“Of course, dear. But in case you’ve forgotten, I’m already taken.” The twinkle in her eyes gave him pause.
He didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “Don’t get any cockamamie ideas,” he warned her.
“What’s so foolhardy about helping two people find love? They both live in San Francisco. They both love literature. They’re kind, compassionate, and care about helping others. Plus, they’d make a beautiful couple.”
Frank opened his mouth to object, but Bevy clearly wasn’t finished yet.
“I realize Nate is a little rough around the edges,” she continued, not letting him get a word in edgewise or in between. “And he’s still finding his place in the world. But I’ve always believed a man’s character matters more than his social or financial status.”
Frank didn’t argue. He liked the kid. What little he knew about him, anyway. But Private Henderson could handle his own love life. “I don’t think it’s wise to meddle in these matters.”
“You say meddling. I see it as lending a helping hand.”
“Call it what you want, they didn’t seem all that fond of each other. If you insist onhelping, you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
That was putting it mildly. From what he could see, Jules hadn’t been able to escape to the study fast enough, then hadn’t rejoined them for the rest of the evening. And the few moments they had been around each other, they’d appeared uncomfortable, at best.
Bevy waved a dismissive hand. “So they got off on the wrong foot. Nothing a little Christmas magic can’t cure.”
“I don’t know, Bevy. There’s giving someone the cold shoulder, and then there’s whatever those two were doing. It might take a little more than mistletoe to defrost those two icicles.”
“Forgive me, darling, but you took a little warming up yourself.”
She had a point. “Fair enough. If you’re dead set on this matchmaking scheme of yours, I won’t interfere.”
“That’s all I ask.” She unscrewed the top of a plastic prescription bottle and pressed a tiny white pill into his palm.
Frank groaned.
“No grumbling. The doctor said you need to take sleeping pills to help with your insomnia.”
“Can’t I try listening to those library science lectures you showed me on YouTube? That’ll put me to sleep faster than any pill.” He hated taking medication. Pills for blood pressure. Pills for heartburn. Pills for cholesterol. He might as well open his own pharmacy.
“Frank Barrie, those lectures are fascinating,” Bevy scolded. “And no amount of complaining or negotiating is going to change the doctor’s orders.” She handed him a glass of water from her nightstand. “Now, you’re going to swallow that pill on your own or we’re going to do it the hard way.”
Frank’s eyes widened. His sweet, soft-spoken wife could be quite formidable when it came to the welfare of someone she loved. And he didn’t want to know what she meant by “the hard way.” He swallowed the pill.
“There. Was that so difficult?” She put the glass back on the nightstand. “Now you’ll be well rested for our first day of matchmaking tomorrow.”
He still thought the whole idea was a fool’s errand, but if Bevy wanted a Christmas miracle, he’d try his hardest to give her one.
And he knew the perfect person to help.
CHAPTER 8
JULIET
The following morning, Juliet cut into the mound of apple cinnamon pancakes piled on her plate, stealing surreptitious glances at the enigmatic man seated across from her. If she’d spotted him somewhere commonplace like a coffee shop or grocery store, she might have secretly checked him out. He had strong, handsome features framed by a sexy five-o’clock shadow. A fit, muscular body that looked insanely attractive in his simple Henley sweater. And those eyes—a striking slate blue that bordered on smoky gray whenever he was deep in thought. Like right now. What exactly did he find so fascinating about the back of the syrup bottle?
She took a bite of pancake, relishing the sweet and spicy flavor notes and plump, airy texture. Her aunt Beverly sure knew how to cook. “Aren’t these the best pancakes you’ve ever tasted?” she asked Nate, then immediately regretted her choice of small talk. Did that sound rude? Like she was implying that because he was homeless he’d never eaten good pancakes before?Ugh. What was wrong with her?
Working at Reclaim, she met countless women in similar situations to Nate, and she’d never struggled to connect before. What was it about this man that made her so flustered?
He shot her a strange—possibly offended—look, then said, “They’re delicious. Thank you, Mrs. Barrie.”
“Please, call me Beverly.” Her aunt smiled warmly as she leaned over to refill his coffee. Topping off Juliet’s mug next, she asked, “How did the writing go last night, dear?”
“Great,” she lied, which was becoming a bad habit. In truth, she’d stared at the blinking cursor until her eyes hurt, then went to bed. While she slept, she dreamt three ghosts had come to visit her. But instead of illuminating her past, present, and future, à la Ebenezer Scrooge, they all revealed the same destiny: her epic failure as a writer. In the final vision before she jolted awake, her parents recoiled in shame while Charles Dickens himself declared her work insipid and banal.
