Alison let out a silent sigh. She'd come to the conclusion a long time ago that an ass like Tracy's had a built-in tractor beam, and men were helpless to resist it.

"So, Brandon," Heather said. "Alison tells me your grandmother died and you're taking over her matchmaking business."

He turned back. "That's right."

"Isn't that kind of a weird profession for a man?"

Alison cringed at the question, but Brandon seemed unfazed. "Yeah, I guess it is," he said. "But my grandmother did a lot of good for a lot of people. I'd like to pick up where she left off."

"What profession did you leave to become a matchmaker?"

"Real estate investment."

"Hmm. I bet you're one of those guys who flips houses."

"Actually, yeah. Houses, commercial space, apartment buildings-whatever netted the most money at the time. Unfortunately, that industry isn't looking so good these days."

Heather flicked her gaze to Alison, and she read it loud and clear. See? This guy is a wheeler-dealer from way back. Stay on your toes.

"So you were close to your grandmother?" Heather asked.

"Yeah. So were a lot of people. You should have seen her funeral. There must have been two hundred people there."

"That's nice."

He nodded. "A lot of the people there were ones she'd matched up. They were married. Happy. And grateful to her. That's when I made the decision to follow in her footsteps."

"So you're going to be finding people their soul mates?"

"That's right."

"Happily ever after? Till death us do part?"

"That's the goal."

"Ever been married yourself?"

"Nope," Brandon said. "Never have."

"Committed relationship?"

"Heather, stop," Alison said.

"I've been traveling all over the country for a long time now," Brandon said. "Hard to commit when you're here today, gone tomorrow. How fair would that be to a woman?"

Good answer, Alison thought, but Heather still looked skeptical.

"So you've never even had a committed relationship," Heather said. "Isn't your being a matchmaker kind of like a person who's never been in a kitchen trying to teach somebody how to cook?"

"Heather!" Alison said. "Will you hush?" Then she turned to Brandon. "Ignore her. She's always like this when she's off her meds."

"Yeah, I do crazy things when I'm not popping pills," Heather said. "Like hire a man to find me a man."

"Heather is just a skeptic," Alison said. "A great big intrusive skeptic. She doesn't even believe men landed on the moon."

"And I don't believe little green men have landed here, either," Heather said.

"Hmm," Brandon said. "I've always heard they were gray, not green."

"Their color is irrelevant," Heather said, "since they don't exist."

"I don't know. There's some pretty compelling evidence out there."

"Depends on how gullible you are."

"So how do you account for alien abductions?"

"Vivid dreams."

"Area Fifty-four?"

"Mass hysteria."

"Crop circles?"

"Teenage pranks."

"UFOs?"

"Weather balloons."

"Bigfoot?"

Heather drew back. "What does Bigfoot have to do with aliens?"

"He came from somewhere, didn't he?"

"Yeah. And I can't decide which is more rare. Bigfoot, or a matchmaking man."

"That's easy," Brandon said with a smile. "Bigfoot videos are a dime a dozen. But have you ever seen footage of a matchmaking man?"

"Exactly," Heather said, smiling too. "It's looking more and more like something you just made up."

Alison wanted to hide her face in her hands, but Brandon didn't miss a beat. "I admit it's a little unusual, but make no mistake. I am going to find Alison her perfect match."

A little shiver ran up Alison's spine. God, I hope so. And I hope you do it before Heather puts out a contract on you.

Tracy set a beer in front of Brandon, then looked disappointed when he grabbed it and stood up. "Think I'll play a little pool. It was nice to meet you, Heather." He turned to Alison. "And I'll see you tomorrow. Noon, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Noon."

As he walked toward the pool tables, Alison's head turned to watch as if it had assumed a life of its own. The man had the most perfect ass, showcased inside a pair of jeans that looked as if they were made to fit him and him alone. And she wasn't the only one staring. Tracy moved back down the bar to maintain a better line of sight, like a snake slithering after its prey. Alison had no doubt she would eat Brandon alive if he gave her half a chance.

"Tracy's such a slut," Alison muttered. "Why do you keep her around?"

"This is a bar," Heather said. "Most of our customers are men. Do you really have to ask?" Then she looked over at Brandon, her face falling into a frown. "He's too smooth. Something's up."

"Did you have to be so rude to him?"

"I wasn't rude. Just...inquisitive."

"Inquisitive? That's what you call that?"

"Come on, Alison! He's thirty-something years old, he's never been in a committed relationship, yet he's going to find a man for you?"

"He told you why. He traveled a lot."

"Doesn't matter why. He's never had what he says he can find for you. Am I wrong to think that's a little odd?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Look. I know how important this is to you. I just don't want that guy taking you for a ride. Keep your eyes open, okay? And not just to look at his pretty face."

Chapter 5.

Just before noon the next day, Alison parked by the curb in front of Brandon's house and stepped out of her car, astonished at the heat that already permeated every molecule of air she breathed. As she circled the house, that heat seemed to rise up off the sidewalk like an invisible apparition from hell. Even the sun-loving petunias that lined the flower beds looked sad and droopy, as if they'd like to fold up their petals and sink back into the ground for good.

Alison decided she'd add a summer cabin in Colorado to the wish list she'd been compiling in her mind since she was twenty years old, filled with those things she'd probably never have but were nice to think about. Already on the list were a yacht in the Mediterranean, an all-you-can-eat spree at an ice cream factory, and a private Bon Jovi concert.

Oh, yeah. And a husband.

She opened the back door and stepped inside the house, surprised to feel sultry air that was nearly as hot as the air outside. And Brandon was nowhere in sight.

She called out to him, but she was greeted with silence. She went to the foot of the stairs and called out again. Still nothing. She thought about just sitting down to wait because surely he'd be along in a minute, but it was like a sauna in the house. Much more of this, and her makeup would melt right off her face.

She grabbed her phone. Dialed Brandon's number. She heard six rings before he finally picked it up.

"Alison," he said, a little breathlessly. "Oh, boy. Is it noon already?"

"Yeah. And it's my lunch hour, so I'm a little tight on time."

"Come around to the side of the house."

"What?"

"Not the driveway side. The other side."

And then he hung up.

Alison stared at her phone for several seconds. What was going on?

She left the house, circled back around to the front, and then crossed the lawn. As she came around the corner of the house, she finally saw Brandon. He was kneeling in front of an air-conditioning unit that looked to be about a hundred years old, a look of frustration on his face. The lid was off the unit, and tools were scattered all over the grass.

It had been oppressively hot for June in Texas, but for the first time, Alison couldn't have cared less. The heat made Brandon sweat. The sweat soaked his Tshirt. Which caused his Tshirt to cling to his torso. And that clingy shirt revealed the planes of his chest, the contour of his abs, and the slope of his shoulders as he worked. She knew her attraction to a sweaty man with tools was positively prehistoric, but once again she was a walking, talking cliche of womanhood. Vaguely she wondered if he noticed her dazed, transfixed reaction. Not that she could have done much about it, but it would have been nice to know if she was coming across as dumbstruck as she felt.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He swiped the shoulder of his shirt across it, then turned and gave Alison a smile. "Sorry. Air conditioner problems. Guess it's a miracle this old thing has made it this far."

His face. Quit looking at his body and focus on his face. "Can you fix it?"

"Not sure. It's the fan motor. I've got the new part, but it's not going on like it's supposed to. Hear that vibration?" He sighed. "It's just hard to get the new blade balanced on the shaft. Fortunately, it only has to stay running until-" He stopped short. "Until fall. Prices will be cheaper then, and I can have a new unit installed."

"Uh...we have a meeting?"

"Can't go back into the house. It's too hot in there, and I'm a mess."

Yes. He was a mess. And if only every man on earth did messy the way Brandon did, the world would be a far, far better place.

"I guess we should reschedule," she said.

"Did you fill out the questionnaire?"

"Yes. But you really need to put the form online. It'd be easier to fill out."

"My grandmother wasn't exactly operating in the twentyfirst century. Photo?"

"I e-mailed you one before I left the office."

"Let me see the questionnaire."

She pulled it from her purse and handed it to him. He began to read it, his brows drawing together thoughtfully. Alison tried not to look at his long, strong fingers and the way his forearm muscles flexed as they flipped the pages. This was serious business, and she wasn't going to get distracted. She was going to stand firm and ensure she got the quality service she'd paid for. Before she left there, she wanted to be absolutely certain he knew enough about her and the man she was looking for that he could match them up with his eyes closed.

"So you're in marketing?" he said.

"I work in the marketing department of Spangler Sweets."

"Oh. So you're a creative type?"

"Mostly I deal with consumer statistics and focus groups."

He nodded, still looking at the questionnaire.