Mr. Accidental Her_Jeremy

by Gina Robinson

  Mr. Accidental Hero

  Jet City Matchmaker Series: Jeremy

  Gina Robinson

  Copyright © 2018 by Gina Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Gina Robinson

  http://www.ginarobinson.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Jeff Robinson

  Mr. Accidental Hero/Gina Robinson. — 1st ed.

  Contents

  GinaRobinson.com

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Also by Gina Robinson

  About the Author

  GinaRobinson.com

  Visit ginarobinson.com to sign up for my newsletter. You’ll get exclusive access to new release notifications, series announcements, and more!

  The Jet City Kilt Series

  Almost Jamie

  Almost Elinor

  Simply Blair

  Simply Austin

  The Billionaire Matchmaker Series

  Lazer Focused

  Harte Strings

  Pair Us

  Dating Lazer

  Match Point

  The Billionaire Duke Series

  The Billionaire Duke

  The Duchess Contest

  The Temporary Duchess

  The American Heir

  The Switched at Marriage Series

  Part 1—A Wedding to Remember

  Part 2—The Virgin Billionaire

  Part 3—To Have and To Hold

  Part 4—From This Day Forward

  Part 5—For Richer, For Richest

  Part 6—In Sickness and In Wealth

  Part 7—To Love and To Cherish

  The Billionaire’s Christmas Vows

  Gina Robinson’s Contemporary New Adult Romance Series

  The Rushed Series

  These standalone romances can be read in any order. But it’s more fun to read them all!

  Book 1—Rushed, Zach and Alexis’ story

  Book 2—Crushed, Dakota and Morgan’s story

  Book 3—Hushed, Seth and Maddie’s story

  The Reckless Series

  Ellie and Logan’s love story begins one hot August night. This series should be read in order.

  Book 1—Reckless Longing

  Book 2—Reckless Secrets

  Book 3—Reckless Together

  Their Love is Anything but accidental.

  One beautiful and mysterious woman. One hot multimillionaire looking for his soul mate. They meet by accident. But when their matchmaker gets involved, falling in love is anything but accidental.

  *

  Jeremy Marino is one of Seattle’s newest multimillionaires and a media darling. The dating app he created with his buddies has brought him wealth, but not love. His matchmaker, Ashley Harte, is ready to pull her hair out—will she ever find her sweet, formerly nerdy client his perfect match?

  Crystal Pruitt’s trend-spotting consulting work requires her to keep a low profile. Not a problem. Until a beer truck careening out of control interrupts her chance meeting with a hot guy who just might be the one.

  1

  Ashley Harte, Matchmaker

  Seattle, WA

  I was on the prowl at one of my favorite places for finding men, an expensive Bellevue steakhouse on the top floor of a skyscraper in the high-tech corridor. The lunchtime views were impressive. I wasn’t talking about the distant Olympic Mountains and cityscape all around. Men, men, men—the place was teeming with them.

  They loved the food and the power atmosphere. I loved the smorgasbord of potential clients. Any kind of man you were in the mood for. Tall men. Short men. Bearded men. Adorable geeky men. Men with smooth faces and broad shoulders. Hot, well-built men without rings on their fingers in joyous, casual abundance. Men perfumed with the scent of success. Men who were looking. Men whose eye it was almost effortless to catch. Such easy prey for a matchmaker like me.

  Some women have an eye for fashion. I have an eye for guys with marriage potential. I can spot prime husband material at a glance and am not shy about approaching a man and starting a conversation. Which sometimes leads men to get the wrong impression about my interest. I have a fiancé—billionaire Lazer Grayson, my partner in the matchmaking business.

  Lazer doesn’t like this part of my job. I don’t blame him. If our roles were reversed, I’d be horribly insecure. But Lazer has nothing to fear. Since I met him, every other man pales in comparison. He awakened my heart after years of grieving for my late husband. Lazer’s beautiful engagement ring is on my finger. We picked it out together when we exchanged the obscenely large placeholder ring he gave me when he proposed. I want to marry him sooner rather than later. I’m just waiting for Lazer to commit to setting a wedding date.

  To be successful, a matchmaker needs both clients and a database of members to match them with. I’m always looking for both. If you know what you’re doing, meeting men and women, and introducing yourself, is easy. Men are flattered when I approach them with a line like You realize you’re the hottest man in the room? With women, I tell them straight up who I am and expound on the caliber of my male clients. If they’re in the market for a mate, the women will take my card.

  Today I was doing double duty. I had just finished meeting with a male client for lunch date coaching. On my way out, I decided to swing by the bar and see if anyone with client potential was having an afternoon drink.

  Let me give you a little tip—men are by and large carnivores. They hang out at steakhouses and gyms. If you’re looking for one, those are the places to find one. If you’re a matchmaker, those are also the places to find savvy, determined women who are serious about finding a mate, and smart enough to know where to hunt for one. They’re much rarer. But I’m an optimist. I always keep my eyes open.

  As I entered the bar, I spotted an attractive woman sitting at a table with a man who, I guessed from their body language, was a colleague. I have a sixth sense about people and relationships. Something about her spoke to me. I ordered a drink and settled in to watch her, waiting for an opening to introduce myself.

  This woman looked perfect for one of my favorite clients, a friend of Lazer’s, and now mine. Lazer hired me to find matches for his four college buddies almost a year ago. I had failed, so far, to find any of them a spouse. But I never admit defeat.

  To be fair, one of the men had found a bride. On his own and quite by accident. I take some credit, though. I prettied him up, gave him confidence, and trained him how to date. And I coached him through the relationship from first meet to marriage. But there was no disguising my failure with the other three, and it didn’t sit well with me.

  Matchmaking can be a long game. But generally, when I found clients as eager to find their partners as these guys were, I didn’t end up skunked almost a year later. I didn
’t expect marriages in that amount of time, but all of the guys should have been in exclusive relationships by now.

  I absolutely loved and adored Lazer’s friends. Austin, who recently married, and the still-single Jeremy, Cam, and Dylan. They were hot, sweet, newly wealthy, intelligent, exceptionally desirable men. So what was my problem?

  In my business, being close to the guys wasn’t a detriment. Exactly the opposite. Knowing them well gave me more perspective and insight rather than less into who would be good matches for them. They should have been easier to match, not harder, even if I was more finicky about whom I matched them with.

  Originally, I found my calling as a matchmaker by matching my friends for fun. Since junior high, I’d been the girl to go to if you wanted a steady boyfriend or girlfriend. I wanted the best for these three guys. I wouldn’t settle for less. I knew beyond a doubt that there were women out there for them. So where were their future wives hiding?

  Maybe one was sitting before me having a drink with a workmate. I could hope.

  I glanced at my watch. I had a little time before I had to head out for my afternoon coffee date with yet another prospective client.

  Seattle was full of men looking for spouses. The Seattle market was hot with men in the tech fields. Well-paid men. Entrepreneurs. Startup geeks. It was one of the few major cities in the country where available college-educated men and women were almost even in number, with only slightly more men than women. It made it more challenging to find women, either as clients, or members, than where I’d come from in Manhattan. The dynamics were the opposite there.

  I had expected to find a variety of businessmen, and hoped to spot a few potential male clients. Finding this stunning blond woman was a bonus. There was just something about her. More to the point—there was everything about her. She was the right height and build. Petite, but athletic. I ran through my mental checklist. It was as if the must-have physical checklist of one of my favorite clients had come to life in this woman.

  She was the right age. She had the right hair color. No ring on her finger. And she was flirting with the man at the table with her as she wrapped up some kind of meeting. But not flirting seriously. With my experience, I know playful and just-having-fun flirting from serious I-mean-to-hook-this-man flirting. A woman skilled at flirting is good for my business and makes my life easier. I was definitely interested.

  When she laughed at something her tablemate said, she even laughed in the right way. Not too much of a snorter, not too loud, but with verve and joy. This was perfect. Now how should I approach her?

  The woman’s meeting broke up. She stood and shook hands with her colleague at the same time an inebriated woman stumbled into an adjacent table, sending a lit votive candle tumbling over. The flame should have flickered out, but it didn’t. It landed on a crumpled pile of paper cocktail napkins that lit up like kindling. The drunk caught herself hands first on the table, long hair hanging down over her face over the flame. Her hair caught fire. She screamed. The distinctive smell of singed hair filled the room.

  My prospective client grabbed two nearly full water glasses and poured them over the drunk’s head, dousing her flaming hair. It was spectacular. I heard the sizzle from where I stood at the bar. As the stunned drunk sputtered, the other woman folded the flame-retardant tablecloth over the burning napkins, extinguishing those flames.

  The bar lapsed into stunned silence. For a moment, no one else moved.

  It was worth the price of lunch just to see the startled expression of the drunk woman with her newly singed hair and water dripping down her.

  A manager rushed into the room. The staff immediately surrounded the drunk, fluttering around, offering help, and clearing up the mess. A few patrons stepped up. The bar erupted in whispers and the buzz of conversation.

  The other woman, the heroine, straightened her clothes, picked up her purse, and rushed for the exit. Why in the world was she trying to slip away unnoticed? Undaunted, I went after her.

  I caught up with her just inside the door. “You were impressive back there. First on the scene. Reacting before anyone else even processed what was happening.”

  She turned to look at me with a surprised expression. She frowned and muttered, “You caught up with me. Crap.” She kept walking. “Yeah, always Johnny-on-the-spot. Too bad that witch didn’t melt. I hope having a little water splashed in her face sobered her some. She was making a scene the whole time I was there.”

  I nodded and walked along with the reluctant heroine.

  “Don’t hold it against me,” she said, catching the elevator down. “I need to get out of here before that bitch decides throwing water in her face was personal, an assault, not rescue.”

  Oh, I liked this woman. I stepped into the elevator with her and suppressed a laugh. “Not at all. It was perfect. You’re just the woman I’ve been looking for.” I glanced pointedly at her left hand. I knew the answer to my question. I asked it anyway. “Are you single?”

  As she pushed the button for the lobby, her brow furrowed. She was probably having second thoughts about getting in the elevator alone with me. Though, to be fair, I’d gotten in with her.

  Her eyes narrowed. She gave me a once-over. She answered slowly, “Yes. Why?”

  I handed her my card. “Ashley Harte, matchmaker.” Sometimes my name sparked recognition. I was a well-known matchmaker in Manhattan and now here in Seattle, and with my name linked with Lazer, my fame, if you could call it that, had grown. This wasn’t one of those occasions. “I own Pair Us, the city’s premier matchmaking firm. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  She continued staring at me without answering, her face blank.

  “No matter. You will,” I said. “I have the feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other. If you’re looking for your soul mate, I can help. I can find him.” I took a breath. “Let me amend that—I will find him. I may already have.”

  2

  Crystal Pruitt

  A matchmaker had given me her card. Unsolicited. At a steakhouse after my meeting with a client. A boring client. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have met with him in a public venue. I’d been so hyped over what I’d originally heard about him. But after talking with him for less than half an hour, the sad truth sank in. His company, his products, didn’t have the “it” factor. I wouldn’t be working with him. There was nothing I could do for him, simple as that. I didn’t take client money under false pretenses. I had my reputation and track record to protect. Just turning him down would be message enough.

  I had wanted to keep our meeting quiet. Damn, damn, damn that drunk and her singed hair. Why did I always jump to the rescue? Someday, automatically springing into action was going to get me into trouble. All that little episode did was call attention to our meeting. Walking out and not working with the guy would signal to potential sharks that his company wasn’t a contender. I felt bad about that. I really did.

  Arrogant much? I could hear my stepmother’s voice in my head: Who do you goddamn think you are, Crystal? The freaking queen of the world? The center of attention? Pardon me, Your Highness.

  I pushed her voice away, twirled the matchmaker’s card between my fingers, and stared out the window of my home office. Peace. The view of the Olympic Mountains over Puget Sound calmed me. I lived in a modernized bungalow on the side of a hill in the heart of West Seattle. Not because I had to commute downtown, but because I thrived on the vibe of the city. Because I had to be near Seattle’s heart to pick up on its passion.

  Was I arrogant? Not at all, no. But that steak place was the place the carnivorous guys who ran high-tech in this city liked to meet. It was always crawling with entrepreneurs, angel investors, financial journalists, and financial analysts. My potential client had insisted on meeting there, probably hoping that just being seen meeting with me would signal his company was on the rise. So, yeah, bad move. In all likelihood, it had backfired on him.

  And yeah, I’d played dumb with the matchmaker, but I knew who she wa
s; of course I did. I’d been following her little experiment in this city, bringing in New York women for our Seattle men. Trying to even out the odds for the guys finding a mate. Bringing those women in was a drop in the bucket. A publicity stunt, but an effective one. Now she, and her backer, Lazer Grayson, had the “it” factor in spades. Or hearts, as the case may be.

  I had my finger on the pulse of this city and society at large. On the trends. On the up and coming. And the fading horses. But tipping my hand wasn’t my first strategy. I preferred to listen. To make people talk. Let people explain their motives, who they are, what they’re about, and what their gigs are, and you will learn a great deal. Listening was how I got a feel for new people and the world.

  I didn’t know what to make of Ashley picking me out of the crowd as a single woman in search of a mate, even though I had, yes, called attention to myself. I guessed it made sense she’d picked me rather than the drunk woman.

  On the one hand, the matchmaker seeking me out was serendipitous. I was ready to share my life with a soul mate. I was impressed that she could see it. I gave her “it” factor points just for that. She clearly had innate matchmaking skills.

  I was flat-out tired of going on fruitless dates with bores, douches, and whiners. Tired of men with too much baggage. Tired of swiping left on dating apps. Tired of being alone at thirty. Tired of being the single girl among a cast of married friends. Tired of being set up. Tired of doing all the empty legwork of looking for Mr. Right. I was ready to hire the whole process out, including sending a standin to tackle first dates for me. On the other hand, did I really look that obviously desperate?

  Here’s my card. What’s your hurry? You look like a woman whose youth and desirability are rapidly waning. Let me put you on the matrimonial fast track.

  Though she didn’t say that. She was charming, friendly, and so upbeat that she radiated with it.

  I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Too many thoughts. Too much spinning. Too little data. I didn’t like to overanalyze things. There was no way to have all the data necessary to make a completely informed decision. I did my research, collected as much data as was available, and then trusted my gut to guide my decision. But a matchmaker? I’d never considered using one before, but now the thought had wedged itself in my mind.