Page 8 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

I have a few ideas,he’d confirmed, which was all he’d wanted to say, just hoping it would be enough.

Fordham had nodded, but Ethan knew he’d been left with two instructions:bed-and-breakfast, Upstate New York.

Parting ways with his boss, Ethan had walked out of the office, his feet moving with a purpose, his mind in a daze, and he allowed himself to do something he rarely ever did.

He thought about Julia.

About how they had left things. About what she would say when she saw his name pop up on her phone again after so many years. Would she still even have his number saved? Would she know who it was? He felt a pang at the thought, like he always did when he allowed memories of Julia to slip into his mind. All the plans they had made together that they would never see through—not by each other’s sides, at least. Everything he’d always feared was coming to fruition regardless.

He didn’twantto reach out. But the thought of staying in the city, of the stares and whispers of his coworkers, of the relentless media storm asking about every single celebrity–turned–celebrity couple that had gone through the doors of Fordham PR—the escape was vital.

Not just that, he also needed to rebuild his reputation. To show the world a couple who was not only represented by Fordham but also polished into the very picture of true love. He wasn’t just selling stories to the world—he was selling intimacy. Crafting the narrative that made it all believable. He was the one who staged the photo ops, prepped them for interviews, Cyrano de Bergerac’d the soundbites that made it all seem effortless andreal. What he sold wasn’t simply a story; it was intimacy made marketable. An invitation for the public to feel as though they, too, were part of the romance.

That they bore witness to love.

And what better place to do it than an idyllic cottage, an escape by the water?

And who better to take them there than him—the one who knew that cottage, that water, like the back of his hand? And forherto host them.

He knew it was a bad idea on so many levels, but it was agoodone, too—to repair his name in the industry, to put together something real. He’d known that he’d been sloppy with Emily and Greg. Known that they weren’t quite the right fit. Still, he’d pushed them together—and look where that had gotten him.

No, this next couple had to be better. Had to be genuine. Or if not that, there at least had to be a better pretense of sincerity. He needed both actors on board. And this time, nondisclosure agreements and the like would be signed—no moremy word is my bondbullshit. He was going to do this properly.

What hewasn’tgoing to do was let the whole world keep their eye on him while he did it.

He turned the idea over in his head once more, then twice. Fiddled with the phone in his hands.

Finally, he pushed the side button again until the phone flashed to life. Scrolling through his contacts before he lost his nerve, he landed onG. ForGem. The nickname he’d always had for her. A memory came to him then, unbidden: her father calling her “Jules” when they were kids. The crinkle of her nose at the unwanted nickname. Ethan, teasing her with it. Until finally, a compromise:

I’ll call you Gem, because it’s like a jewel, but different.

Despite its questionable origins, the nickname had stuck. And it was what he had called her for years after—all the years they’d known each other, until they didn’t anymore. It felt wrong, in a way,notto use it in his text to her. But using it also felt wrong. Too much had transpired between them. Too much time had passed. His right to call her that anymore had expired.

Adopting a businesslike demeanor—even just for his own sake—he rapidly tapped out the message.

Hi Julia, it’s Ethan. I know it’s been a while. But I really need your help. Please call me when you get this.

Then he hit Send.

3

“Maggie, did youget the linens off the clothesline?”

Julia knew she probably looked unhinged to the average passerby as she entered the kitchen in a whirlwind, a bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and an assortment of rags in the other.

Her dark blonde hair was in a messy bun, too high up on her head for its current length, the shorter strands falling against her neck and forehead in sweaty tendrils. She wore her best sweatshirt for cleaning—the one emblazoned with the logo for the Niagara Falls Hard Rock Cafe—and a pair of black bicycle shorts, representing some sort of deranged homage to one of Princess Diana’s better looks.

Normally she made an effort to look presentable during daytime working hours. As owner, she felt she had a certain image to uphold. She made sure to apply makeup and do her hair—nothing flashy, but again, something that showed she took her job seriously. She was a reflection of this place. If she was put together, thenitwas, too.

Today, however, was not a day for put together. Today was a day forgetting shit done.

For Ethan’s arrival.

For the arrival ofalltheir important guests,she reminded herself sharply.Notjust Ethan.

“On it!” Maggie said in reply to her question about the linens, tapping her wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and wiping her hands on her apron. “Can you keep an eye on this for me?”

Julia noticed for the first time that the younger woman was at the stove, getting dinner ready for the evening. The sight filled her with panic—was it already that far into the afternoon?—as she eyed the fragrant bubbling stew.