"Okay," Alison said. "I want you to be serious for a moment. No smiling."

"Uh...okay." He gave her a deadpan look.

"Now. I want you to imagine David and his ex doing it in a bathroom stall."

He smiled.

Click.

"Sorry," Brandon said. "That shouldn't make me laugh."

"We have to laugh about it, or we'll cry." Alison looked at the screen and smiled herself. "There. Perfect." She grabbed her purse. "Gotta go. I'll send the press release and your photo out first thing tomorrow. Be ready. You're liable to get some action pretty quickly."

"Do you really think so?"

"I really think so."

A little voice was egging him to tell her the truth, but he knew how she'd feel about that. Maybe this press release would net nothing, and he wouldn't have to feel bad about it.

Then again, if it didn't net something, he was finished.

At ten-thirty the next morning, Brandon was at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee, when the phone rang. He picked it up from his desktop and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Is this Brandon Scott?"

He sat up. "Yes?"

"This is Kelsey Dunn from Dallas After Dark. We just received your press release. I was wondering if you'd be available for an interview sometime today or tomorrow?"

"Uh...yeah. Sure."

"We'd like to run a story on your matchmaking service. I think our readers will be very interested in getting to know you better."

Brandon's heart was suddenly beating double time. "I'll have to check my calendar, but I think I'll have some free time this afternoon."

Feeling a surge of hope, he made an appointment with her for four o'clock. And before the day was out, he was contacted by the Dallas Morning News, a radio station, and a local blogger who offered advice to the lovelorn and asked him if he ever did any guest blogging.

And just like that, he was in business.

Chapter 13.

The next week was a blur for Brandon.

After doing two print interviews, a blog interview, and a radio interview with a popular morning show, his phone had started to ring. Within a couple of days, he'd signed three new clients and had introductory appointments with two more.

By the time Friday came, he was ready for a beer and a game of pool, so he grabbed Tom and they headed to McCaffrey's.

"So it's actually working?" Tom said as he racked up the balls. "I was beginning to think you were going to have to throw in the towel."

"Nope. And I did the math. If everything continues at this rate, I'll have all the money I need to close the deal."

"Then keep making those matches," Tom said.

Brandon smacked the last ball into the side pocket to end the game. When he looked up again, he saw Alison come through the door. She waved, her face lighting up with a sunny smile. He smiled and waved back at her, and when she started walking toward him, for some reason, his heart started to beat a little faster.

They'd talked several times this week about the interviews he was doing and the clients he was signing. Her excitement over his success was so contagious that every time the phone rang, he hoped it was her. Seeing her in person was even better.

Especially tonight.

She wore a casual halter dress with a snug skirt that stopped midthigh. Up to now, he'd seen her in longer skirts or pants, and he was stopped cold by the sight of her legs, which were clearly one of her better features. What added to the fantasy was a pair of hot pink pumps with heels just this side of stratospheric. Her hair was pulled up to the crown of her head in some kind of shiny barrette thing with pieces of hair falling out of it and grazing her cheeks.

She came up beside them at the pool table. "Hey, guys."

"Hi, Alison," Tom said. "You look great tonight."

"Thanks. The shoes are a little slutty, I'm afraid. Not really my style, but Heather convinced me I needed to branch out."

"So where are you heading tonight?" Brandon asked. "This isn't your usual McCaffrey's look."

"It's girls' night out. As soon as Heather's finished here, we're meeting some friends for a wine tasting."

"So you're a wine enthusiast?" Brandon asked.

"Not exactly. You know that guy you see sitting on a curb downtown drinking from a bottle of Ripple in a brown paper sack?"

"Yeah?"

"He knows more about wine than I do. But at least I drink it out of a glass."

"So where's Heather?" Brandon asked. "I don't feel comfortable here unless she's giving me the evil eye."

"In her office in the back, I imagine. I'm a little early."

"Do you think there's hope that she'll ever stop hating me?"

Alison smiled. "There's always hope. Hey! I heard you on the drive time radio interview this morning. You were great."

"Yeah? I wasn't sure about that. Did you hear the host ask me if I cherry-picked my hottest women clients for myself?"

"Don't worry. You said exactly the right thing. 'No, Steve, I don't, but if you'd like to hire me as your matchmaker, I'd be happy to cherry-pick one for you.' That was a great answer."

"So how about I cherry-pick you for Steve?"

Alison pursed her lips with mock irritation. "Are you trying for a third strike?"

Brandon grinned. "Okay. Bad idea. But I do need to find you a new match."

"Take your time," she said. "It's more important right now that you get new clients signed up."

"Nope. You're my number one client. I'll have somebody for you soon."

"I know," she said with a soft smile. "I have faith in you."

He knew she did. And that was why he felt like a total fraud. Just make damned sure you get it right this time.

And then he heard a little throat clearing. He turned to see Heather standing behind him.

"Hi, Heather," Brandon said with a smile.

"Hello," she said with all the warmth of a cadaver. "Alison? Are you ready to go?"

"Yep," she said, grabbing her purse from the bar. "See you guys later."

As she walked away, Tom said, "Wow. Heather's a little cold, isn't she?"

"Yeah. She thinks I'm out to con Alison."

"Intuitive, isn't she?"

"I'm not conning anybody. Alison has helped me, and I intend to help her."

"Well, then. Better luck with her next match. Then again, anything will be better than the first two, won't it?"

Then Brandon realized Tom was talking to him but watching Alison through the window as they walked to Heather's car, clearly enjoying the view as much as he was. And for some reason, that pissed him off.

"Will you stop staring at her like that?" he said.

"Like what?"

"She's not that kind of girl."

"Maybe not, but those shoes say she is. You know what I said about her not being my kind of woman? Maybe I'm reconsidering."

"Right. You'll turn into a family man about the time hell freezes over."

"I didn't say my kind of woman for a lifetime. But a night or two is a definite possibility. How about making me her next match?"

"Knock it off. That's not what she's looking for, and you know it."

"Fine," Tom said. "I can't touch. I can't even look. So what can I do?"

"Go after Tracy."

Tom glanced to the bar, where Tracy was leaning over to wash glasses, her top so low cut she was in danger of her breasts falling out. Something told Brandon that if it happened, it wouldn't be the first time.

"Good advice," Tom said. "I'm on it."

As Tom walked away, Brandon turned back to the window and watched Alison in precisely the way he'd told Tom not to. As she got into the car, he noticed her legs again. They were amazing-smooth, tanned, and curvy. Someday he wanted to run his hand from her thigh to her ankle and back up again, and watch as tiny little goose bumps rose in its wake. Of course, if he did, he'd be overstepping his bounds in ways he'd promised himself he wouldn't. In the end, she wasn't his kind of woman any more than she was Tom's. But still there was something about her...

He probably needed to take his own advice. Don't touch. Don't even look. But he figured as long as he didn't actually act on any of his errant thoughts about Alison, he was in the clear.

When Brandon and Tom got home that evening, the sun had just slipped beyond the horizon. A spectacular red gold sunset warmed the entire neighborhood, set to music by a mass of crickets that took their jobs very seriously. Tom went inside to watch a baseball game, but after the flurry of activity that week, Brandon was content just to grab another beer, sit on the porch swing, and rock for a little while.

He'd taken to doing that more and more, just sitting out there in the evenings, rocking back and forth and watching the neighbors do what neighbors did. On one side of him lived a young, dark-haired woman. He'd seen her in her yard a few times piddling around with her flowers, but otherwise she seemed to keep to herself. The young couple next door on the other side went for a stroll almost every evening with the wading pool kids in tow. The old woman across the street, the one who'd taken Jasmine in when his grandmother had died, came out most evenings and hand-watered her periwinkles. Then she scoured her lawn for any weeds that dared show their ugly little faces and attacked them with a weed popper. Across the street and a few doors down lived a meticulous, thirty-something guy who always wore a pressed Tshirt and shorts and walked his perfectly groomed Lhasa apso at precisely eight o'clock every evening. Fortunately, he never hit the road without a poop-scooper and a plastic bag, for which Brandon thanked him. Various kids bicycled or skateboarded up and down the block.

Sometimes people stopped to chat a little, particularly in the beginning so they could express condolences about his grandmother's death. But these days they mostly just waved, and Brandon waved back.

The night wind shusshed through the leaves of the live oak tree in his front yard, lulling his brain into a pleasant state of relaxation. He took another sip of beer, closed his eyes, and concentrated on how the ice-cold liquid felt as it slid down his throat. Up to now his life had been so busy. Frantic sometimes. He'd hopped from one town to the next like a man possessed, always under the gun to get a project finished before moving on to the next one. But now...

Now there was something about just sitting there, holding the bottle against his knee, his eyes closed, and rocking back and forth that soothed him right down to his soul.

A minute or so later, he heard a soft tap, tap, tap. His eyes sprang open, and he looked around to see a young woman standing at the bottom of the porch stairs. Strangely, it was almost dark outside, but she wore a pair of sunglasses. In one hand she held a small pot of purple flowers. And in the other...oh.

A white cane.

He came to attention. "Uh...hi, there."

She stopped short. "Mr. Scott?"

"Yes."

"Oh!" she said, laughing a little. "I didn't know you were on the porch." She pointed to her sunglasses. "Sorry. I have this blindness thing going on. Keeps me from realizing all kinds of things."

Brandon stood up and came down the steps.

"I'm Delilah James," she said, tucking her cane beneath her arm and holding out her hand. "Your next-door neighbor."

Now he recognized her. And he also realized why he'd waved at her a few times when he saw her in her yard and she'd never waved back.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, shaking her hand. Closer now, he could see she was probably in her late twenties. She wasn't beautiful, exactly, but there was an ethereal quality about her that would command just about anybody's attention. She had sleek, dark hair, porcelain skin, and a body so delicate that a puff of wind just might send her floating away like dandelion fuzz.

"I brought you these," she said, holding out the flowers. "A belated 'welcome to the neighborhood' gift. I should have gotten over here sooner, but I'm afraid I've been a lousy neighbor. Better late than never?"

He took the flowers. "Thanks. That's nice."

"I'm sorry about your grandmother. She was a nice lady. And it was a nice funeral."

So she'd been there. But since about two hundred other people had been too, he didn't remember seeing her. "Thanks. I appreciate that."