Rules Of Engagement

7

When Mason only stands there gaping at me in disbelief, I smile. “Plus, Tom Brady’s just so dreamy.”

After he’s recovered from what appears to be a brain aneurysm, Mason says accusingly, “I think you had pre-conceived notions about who I am and set me up with the wrong women.”

Dear Lord, please grant me the patience to deal with this man without resorting to violence. “I went strictly by the information filled out in your paperwork, nothing else.”

“What about chemistry?”

“That’s why you have an initial phone call with the ladies you’re matched with, and then a lunch date if the call goes well.”

“As we both know, the calls didn’t go well. So there weren’t any lunch dates.”

I take a moment to assess the situation. Then finally my patience comes to an end. “I believe you have a point. Feel free to make it before we both die of old age.”

Now I know he’s trying not to laugh, because a dimple flashes in his cheek, there then quickly vanished. I get the sense he’s suppressing it with sheer force of will and feel sorry for that dimple. It’s probably going to get a beating later on.

Sounding like a teacher reprimanding a misbehaving student, he says, “I’m very disappointed in your service.”

When I open my mouth, he holds up a hand. “No—don’t tell me again about refunding my money.

We’re past that. What you have to do now is make it up to me.”

My eyebrows decide now would be a good time to climb up my forehead and disappear into my hairline.

Seeing my expression, Mason gifts me with his signature smirk. “We can work it around your busy cat grooming schedule.”

It’s a few moments before I can get my tongue to work. “And how exactly do you propose I make it up to you?”

He hesitates again. Eyes burning, he shifts his weight from one enormous foot to the other. He seems to be struggling to put something into words, but then he startles me by throwing his hands in the air and thundering, “How the hell am I supposed to know? You’re the damn matchmaker!”

He turns around and storms out of my office, throwing the door open so hard it slams against the wall and rattles all the windows.

After a moment, Auntie Waldine pops her head around the threshold of my door. Her blue eyes are as big as saucers. The color in her plump cheeks is high.

“Land’s end, Maddie, what did you say to the poor man? He ran outta here like his tail was on fire!”

“Pfft. I should have set him on fire, I’ll tell you what. Never in all my life have I met a man so…”

“Good-looking,” says Auntie Waldine, sauntering into my office with her hands propped on her ample hips. Nodding, she clucks her tongue. “I hear you, child. That man was—”

“Ornery as a goat.”

“I was gonna say fine.”

I huff out an aggravated laugh. “There’s nothing fine about him. Not his manners or his temper or anything else. I think he’s got to be the most unpleasant person I’ve ever met. He took one look at me and decided he hates my guts.”

Auntie Waldine stares at me for a beat, her lips pursed. “Well, honey, that lipstick you’re wearin’ does make you look a trifle frightenin’. Maybe he was just scared.”

This from the woman dressed in a yellow polyester muumuu with a floral print pattern so busy it could cause a seizure if you stare at it too long.

I demand, “What’s wrong with my lipstick?”

She scrunches up her face. “It kinda looks like you lost a dare.”

I mutter, “Oh, for goodness sake,” and open my desk drawer. From it, I pull out a compact and check my lipstick in the little round mirror. “It’s just pink!” I say, staring at my reflection. “Plain old pink!”

“More like Meth Addict Barbie pink.”

I stare at her, nonplussed. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“That color pink is where all the other pinks go to die, honey. And it does nothin’ for your complexion. You should be wearin’ siren red.” “But pink is my favorite color!”

Auntie Waldine lets her gaze drift over the walls, to the cardigan draped over the back of my chair, and down to the carpet, then murmurs drily, “You don’t say.” I never should’ve gotten out of bed this morning.

4

MASON

D

ick is quiet as we drive back to the house. So quiet I start to worry he’s mad at me. I hate it when he’s mad at me, so I decide to throw out a fishing line to see if I’ll get a bite.

Looking out the window, I mutter, “That was interesting.”

If he explodes, I’ll know to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the ride. Probably the rest of the week, too.

But he only says neutrally, “Sure was.”

No explosion. I exhale a breath of relief. “I told her she had to make it up to me for failing so far.

How do you think she’ll do it?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re not gonna use her, anyway. That broad’s a nut.”

Irked by his dismissive tone, I frown. “I mean, she’s a little quirky, I guess.”

Dick laughs. “Quirky? That’s being generous.”

Now I really don’t like his tone. I sit up straighter in my seat. “What do you mean? On the way over, you kept going on and on about what a lady she was. How sweet. How she wouldn’t like it if I cursed. You sounded like you like her more than you like me.”