Page 2 of The Matchmaker
“Be right back,” I call and swing the door shut behind me.
The chilly bite of late March greets me as soon as I do, and I fill my lungs with the cold air as I half purposefully stride/half awkwardly jog down the lane. It’s still dark out, the sun only just beginning to rise, but the sleepy road our house is on, the one that sees maybe a handful of cars on a normal day, is lit up like a Christmas tree with orange cones and a flashing one-way traffic system. They even have a very bored, very cold-looking man standing by one of them, a walkie-talkie clutched in his hand as he buries his chin in his hi-vis jacket.
I ignore him as he ignores me and follow a passing van up the road that leads to the belly of the beast. The cause of the chaos. The bane of my existence.
The soon-to-be Ennisbawn Hotel and Golf Club.
An exclusive five-star resort featuring a spa, a stud farm, and a rumored Michelin-starred chef in the kitchens, the thing sounds more at home in some tropical utopia than rural Ireland, yet this is where they’re building it.
When the church sold off the old convent that used to be here, they included most of the land that went with it, handing it all over to a large development company called Glenmill Properties. We were excited about it at the time. Sleepy towns are all well and good when you have people to fill them, but in recent years whenever anyone moved out, no one else moved in, and we were all tired of passing by the same abandoned buildings and empty fields.
All of a sudden, there was talk of jobs and tourists and getting onto an actual bus route. We got newsletters and glossy brochures through our doors promising how Glenmill weren’t just going to revive the area. Oh, no. They were going to turn this place into one of the top vacation spots in Europe. They were going to put Ennisbawn on the map and change our lives for the better.
It all seemed too good to be true.
Probably because it was.
They bought two hundred acres, then three, and then five. The proposed site kept growing, eating up more and more land until, one day, the fields I’d played in as a child were off-limits, and half the routes through the forest were blocked off by a chain-link fence and a sign saying “Private.” Trees were cut down, roads were cut off, and by the time we tried to push back, it was too late. Our emails went unanswered, our objections unheard, and slowly but surely, Ennisbawn began to shrink, disappearing before our eyes.
It’s horrifying to watch. But we aren’t going down without a fight. Protests, petitions, letters to the council. We’re doing what we can, but, personally, I’ve always considered myself more of a lover than a fighter. Not great with the whole raising my voice thing. I mean, I marched and I signed, but I also worked full-time and looked after my granny and didn’t really see how we could stop what was happening, especially once the construction work started.
But this? This right here?
This is my snapping point.
You donotmess with a girl’s sleep cycle.
I round the bend, my steps more like stomps as I reach the entrance to the main site. Where there used to be green fields bordered by overgrown hedges now sits one giant, muddy hole. Or at least that’s what it looks like. Thick wooden boards block most of it from public view, but the metal gates locked shut at night are pushed open now, letting in the steady stream of vehicles that woke me so rudely this morning. Among them, hundreds of people go about their day, moving purposefully among the chaos.
I go unnoticed.
Maybe it’s because it’s still dark, or maybe they can sense that I’m five seconds away from yelling at someone, but they all keep a wide berth as I approach the entry, slipping in alongside a truck whose job seems to be carrying more dirt to add to the dirt.
I have no idea who to talk to.
I hadn’t really thought this far ahead. If we’re being honest, I hadn’t really thought at all, but I keep moving, sneaking farther inside as I search for someone who looks vaguely in charge.
Easier said than done.
There’s no one walking around with a sign saying “TOP DOG” around their neck. No stern-faced overseer surveying his kingdom. Just a bunch of bleary-eyed workmen who barely give me a second glance before hurrying away with a real sense ofnope! Not paid enough to deal with that!
“Excuse…hello? Hi.” I grab the arm of the nearest person, a scruffy-looking guy who doesnotlook old enough to be on a construction site and force him to stop. “Can you tell me who’s the boss around here?”
The manboy frowns, his eyebrows drawing so close together they almost meet. “You mean our site manager?”
“Sure. Yes. Where are they?”
“He’s…” The frown deepens as he takes me in. “Are you supposed to be here?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that. But you say something with enough confidence, and I guess anything can happen.
“Uh, okay. I guess I could see if—”
“Justin.”
The kid visibly sighs in relief as a deep voice rumbles what must be his name, and I whirl around, a rant on the tip of my tongue, only to come face to face with possibly the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
