Page 68 of The Matchmaker
It’s me in my duck pajamas the day I stormed down here and jabbed a finger in Jack Doyle’s face.
“I don’t think so,” I say, making a show of peering at it.
He still looks suspicious, but I nod to the phone, knowing he has no other choice but to check.
He stares at me the whole time in aI take my job very seriouslyway. Callum must give him the okay, though, because it only takes a few seconds before his scowl deepens, and he grabs a visitor’s pass from the table.
“You can wait in his office,” he says, only a smidgen friendlier. “It’s the third one on the right.” He hands me a hard hat and a hi-vis jacket, waiting for me to put them on before getting me to sign in.
I find the door with Callum’s name on it, knock once, and let myself in when there’s no answer. Inside the space is sparse, the kind of office that tells you its owner rarely uses it. There’s only a desk with a laptop on it and two chairs on either side. Paper is stacked in neat piles around it and the corkboard attached to the wall is filled with calendars and order forms.
I ditch my safety gear, prepared to wait a while, but barely a few seconds pass before Callum strides through the door, scanning me from top to toe with a worried pinch to his brow.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Is it Maeve?”
“I’m fine,” I say, thrown by the concern in his voice. “And she’s fine. But your security is mean.”
“Yeah, well, I had to chew them out over some woman wandering in off the street a few weeks ago, so I’m glad to hear it.”
“Did you know they’ve got my picture on the wall? And not in a good way?”
“Jack put it there.” His gaze snags on my face. “Are you wearing lipstick?”
Mother of— “No,” I lie. Again.
His phone rings at his side and he checks it briefly before canceling it.
“I was hoping we could talk,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to be listening to me.
“Youarewearing lipstick.” As soon as he says it, his gaze drops down to the rest of my outfit. I was trying for mature and professional, but I suppose the one nice pair of jeans I own coupled with the silk blouse I’m wearing is the most dressed up he’s ever seen me. And from the look on Callum’s face, he likes it. He likes it a lot.
“What did you want to talk about?” he asks, with a small smile. When I don’t answer, he takes a step toward me like I’m here for a very different reason. My mind goes blank when he does, but whether that’s from nerves or something else, I don’t know. I tell myself it’s nerves. Nerves for my impending accusation, and definitely not because he’s staring at my mouth like he wants to kiss the lipstick off it.
One of his hands find mine, and he smiles outright when I clench it, holding on tight. Okay, this is not going to plan.
“I can’t talk,” he says, oblivious to my inner crisis. “I’ve got a million and one things to do. But I can stop by the pub tonight?”
“The pub?”
“Or the house. I think your grandmother likes me.”
“She doesn’t like anyone.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I can be pretty charming.” His phone rings again, and he silences it again, an apologetic look on his face. “I have to get back to work.”
He doesn’t though, he doesn’t even move. And when I don’t either, he leans in, his intention clear, and all my grand plans go flying out the window.
“Is Jack Doyle your brother?”
I blurt out the words so fast, I think I spit on him a little. For a moment, Callum goes rigid, like his body has been frozen in ice before he pulls back, his expression guarded.
My stomach drops.
“Oh my God, he is.” I don’t know what I’d been hoping. That it was some kind of elaborate prank? That this was one of those doppelgänger situations that always freaked me out so much?
I spin away from him, ending up in the corner of the room, beside the door. “Since when? Don’t answer that,” I interrupt myself. “Obviously since you were born. Duh.”
He doesn’t move from his spot at the desk, looking at me like I’m some sort of wild animal that’s been released in his office. “You’re freaking out.”
