by Ember Leigh
My heart is fine.
But only because I refuse to open it up. Not to anyone. Not ever again.
London follows me around the weight room for my entire routine like a dutiful puppy, peppering me with questions as much as teasing me about my form. The hour flies by; it’s not until I’m helping her on the leg press machine that I realize time is up. Like, way up. It’s almost nine-thirty, and I still haven’t eaten dinner.
“You nailed it,” I say, ignoring the clock for just a little longer as she finishes her final rep. “I thought you said you don’t come to gyms.”
“I don’t. I mean, not for anything other than the smoothie bar and the occasional cycling class.”
The image of her on a stationary bike is suddenly so erotic that I have to distract myself with something else. Literally anything else. I grab for the cleaning rags.
“Thanks for cleaning up after my sweaty ass,” she teases.
“It’s late,” I say, consciously averting my thoughts away from her ass. If this girl is a cyclist…No. Cannot think about that anymore. “I need to go.”
“But you never answered my question from before,” she blurts, smoothing some of the flyaways on the top of her head.
“Which one?”
“About why cardiology.”
“I told you,” I say, leaning against the machine. The cleanup can wait. “It was my favorite of the specialties.”
“No, but like why cardiology? Why be a doctor?”
I pause. The original reason is less than admirable, and the recent reason is the stuff of Hallmark cards. So I give her something in the middle. “I’ve always wanted to help people, I guess. My father is the CEO of Bayshore Hospital, so the medical field was always on my radar. It started as a hunch that turned into a passion.”
“Can you imagine yourself doing anything else?”
I scoff. “Absolutely not. Of course there are things I might change about my career…” I trail off before I can add like finding a wife and joining this board of directors. “But who doesn’t feel that way sometimes? I’ve always wanted to leave an impact on the world, and there’s no better way than saving people’s lives.”
“Saving their hearts.” London’s grin spreads ear to ear, which prompts something similar to happen on my face. “So why don’t you want kids then? That’s a pretty big impact you could leave.”
My smile falls, all the way to the floor. Once upon a time, I did want children. But that false hope flew right out the window alongside love.
“I’ve never seen myself as a father.” It’s not the total truth, but it’s not a total lie either. I could have become one, had I not been betrayed. Heartbroken. Completely sideswiped. “Besides, growing up is rough. My brothers and I fought constantly.”
“You Daly boys sure were competitive growing up.” She snorts. “Must be in your bloodline or something.”
“Have you met my father?” I laugh, but it’s humorless. “There’s no other option than competition in my family. You play, or you lose by default. That’s it.”
“Is this board position part of that competition?” London asks, launching a freckled spear right into my chest.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Just curious.” She shrugs, but there’s so much more to it than that. I can fucking tell.
“Sounds like you’re trying to be my therapist again,” I say, resuming cleaning the machine.
“Therapy is one of the implied aspects of my job.” She winks, and my knees nearly give out. Over her shoulder, someone is approaching us, and she must notice me looking because she turns to follow my gaze. As she does, a smooth “Hey.” slides out of her.
Her sleeveless, sweat-drenched friend has returned, with even more testosterone than before. He uses the collar of his shirt to wipe at his upper lip, and they step just far enough away that I can’t hear what they’re talking about over the ambient rock music and clanking machines.
It doesn’t matter. There’s a rush of noise inside my head as I scramble to ignore the sensations flooding me. I shouldn’t care. And I’m going to not care. As soon as I can wrap up these distracting sessions with her and get back to my regular routine.
Because that’s the bottom line. Once I’m not seeing her weekly, this pesky attraction will disappear completely. And I should do whatever I can to make that day arrive sooner rather than later.
London’s all smiles and sweet tones with him, rocking back and forth on her heels as they talk. He’s nodding his head, saying, “Mm-hm, mm-hm,” over and over again. I clean the machine three times, just so I have something to focus on. Anything other than the painful flashes of the last time I cared for a woman and what happened right under my nose with my best friend.
The adrenaline release of the past hour’s workout combined with her probing has cracked something open inside me. I haven’t talked to someone as a regular human in…god, I don’t know how long. And I enjoyed it. Because I enjoy London. She’s sweet and saucy and fun and sexier than literally every other woman I might witness in the next fifty years of my life.
Which means I need to stay the fuck away from her. I need to stop acting like flirting with her is a good idea or that any of those smiles she throws my way mean anything.
Tree Trunk was a wake-up call I sorely needed after my fantasy-filled hour and a half in the weight room with London. A reminder that what I might think I’m after with London, I’d be better off to just forget about it.
As she approaches me, her ponytail swishing, the words leap out of my mouth before I can think better of it.
“So, Matchmaker. Have you matched yourself off yet?”
Her brows draw together. “Like…you mean…”
“Stands to reason the matchmaker should have her perfect match by now, right?” I grab my water bottle and start a slow walk toward the doors. When I look over at her, she’s crossed her arms, watching me with narrowed eyes.
“It’s kind of the cobbler’s children situation here,” she says.
“I’m not familiar.”
“You know. The cobbler makes his living fixing shoes, but his own kids’ shoes are falling apart? Yeah. I’m the cobbler.”
“So you’re saying you can’t even provide yourself with the same service you offer others,” I say as the sliding doors whoosh open. Something urgent and hot is thumping inside me, and I can’t tell if I’m going to pick a fight with her or back her up against the nearest wall. Our footsteps scuff through the empty hallway that leads toward the locker rooms. I’m not usually here this late, and the crowd has thinned considerably. Which probably means I should back her up against the wall and see what happens.
“Do you not trust I’ll be able to do it?” she asks, peering up at me.
Sweet London. She has no idea where I’m going with this. She has no idea that she unleashes something that I’ve fought to keep under lock and key for years. It’s not her fault. But it’s also directly because of her.
“Wouldn’t I rather choose the cobbler who can put shoes on his own kids’ feet?”
She frowns. “Just because I’m single doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”
This is both a victory and a frustrating obstacle. She’s single. Do I care? Not technically, even though this is the one piece of information I’ve been dying to learn.
“Still seems like a successful matchmaker would know how to match herself off by your age,” I say. And those words signal my first firm steps into the side of picking a fight and not backing her up against a wall with kisses.
She snorts. “By my age?”
“What are you, thirty-five? Pushing forty?” I know full well she’s close to or right at thirty.
She frowns. “You’re coming through loud and clear, Dr. Dom. ‘Don’t trust the spinster matchmaker. She clearly has failed at love.’ Well I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t looking for that, now, isn’t it?”
I clench and unclench my teeth. I’m not done with her. I just wish I
knew how to convince myself that backing her up against the wall was a bad idea. “How do I know you can get me anything I’m looking for? Your idea of matchmaking means coming to my gym and asking me questions about why I’m a cardiologist. That has nothing to do with finding me a convenient wife.”
Something frightening and hard slides over London’s face as she crosses her arms. “You’re questioning my methods. Do you want me to reveal all my secrets here in the middle of the gym, or would you be satisfied with a summary in email form?”
My fists clench. “I’m just saying this doesn’t inspire a lot of faith.”
“Well good thing you don’t have to do anything other than sit back and wait for me to prove that I actually know what I’m doing. Be faithless, for all I care. It won’t affect the fact that you’ll get exactly what you signed up for.”
Lashing out hasn’t helped things. If anything, it’s only tangled the knot in my chest more. “Then cut the crap. Admit that today was pointless. You’re just milking the invoice.”
Her nostrils flare. “Wow. You know, I don’t know why you had to drag it out this long just to tell me that you’re unhappy with my services. If you want to end this contract, Mr. Daly, then say the word.”
I grit my teeth. Firing her was not where I wanted this to end up. But taking it where I want it to go—straight to my bedroom, or, in a pinch, the desk in my office—is a non-option. Because I recognize London for what she truly is. A threat to my stability. A chance to fall head over heels.
The last fucking distraction that I need.
Besides, I know better than to chase after something that could never fit into my life. I’ve got one goal and one goal only: to get a wife on paper and continue my life as usual.
I just need to keep reminding myself: this pesky distraction will be over with soon.
“Just do the job you were hired for and get rid of the bullshit.”
London’s eyes narrow, turning into a gemstone glare.
But there’s one problem. Even her disgust doesn’t dim her sparkle or reduce the effectiveness of her freckles.
Which means I’m officially out of ideas. I can only hope that being an asshole is enough to put the distance I need between us.
Chapter 7
LONDON
It’s only a few days later, but it feels like a year has passed since I last saw Dom.
A long, angry, festering year.
I’ve never been spoken to like that by a client. Ever. Not even by the client who openly groped me and suggested that my hoo-ha would serve as an excellent add on to his publicity services. He at least was sweet and cloying.
But Dominic Daly? Forget all that. He’s as corrosive as acid. Which means that I officially should not care about him or his ridiculous chest hair or any of his biting, hurtful remarks.
Except I do. Not because I want to win his curmudgeonly ass over. I am enraged that he thinks I’m inflating his invoice.
It’s the worst thing he could have said to me. And what’s worse is that I feel duped.
Duped because I could have sworn he and I were connecting like regular adults before he pulled that graceless one-eighty. That maneuver maxed out his Asshole Score Card. It’s scientifically verified, as though I needed proof. Dominic Daly is the #1 Asshole.
So off to the matchmaking ocean I go. For him, I’m diving so deep, I’ll need to bring down an extra oxygen tank. For anyone else, I’d be able to find plenty of potential matches in shallow waters, but no—this level of asshole calls for diving into the abyss.
I called a food delivery service to transport sushi to the Mariana Trench of my matchmaking dive, scuba gear available at the front door. When I finally come up for air, I’m covered in a mystical black soot that arises as a byproduct of pairing unsuspecting soul mates.
All right, maybe I’m being a little dramatic. But it’s all true, minus the soot. It is a deeply creative process that involves elements both physical and unknown. I’m not kidding when I tell people I’m the best in the industry, because I am. According to one Yelp review, I’m like an algorithm had sex with a psychic.
And I’m using every last ounce of my skills for this impossibly hot jerk who I do not still think about at all, thankyouverymuch. After my stint in the matchmaking trench, this portfolio I’ve drawn up for Dom is fire. I’ve got six bona fide love matches waiting for him that are so good, he’s going to rethink whatever it is that’s got him hung up on being a curmudgeon.
Honestly, it’s baffling. The man could find a wife just by showing up at the public library and shouting, “Who wants to be legally wedded to my biceps?” Guaranteed, thirty women would show up with an engagement ring and a receipt for a wedding venue reservation.
And honestly, before he pulled the king of assholes card out of his weird doctor deck, I would have considered joining the lineup. If I could have also pretended that he wasn’t already my client.
Besides, I have a vision for my future. And it doesn’t involve the Don Draper of the medical world or faking a marriage for a board of physicians. It involves a solid dating history, a long wedding planning process, and implementing every special thing from my and my future husband’s life into a carefully curated theme that I have already drawn up four prototypes for. Yes, I was the girl planning her wedding in sixth grade. Complete with M.A.S.H workups and all. I love love so much—and I want my own love story to be as romantic and epic as they come.
So really, it’s a good thing the man is hellbent on rejecting love and affection, even though his workout grimace alone could convince a nun to reject her vows. As his bench press witness the other day, I can attest to the fact that I was one sweat-droplet-down-the-bicep away from ripping my leggings off and conveniently “falling” on top of his dick.
Thank God Dom showed me his true colors that night. Just when I was quivering on the cusp of see, London, he might be the perfect man after all, he reminded me that going after clients is never a good idea. Least of all this client.
Add on top of that running into my old friend Craig—the gentlest body builder you ever did see—for a fun-filled walk down memory lane to catch him up on what happened to me in Columbus, and I’ve racked up enough sorry memories in that stupid gym to warrant never returning. But maybe the real problem was when I agreed to get on the thigh machine. It opened up a portal that turned Dom into a raging dick. In conclusion: I probably shouldn’t work out anymore. Fine.
Not like I’ll be sneaking into Dom’s fancy gym ever again. Hurt ripples through me again. I think very highly of myself and my work, and the fact that he so brazenly shit on my methods will sting for a while. So not only do I need to match him off for contractual reasons, I need it to happen ASAP for personal reasons.
The sooner he’s out of my orbit, the better. He’s mean, overworked, and too sexy. Not only that, he’s fascinating, which is the most frustrating part of all. I shouldn’t want to know more about the man who called our meetup pointless. But dammit, I do.
And the real sign that I’m a hopeless romantic matchmaker? He might not think that he needs love or romance, but I still plan to prove him wrong, even after how crappy he’s been.
Although Dom doesn’t think he needs anything more than on paper, I believe he has a shot at love. And despite how much I secretly want to climb this man like a squirrel being chased by a feral cat up a tree, I want him to find someone who is great for him.
Because over the past week of being around him, getting to know him, I see the spark in him that’s been dimmed by his burnout and constant go-mode. And that spark threatens to turn into a flame the longer I pay attention to it.
Which means these matches could not have come at a better time.
All I need to do is drop off the portfolio, implore him to review the matches, and then we’ll set one last meetup for us to go over the next steps in depth. Piece of not-pointless cake. This is the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. My palms are not at all sweating. Why? Because my face-to-face obligations wit
h this hottie meanie are almost complete.
I head to his office just before lunchtime, because Nancy told me that would be the best chance I’d have of finding him. My pulse starts racing as I park at the clinic. By the time I make it to the reception area, I’m short of breath. I might need Dr. Dom to examine me once I arrive. No, I might demand it.
But the weight of the portfolio in my purse reminds me of my mission. There are six women who are just waiting for him to turn that ice-blue gaze on them and light their panties on fire. He is going to make one of them Mrs. Dr. Daly.
The words become a mantra as I ride the elevator up to his floor. My legs turn to Jell-O once I push into the cardiology office, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to melt out of my clothes by the time I reach Nancy’s desk. Language escapes me. I just flap my mouth uselessly as she nods, the phone pressed to her ear.
I hate that every inch of my body is anticipating seeing him—hearing him—like a fangirl waiting for Harry Styles. But I have yet to be able to reason with my innards.
“He’s not here yet,” she whispers while covering the mouthpiece of the phone. “But he’ll be back soon.”
All I can see while I pace near Nancy’s desk is the gray T-shirt he wore at the gym, the sleeves straining around his biceps. I got one flash of armpit hair that night, which I’ve imagined no fewer than ten times since. Why is armpit hair hot? Technically speaking, it’s a pretty gross area. All sweaty and warm and smelly. But on Dom? I don’t even care. Give me all the Eau de Asshole.
And not only that. I would have forfeited my income from this project for just one glimpse of his abs. I would have paid extra to run the tip of my index finger along any grooves found therein.
The gruff undertones of his voice make me pause midstride, and only then do I realize I’ve been gnawing on a nail. I straighten my back, mentally preparing myself to see him again. Reminding myself of the way he called our gym date pointless.
I huff, trying to conjure some of my previous anger. But all my disgust dissolves when I spot him, paused at the end of the hallway, white coat in full view. He’s not coming toward me. Instead, he’s stopped and chatting with someone. An elderly woman, who’s speaking so softly I can’t hear what they’re saying.