The Matchmakers

 
  
The Matchmakers Jennifer Colgan
 
 

 
“
Two
wrongs don’t make a right, but they just might make a perfect match”
Nick
Garret is flypaper for females, and he likes it that way. Women stick for a
while, and when it’s over they fly away. So does he. Then one rain-slick night
a young woman steps in front of his pickup truck, and his jaded, cynical life
takes a sharp swerve toward trouble. Calliope did the only thing she could
think to get Nick to steer his truck and his life in a new direction. Banished
from the Fae realm for granting a wish gone bad, her punishment is an
impossible task; redeem the unredeemable Nick Garret. If she fails to help him
pair three couples in everlasting bliss, he’s doomed to never experience real
love. And she will share his fate as a mortal. Nick can’t decide if this
charming, exasperating woman is a dream come true, or a saucy, sexy nightmare
sent to drive him insane. Yet something about her makes him want to rise to her
challenge. He’ll do anything to make her stick around a while. Besides, how
much trouble can one half-naked, seemingly wingless faerie be?

 
Warning: This title contains sensual
love scenes, mischievous Fae, removable wings and hot men in tool belts.

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it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of
fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed
as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or
organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry
Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 The Matchmakers Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer
Colgan ISBN: 978-1-60504-596-2 Edited by Linda Ingmanson Cover by Natalie
Winters All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. FirstSamhain
Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2009 www.samhainpublishing.com The
Matchmakers Jennifer Colgan
 
Dedication

 
         
This
one is for my readers. I’ve wanted to share this story for a long time and I
hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.

Chapter One

 
         
 
Never
trust a woman.
Nick Garrett sighed and climbed into the cab of his silver
Dodge pickup. He started the engine and spared the gas gauge a quick glance. A
full tank would get him of town for a day or two to blow off some steam. The
cash in his wallet would last him a week or so just enough time to find a new
gig. There wouldn’t be any more paychecks signed by Skip Voss. He checked the
rearview mirror as he backed out of Skip’s long, curving driveway. The sounds
of marital strife reached him from the direction of the half-built pool house,
Nick’s project for the last three weeks. Miranda Voss, Skip’s lonely, young
wife, had done everything she could to distract Nick, which was why the job had
taken so long. The couple hadn’t yet resorted to throwing things, but their
argument would no doubt wake the neighbors and draw some unwanted attention to
the sleepy little street of modernized colonials and manicured lawns. Nick
wanted to be long gone before then. `Damn!´ He let out a low whistle as he
adjusted the mirror for a better view of his right eye. No wonder it hurt so
much. Skip’s ham-fisted right hook had split the skin above Nick’s eyebrow, and
now a zigzag of dark blood had welled up in the middle of the cut. By morning
he’d probably have a shiner and a headache to match. Thanks to Skip’s Harvard
class ring, the jerk probably wouldn’t even have a bruise on his knuckles. The
best cure for a headache and a black eye was ice, preferably floating in a
glass of Jack Daniels. A shot or two at Farley’s would take the edge off Nick’s
various frustrations while he decided where exactly he wanted to go. That
sounded like a plan. And it beat getting arrested for brawling with a man over
the affections of his wife. After the last time, Nick had vowed never to get
involved with a married woman again, but within days of hiring him on as a
handyman, Miranda Voss, with her gypsy-dark eyes and Daisy Duke shorts, had him
snowed. Nick should have known she was lying when she’d said her husband had
left her. He’d thought she’d meant forever, not just for three weeks while he
went to Boston on business. This wasn’t the first time Nick had gotten caught
with his shirt off and a willing woman in his lap, but it sure as hell was
going to be the last. His tires screeched a little on the way out of the
driveway, and his hastily packed tools rattled in the box that stretched across
the back of his truck. A quick, backward glance told him Skip hadn’t decided to
follow him yet, so he headed off toward the interstate and the cold comfort of
two fingers of whiskey. Twenty minutes later, Ted Farley greeted Nick with a
wave and a foamy glass of Budweiser. So much for Jack. A pint of his usual
would have to do for now. The regular barflies bid him hello. No one except the
bartender seemed the least bit curious when Nick held the icy glass up to his
swollen eyebrow before taking a long, smooth draught of the beer. He closed his
eyes for a moment and soaked in the clink of glasses and the familiar, smoky
aroma of the place. `Rough day?´ Farley asked, leaning his bear-like bulk on
the edge of the bar. `Nothing that a few rounds won’t cure.´ Nick sipped his
beer. He’d probably still need an ice pack, but he felt better already. Then
the music started. Behind Nick, Farley’s patrons shoved tables and chairs
aside, and Catfish, the bar’s resident fiddle player, dragged an empty barstool
to the center of the room. Hayden and Diane, Farley’s waitresses, yahooed as a
row of men and a row of women faced off for Thursday night’s first line dance. Nick
set his beer down and turned to watch. Normally he found the foot stomping and
boot slapping entertaining, but tonight all that organized percussion hurt his
head. Maybe he’d just go home, grab a few clean shirts and get an early start
on that weekend road trip. He needed to put some distance between himself and
Miranda until her husband cooled off. Then he’d need to think about moving on
from Bayerville all together. As soon as he finished his beer. When he turned
back to reach for his glass, it was empty. Nick looked around. Everyone at the
bar had their own drinks, and no one wore a foamy mustache that he could see.
Why would someone swipe his beer? `Ted?´ He motioned Farley over from the other
end of the bar and showed him the sudsy glass.

 
`Sure thing.´ Farley refilled it and
set it down. Nick stared at the frothy brew. How could he forget downing the
full glass? `How’re you doin’, handsome?´ Diane danced over with an empty tray
balanced on her hip, keeping perfect time to the music. She shot Nick a wink
and a smile, her blond ponytail bobbing. `What happened to your eye?´ `Ah, it’s
nothin’,´ Nick replied with a calculated wince, deciding the waitress’s
sympathy might make a descent substitute for an ice pack and an aspirin. `I
walked into a fist.´ `Aw, poor baby.´ Diane pouted sweetly and slid her tray
onto the bar. `Coors Light, two shots of Jack and a whiskey sour.´ When she
turned back to Nick, her smile took the sting out of his wound. `Wanna dance?´ `You’re
working.´ Farley’s bushy brown eyebrows knit in a scowl as he began setting
drinks on Diane’s tray. `I have a break coming up. Come on, Nick, one round?´ `Let
me finish my beer,´ he said with a wink of his good eye. He turned around and
closed his hand over his once again empty glass.

What the hell?
His curious gaze
followed Farley, who was busy stabbing Maraschino cherries with a toothpick.
The large man, who normally had a smile for everyone, suddenly looked fierce
and a little annoyed. Nick tracked the bartender’s gaze to Diane as she blew a
kiss to Catfish. `Uh, Ted?´ Nick held up his glass again. `Would you like a
straw with the next one, Nick?´ Farley sauntered over and drummed his fingers
on the bar. `Bad day aside, you might want to slow down.´ `I didn’t drink it.´
Nick stared at the glass. `At least, I don’t remember drinking it.´ Maybe Skip
had hit him harder than he thought. Farley clucked, and Diane hoisted her tray
over her head and slithered away through the crowd. `Only because I know you
can hold your beer, I’ll give you one more refill, but after that ´ `I know I
didn’t drink that second beer. I don’t even remember tasting it.´ `How many
times did you get hit, anyway?´ Farley asked as he refilled Nick’s glass. `Just
once.´ He’d been hit before. He knew how to take a punch, and he’d never had a
sock in the eye make him lose his memory. Maybe he was just tired. He scanned
the faces of the regular crowd at the bar and wondered if someone was putting
him on. He wasn’t in the mood for another confrontation, so he took a slow,
deliberate sip of his beer and set the glass down, keeping his hand firmly in
place to discourage any wise ass from making a third attempt. He damn sure wasn’t
going to run a tab and have nothing to show for it. `What’s with Diane and
Catfish?´ he asked when Farley lumbered by again. The waitress was dancing around
the fiddle player now, her hands in the air, clapping and stomping her
thick-heeled shoes. Catfish upped the tempo of his music, and the line dancers
galloped back and forth in wide steps, their hands in their belt loops, cowboy
hats pushed forward and steel toed boots flashing. `Do they have a thing
going?´ Farley just grunted and walked away, and by God, when Nick looked down,
his glass was empty again. `Jesus H ´ He stood and whirled around, looking for
the culprit. `What the hell is going on?´ No one else at the bar so much as
blinked in Nick’s direction except Farley. `Problem, Nick?´ `Yeah, I think this
pilsner has a hole in it.´ Farley squinted at the glass. `How about a club
soda, Nick? Maybe you have a concussion.´ Nick shook his head, which only
intensified the ache. Part of him wanted to argue the point, but was it really
worth it? He dropped a twenty on the bar and sighed. `I should probably just go
home.´ He rose from his seat. `You want Catfish to drive you?´ Farley directed
another scathing glance at the fiddler. `Nah. I’m all right.´ He waved to Diane
and smiled at Hayden as the younger waitress hurried by with her own tray full
of empty glasses. What he probably needed more than another phantom beer was a good
night’s sleep. With a nod to Farley, he left the bar. By the time Nick reached
the Interstate, rain cascaded over the windshield in rippling sheets that made the
wipers nearly useless. He leaned over the steering wheel and tried to keep his
smudgy gaze focused on the glowing white lines of the road and the taillights
of the car ahead. What a night for a drive. Willie Nelson crooned `On the Road
Again´, and Nick turned the radio up and cracked the driver’s side window to
let in a stream of damp air and a couple of icy rain drops. He eased into the
exit lane, glad to be off the Interstate. He’d spent some time as a
long-distance trucker in his twenties, and this kind of night was the worst. He’d
discovered years ago that cruising along some dark highway at dusk with the
full moon lighting the road was one of life’s great pleasures. Unfortunately, crawling
along with nothing to look at but the taillights of the car ahead while he
wiped condensation off the inside of the windshield was depressing as hell.

           
Nick picked up Willie’s
refrain just as he took the deep curve of the exit. Then, like a clip from a
horror movie, a brunette in a pink coat appeared like a phantom through the
curtain of rain, standing on the side of the road ready to step into the
slippery street. She had to be crazy an escaped mental patient or maybe a
runaway Nick didn’t have time to decide. He swerved and hit the horn with the
heel of his palm. The blare set off the dormant adrenaline in his system. Out
of the corner of his eye, he saw her lurch forward into the road. Oh God, if
she wanted to kill herself why’d she have to throw herself in front of
his
truck?
 
Damn.
Fucking damn
.

 
He heard a thud against the pickup’s
sidewall. Was it a body or just a tree branch? The Dodge jumped the curve and
sailed through the thin trees of the shoulder, then nosed down an embankment. Nick
stood on the brake so hard he thought his leg would go through the floorboard. When
the truck came to a stop, everything was quiet. Way too quiet. Even Willie had
gone mute. The wipers were stuck in an upright position with wet leaves and
bent branches jammed under them. Nick’s heartbeat threatened to burst his
eardrums from the inside. His head had gone beyond throbbing to something
nameless and twice as painful, and his sternum ached where the taut seat belt
cut across his chest. At least the air bag hadn’t deployed. Nick let out a
breath, expecting to hear sirens. Hadn’t there been a car right behind him when
he pulled onto the exit ramp? Someone had to have seen what happened. He waited
another eternal minute, then eased his right leg off the brake and squeezed the
steering wheel to steady his hands. He’d been in accidents before a couple of
bad ones, too when he was a teenager and being reckless with Dad’s Corvair was
a game he played to get attention. He’d crumpled a lot of sheet metal in those
days and even cracked an engine block, which earned him an ass whipping he’d
sorely deserved. But he’d never hit a pedestrian, even one stupid enough to
cross a highway exit ramp on a stormy night. After another deep breath, he
pushed the driver’s door open and tumbled out, catching himself before he sank
to his knees in the mud. The rain hit him again like a slap against his
suddenly clammy skin. `Hey? Where are you? Can you hear me?´ His voice sounded
distant to him, high pitched like it had when he was fourteen. He cleared his
throat and directed his gaze beyond the truck’s back fender. `Miss? Are you
hurt?´ He saw nothing but a tangle of broken branches strewn on a thick carpet
of rotting leaves. The embankment was deep enough that his truck wouldn’t be
immediately visible from the road, so if no one had seen him turn off the
Interstate« A flash of headlights skimmed overhead in a lazy arc. Traffic
seemed to be flowing normally. That meant there wasn’t a body lying in the
road. If she was down here in the ditch, in the underbrush, he might not find
her in the dark. `Miss? Hey, if you can hear me, make a sound so I can find
you.´ Nick stepped away from the truck, pushing off the wet side panel. He
thought of the flashlight in his toolbox and turned back toward the truck.
Another brain cell fired up, and he reached into his back pocket for his cell
phone. Not there. Damn. Had he dropped it at Miranda’s or left it in his glove
compartment?
 
Calm down and breathe
, he told himself.
Get back in the truck and find the damned
phone.
Nick obeyed his inner voice. He swung back into the cab, and
there she was, occupying the passenger seat as if she’d been there the whole
time. Nick’s heart ping-ponged between his lungs, and his fingers slipped off
the wet doorframe. `You how’d you ?Śhe gave him a sheepish grin and patted
the now damp driver’s seat. `I’ll explain everything. Just come in out of the
rain.´ The rain. Jesus where in the hell had she come from? How had she gotten
into the truck without him seeing her? Relief flooded his system, and the pain
in his head backed down a step or two from excruciating. He climbed into the
cab, only briefly considering that this woman still might be some kind of
psycho. She looked perfectly normal, though. Cute, in fact. She had to be in
her mid-twenties with curly brown hair that spilled down to the faux fur collar
of her bubble-gum pink jacket. Green eyes flashed over a pert nose, and her
cheeks held a healthy blush. Once he’d settled in his seat, she rubbed her
pink-gloved hands together then stuck one out toward him in greeting. Nick
stared, his muddled brain capturing one last disconcerting detail of her
appearance. She was completely dry.