resisting the urge to flex her fingers, and gestured to the chair across from her desk.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Samuels,” she said.
“Jessica, please,” the woman said as she sat down, smoothing the fabric of her skirt over her knees.
Emily didn’t need much insight to read the woman; taupe business suit—Chanel, or possibly Armani, Emily was hardly an expert – with matching pumps—two inch heels, sensible, not sexy. Hair cropped in a short style that definitely required at least monthly maintenance. Face made up in that smooth, dewy way that ensured the products were expensive and guaranteed to provide a natural look. Diamond earrings large enough to scream wealth, but small enough not to be called ostentatious.
She knew from her file that Jessica was the youngest daughter of Eric Samuels, an old-money entrepreneur who’d parlayed his inheritance into better than ten figures and never looked back. Yes, Jessica Samuels was the epitome of cultured elegance. A client that could push Emily’s business to the next level.
Shaking off the unease of the handshake, Emily closed the open file folder before her and folded her hands on top. “Jessica,” she said with a reassuring smile, “tell me how I can help you.”
She knew, of course, but the question always set the clients at ease.
Jessica fiddled a little with her earring, cheeks flushing slightly. Emily waited for her to find the right words.
“I want to get married,” she said finally. “I want to find my soul mate.”
Emily tried not to wince at the archaic term. It was not her place to challenge it.
“I understand you’re the best matchmaker on the west coast, maybe in the whole country.” Jessica toyed with the earring again—a nervous habit, apparently. “So, I need your help.”
Emily nodded, picking up her glasses and sliding them on before opening the file once again. “I see you’ve completed our application—”
“It took me a while.”
Emily flashed her an apologetic grin. “I know. But it’s important that I have as much information as possible if I’m to find your ideal match.”
“So you think you can?” Jessica craned her neck to peer at the folder across the desk. “You can find The One?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Emily replied, flipping through the application. “So, tell me—why now?”
“I think it’s time. I’m twenty-eight years old.” She considered that for a moment, biting her lip in concentration. “I want to find someone to share my life with.” She smiled softly. “My sisters are both married and starting families. I want what they have.”
Emily peered at her over the top of her glasses for a moment, but to her credit, Jessica met her gaze. She was serious about it, and that was important. Emily set the application back on her desk. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s find you a man.”
“You’re mother’s on the phone. Again.” Emily’s assistant, Heather, shrugged apologetically as Emily glared in response, but she didn’t back out of the half-opened door. “She’ll just call back if you don’t talk to her. And don’t ask me to lie. You know she can tell.”
Emily did know. It was one of her mother’s gifts. She sighed and removed her glasses to rub at her eyes, then ran her hands through her strawberry-blond hair, twisting it once out of habit, before letting it fall back to her shoulders. After the initial scan, she’d been combing through computer files to find compatible matches for Jessica Samuels, and when she glanced at her watch, was startled to find she’d been at it for almost two hours.
“Em?” Heather prodded, brows arched expectantly as she tucked a wayward brown curl behind her ear. It popped back out immediately and she blew at it in irritation.
“Fine. I’ll take it,” Emily muttered. “But I need chocolate.”
Heather grinned and produced a foil-wrapped truffle from her jacket pocket.
“You know me too well,” Emily said with a mock glare, but she took the chocolate and unwrapped it quickly to pop it into her mouth. Muffling her pleased groan, she picked up the phone, swallowing before pressing the button to connect the call.
Heather waved and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Hi, Mom.” She licked a smear of chocolate off her thumb.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
Emily slouched in her chair, leaning her head back against the cushioned headrest as she squeezed her eyes shut. “No, I haven’t. I’ve just been busy. Big new client.”
“Yes, the Samuels girl.”
“Mom, you know I hate it when you do that.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you came home once in a while.”
Emily could picture her mom waving a hand dismissively. They’d had this argument countless times, and E
mily could never find a way to make her mom understand that using her gift to peek into her life was an invasion of privacy. Eve Valentine didn’t share her daughter’s disdain for her rather unusual abilities. Instead, she saw it as a natural extension of her five senses, and thought asking her to keep from using it was akin to demanding she walk around blindfolded or gagged.
And she couldn’t understand why Emily chose to do exactly that.
“Grandma really wants you to come for dinner Sunday,” Eve said quietly. “We miss you, honey.”
Emily sighed. “I know. I miss you too. It’s just . . . hard.”
Her mother hummed quietly. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Don’t start, Mom.”
She heard her mother exhale, resignation echoing down the phone line. “I’m not. Will you come Sunday?”
Emily could tell her mother already knew the answer, but she gave it anyway.
“Yeah. Seven o’clock okay?”
“Seven’s perfect. See you then.”
Emily Valentine’s childhood may not have been normal by most standards, but even she had to admit it was a happy one, filled with reassurances that she was special, that she had a great destiny to follow in the footsteps of her mother, grandmother, and every Valentine woman for more than two centuries.
A destiny to help others find true love. Their soul mate. The other half—the missing half.
It was no accident that Emily became a matchmaker.
Throughout history, the Valentine women had been born with unique gifts to aid them in their mission to help love along. Her grandmother, Ellen, could see auras, and the unique way they changed when a person came into contact with the one they were meant to be with. Eve had an uncanny instinct about people, an ability to see what they really wanted, even if they didn’t know it themselves or were unable to articulate it. She could also read the people closest to her in a rather unnerving way, able to pick out recent events in her loved ones’ lives and actually feel the impact of them.
As for Emily, her gift was a tactile one—an ability to sense emotions and thoughts through touch. It was more than that, though. With a single brush of her fingers, she could map out the person’s emotional makeup, a web of people joined together by threads of relationship. Some threads were thin, almost transparent—a sign of a casual acquaintance—some were heavy and strong, indicating family or close friends. But the bond of a soul mate was the strongest of all, and even if it hadn’t yet been formed, Emily could see it in her mind, see the hole where that person should be. Once she received that emotional imprint, for lack of a better word, she was able to pinpoint with startling accuracy, the love-match for her client, even from a photograph or an item of clothing. Meeting the match in person gave her an even stronger response, a feeling of connection that was impossible to ignore.
She’d gone into the family business at the age of twelve, spending countless hours around the dining room table with her mother and grandmother as they met with clients. She had worked on her homework, munching on homemade cookies.
“Emily, this is Miss Johnson,” her mother used to say, and Emily knew that was her cue.
She’d reach out politely to shake Miss Johnson’s hand, absorbing the imprint with a friendly smile on her face. She’d sit down and go back to her homework and after the client left, the three of them would discuss the case. Eve narrowed down the possible matches, and Emily examined their photos until she found the right one. Then, when Miss Johnson finally met the man in question, Em’s grandmother would smile with satisfaction at the sparkling auras mingling just so.
It worked perfectly, and Emily was happy. Until she’d turned eighteen years old and met her father.
Emily’s mother had spoken of him rarely, always with glowing eyes and wistful words. Emily knew little of him other than his name and that he was Eve’s true love. Her mother never said what happened to him other than to say that their destinies diverged, and he’d had to follow his own path.
The three Valentine women had just celebrated Em’s birthday with cake and a traditional toast—grape juice for Emily, supplemented with just a splash of champagne when she’d protested she was no longer a child—and the doorbell rang. Emily saw her mother stiffen and pale, but it didn’t really register until she flung the door open to find a tall man with dark hair and a slightly crooked nose—the mirror of Emily’s own—standing on the front stoop, wringing a worn baseball cap in his hands. Emily had glanced back to see her mother standing in the kitchen doorway, arms clutched tightly across her stomach.
The man nodded. “Eve.”
“Hello, Robert. You look well.”
Robert.
Emily’s eyes widened as she finally recognized him as the same man in the old, faded photograph on her mother’s nightstand.
He extended a hand hesitantly. “Hello, Emily.” His voice was a low, warm rumble that tickled at her memory.
She had a flash of strong arms carrying her down a dark hallway – a thought that startled her so much she reached out before she thought better of it to take his hand.
Before she had a chance to brace herself.
The intensity of the emotion that blasted her buckled her knees, and Emily staggered, her fingers tightening reflexively around his as his thoughts and feelings bombarded her senses. She felt it all—love, confusion, apprehension, concern—but sharpest of all, fear.
Emily blinked, looking up at his shocked gaze.
Fear. He feared her.
She’d yanked her hand back as if burned, fingers flexing as the echoes of his emotions bounced around her mind. Robert glanced at Eve, eyes tightening before his gaze dropped to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have come.” With trembling hands, he pulled a small, wrapped box from his pocket and thrust it toward Emily.
“Happy birthday. I’m . . . sorry.”
And with that, he was gone.
That night, Emily heard her mother sobbing as she lay in her own bed, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t need to touch her to feel the agony of her loss because in the instant Emily touched her father’s hand, she had known—without a shadow of a doubt—that he was her mother’s soul mate. She’d felt the all-consuming love they had for each other. The emptiness of being apart.
Yet, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to overcome his overwhelming fear.
When Emily was born, Eve had told him everything—about the Valentine gift, their destiny—and he’d listened first with doubt, then shock, then finally, resignation.
He’d demanded a demonstration, of course, and Eve had given it to him. She’d thought it would solve all of their problems, but in the end, it only made them worse. Because in addition to the ever-present fear, Eve has recognized in him something even more devastating.
Doubt.
He thought she’d manipulated him, somehow used her gifts to trick him into loving her. She’d tried to reassure him that it didn’t work that way, and that even if it did, it was something she would never, ever do. But though they both tried to make it through, the fear and doubt lingered, driving an ever-growing wedge between them.
In the end, he left.
Her mother told Emily all of this the morning after her eighteenth birthday, and they never spoke of it again. And from that day forward, Emily wore her father’s gift around her neck—a heart-shaped pendant engraved with her initial.
A constant reminder that love was not enough.
After that, Emily turned her back on her gift, for a long time refusing to touch anyone at all. Then, gradually, she learned to block it—shove it into the deepest recesses of her mind until it almost faded away, only rearing up a bit when she was careless and let her guard down. Her mother and grandmother went from protesting her actions, to worrying about them . . . to a kind of resigned acceptance, although their concerned glances did not escape her notice.
Her father died in a car accident when she was nineteen. She didn’t go to the funeral. Her mothe
r did.
Emily went to college, then graduate school, studying human behavior, psychology, statistics—basically anything that could help her understand what it really took to find a successful relationship. She was convinced that a scientific method was the key—algorithms and formulas that could calculate compatibility and spit out one’s perfect life partner based on real things like science and not fantasies like soul mates and true love.
Emily had tried, at first, to integrate her approach into the family business. It had been a notion doomed to failure, however, given her own opinions, and she’d finally struck out on her own, creating Perfect Match, an online dating site that proved remarkably successful. Within two years, she had expanded into an office overlooking Seattle’s Lake Union, and a year after that opened a satellite branch in San Francisco. While the business was still active online, it had been Emily’s personal touch and ultimate discretion that pushed it to the next level, especially among the rich and elite.
Of course, with all that time invested in building her business, she really had no time for a personal life of her own. Not that she minded. Emily was convinced there was plenty of time for her to find her compatible match. She had a plan, after all—The Plan—and she was barely thirty years old. She’d start searching for Mr. Right when she turned thirty-three, then marriage at thirty-five, and the first child before she turned forty.
Plenty of time. And she had science on her side.
Yet, despite the fact that she had a successful business, a happy life, and The Plan, her strained relationship with her family niggled at her. She would have been lying to deny it. So, as she stood on her mother’s front porch on Sunday evening, she took a deep, steadying breath before pressing the doorbell. She could see her mother threw the glass panel next to the—as always, a bit like looking in a mirror. The Valentine women shared more than a name, all born with the same strawberry-blond hair and pale aqua-green eyes. Her mother’s was darker, thanks to her hairdresser, but her grandma opted to let nature take its course, her own hair more white than red or blond.
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