Page 2 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

His voice is warm honey dripping over gravel, vibrating so deep in my chest that it shocks a full-on racoon-style yelp out of me. I spin around, karate hands ready to chop—even though I don’t know karate.

Heck, I barely know Pilates.

And it is a he—tall enough that I have to tilt my head back, broad shouldered in a way that makes the industrial kitchen feel smaller. His dark eyes are currently scanning my face, and he looks concerned, like he’s deciding between calling the paramedics or an exorcist.

My bet’s on the exorcist. Which is a shame, really, because even through my post–asthma attack haze, I can tell he’s unfairly attractive. Dark hair that’s slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. A jawline that could cut glass. And those eyes—warm and worried and locked directly on me.

“I’m fine,” I croak, which is obviously a lie, given that I just made a sound usually reserved for trash pandas.

And then he pulls his phone from his pocket.

See? I knew I was right about the exorcist.

Chapter 2

Rhett

There are exactly three things that keep a business running: precise systems, reliable staff, and no surprises.

And it looks like the third one just went up in flames.

This small blond woman in a silky red dress has her hands up like she’s about to jujitsu me into next week—or at least try.

She has no idea I’m a black belt.

But at least the lights stopped pulsing. They’ve gone still. Dead still. Like they got what they wanted. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Are you okay?” I repeat.

She nods and wipes sweat-plastered hair off her graceful neck. “I must look like a mess.”

She completely looks like a mess. “Not at all.”

The woman has the good manners to roll her eyes, knowing I’m lying. I quash down a smile as she says, “You’re a terrible fibber.”

“Now, who said I was fibbing?”

“You didn’t have to. I can tell.”

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and ease my weight onto one hip.

Her bright-blue eyes scour me from head to foot and back while I keep my gaze trained on her face. There’s something extra in those eyes of hers—this one’s a firecracker. If the karate hands weren’t my first clue, the fact that she’s hiding something in her fist is the second.

Her hand relaxes and I spot it—an inhaler.

My pulse kicks up a notch, and I try to will it back down by telling myself that she’s fine. Breathing easily.

Not everyone with a medical condition—

Nope. Not going there.

I shut that thought down before it can finish, then clear my throat and fold my arms, pretending to scrutinize her. “Can you always read men you’ve just met? You know, throw caution to the wind and declare that they’re fibbers?”

A tiny laugh slips between her lips. “No.”

“Now, I don’t believe that. After all, you were right. I might have been fibbing just a teensy bit.” I lift my hand and squeeze my thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate.

She deflates, eyes big with worry. “So I do look like a hot mess.”

“Of course not—not in that dress with your hair up. Come on, this is a party. No one’s allowed to be blue. Not even you, Miss Reader of Men. So, go on. Tell me what I’m thinking.”