About The Matchmaker Bride:
Get your copy Today:
Amazon | B&N | Apple | Kobo
Derrick had just finished making coffee when he heard a car door pop open.
He set his mug down on the counter and scowled. Another reporter? Really?
It had only been a couple hours since the last round had come through, though he’d been smart enough not to answer the door and eventually they left. Instead of fielding questions he had no answers to, he’d been busy googling Meredith, trying to track down her phone number.
As soon as he got rid of whoever the straggler was, he’d give in and call Brent. Maybe his wife, Hope, would be able to get him Meredith’s number. He intended to call and demand some answers. What had the infuriating woman said? Or maybe it hadn’t been her at all? Maybe one of her unhinged fans had started this rumor. But how did he get roped into it? He yanked open his front door, prepared to do battle with the paparazzi.
Then he froze at the sight of that cobalt blue convertible.
Meredith Galanes stepped out onto his gravel drive and his heart lurched. He’d had to put up with the woman for an entire week during Brent’s wedding last summer, and had hoped to never see her again. Yet, here she was, up close and personal, teetering in his direction in towering sandals and a flouncy dress, with her long dark curls bouncing behind her.
She held a large Crock-Pot in her hands, which she grasped with oven mitts. For an instant, it was hard to believe he was really seeing her and this wasn’t some kind of weird dream.
About Meredith? Not a chance.
“I can explain!” she said, traipsing toward his cabin.
This he had to hear. “Can’t wait.”
She approached his covered stoop, her spindly heels clack-clack-clacking against the flagstones hedged by flowering bushes. This was no dream. It was her, all right. In the flesh. And smelling like honeysuckle at the height of summer. Despite himself, he’d never forgotten her perfume, or, well... pretty much anything about her.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
She stared up at him with big, dark brown eyes and Derrick’s heart slammed against his chest.
“It was a simple mistake.”
“Simple? Your publicity posse was here not more than an hour ago.”
“Ah, um...yeah. About that.” She peered over his shoulder and into his empty living room. “Can we talk inside?”
“What are you even doing in Blue Hill?” he asked, not budging.
She smiled and shot him a flirty grin. “I came here to surprise you.”
Consider him surprised. And more than a little ticked off. What kind of nerve the woman had. “You’re not the first one today.”
She winced. “I heard.”
She shoved her Crock-Pot under his nose in a peace offering. A delectable aroma wafted toward him. For the love of all things edible, it smelled just like a pot roast. A very delicious pot roast. Derrick hadn’t enjoyed a homecooked meal in months.
She pressed forward into his cabin and he inched back. “Hungry?”
“No.” Derrick’s stomach betrayed him with a rumble.
“Uh-huh. I brought this for dinner.”
“No, no, no...” he said. “You are no way—no how—staying—”
But, before he could finish, she used one of her shoes as a lever and kicked the door shut.