Page 67 of The Matchmaker
Oh my God.
“Am I jumping to conclusions?” I ask, and his face screws up. “Harry, tell me I’m jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re… assessing the full picture,” he says, and I drop my head to the bar, ignoring the toastie crumbs as they stick to my forehead. “I’m sorry, Katie.”
I grunt and he pats the top of my head.
“You know what?” he says. “Maybe I will have one of those mocktails.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I’m going out,” I call, taking one final look in the mirror before grabbing my purse. “Granny? I’m leaving now. I’m—” I jump as she appears in the doorway, dressed all in black. “Entering your crone years, I see.”
“Susan’s here to pick me up. I’m going to a funeral.”
I pause, instantly guilty. “I’m sorry. Who died?”
“Mary Boyd,” she says, and smiles like it’s the best news she’s heard all week. “I used to play bridge with her.”
“And we’re…” I wait for her to stop smiling. She doesn’t. “We’re sad about this?”
“God, no. She was a horrible woman.”
“Then why are you going to her funeral?”
“To gloat,” she says, like it’s obvious. “I outlived her.”
“That issuch an unhealthy way of thinking about it.”
She shrugs, taking in my outfit before her eyes narrow on my face. “Are you wearing lipstick?”
“No.” Yes. I fight the urge to scrub it off, squirming under her gaze.
She stays right where she is, watching me for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Your hair looks lovely,” she says eventually, and heads down the stairs. “But you need a better bra if you want to wear that top.”
I scoff, turning back to the mirror as I wait for the front door to close. Then I do exactly as she suggested.
Five minutes later, I’m marching down the road toward the site, my heeled boots clacking against the tarmac as I try not to let my nerves take over. I spent all day yesterday mulling over my new revelation, and woke up this morning determined to learn the truth. Because that is what adults do. They talk to each other. They speak plainly and clearly and give each other ample opportunity to explain why they withheld such important information. Important information, like the fact that the other person has a brother whose sole purpose in life seems to be tearing down mine. Information that the other person just casually forgot to mention, even when said person looked at me with those bright green eyes, and touched me with those strong broad hands, and kissed me with those soft full—
“Stop right there.”
I halt, spinning to see a curly-haired man standing by a hut just inside the entrance. It looks like they tightened their security since the last time I was here.
“Katie Collins,” I say, before the man can ask. “I’m here to see Callum Dempsey.”
“You’re not on the list.”
He didn’t even check the list. Not that I’d be on it, if he did, but still. “I should be,” I say. “Could you call him and check?”
The man doesn’t call him. He just stands there instead. “You look familiar.”
“I live down the road.”
“Yeah? Is this you?” He jerks his head to the wall beside him, and I look over to see a grainy black and white photograph taped to it.
It is me.
