Page 86 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

“Next, Clarice and Beau.”

As the couple walks up, Beau’s hand rests on the small of Clarice’s back, remaining there as they discuss the tall coffee mug.

I nearly fall over.

“We both wanted to make something strong and sure of itself,” Beau explains in a deep voice.

This is the first time I’ve heard Beau Collins speak, and it just about knocks me into next week. He’s got this rich, deep baritone that doesn’t quite fit his young body but, at the same time, does.

It also appears as if something happened in between getting pedicures and today, because Beau looks at Clarice with stars in his eyes.

I must know more.

“Looks like they’re the couple to beat,” Rhett whispers to me, his scent fogging my mind and making it hard to focus on anything but him.

I’m in deep trouble, y’all, and it’s about time I realized it.

“And finally, Rhett and Cristina. Come up here and discuss your creation.”

One destroyed bowl, coming right up.

But when Rhett and I reach the judges’ table, the bowl is perfect. Perfect. No warped top. No smashed underside.

I grab his hand to steady myself and receive a shock. I quickly release it and shake out my own, trying to dispel the tingling sensation racing up to my shoulder.

But it’s no use. It won’t go away. My body holds the sensation as if it doesn’t want to forget it, as if it’s trying to create a permanent memory of what Rhett does to me.

Stupid traitorous body.

“Rhett, tell us about your creation.”

“Well, Mina, Cristina and I wanted to create something simple, so we went with a bowl. There’s no deeper meaning in it. It’s just a bowl.”

“Thank you. You may return to your station.” When we’re back and facing the judges, Mina clasps her hands. “Thank you, pairs. You’ve each created something remarkable. The judges and I will now rate your entries.”

As they walk off to the back and whisper about us, Rhett turns to me. “Is it just me, or did our bowl fix itself?”

“It’s not just you,” I mumble. “But I really wish it was.”

“And why’s that?”

He rests one hand on the tabletop, leaning into it, showing off his muscled forearm.

I look away. “Can you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Showing off your muscles.”

“I’m not trying to show them off.”

My gaze snaps back to his dark eyes. “That’s the problem with you. You don’t try anything. You just are.”

“Sounds like an insult, but I’m gonna take that as a compliment.” He folds his arms. Finally. ’Bout time he gave me a break from his muscles. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why do you wish it was only me seeing that the bowl fixed itself?”

I rake my fingers through my hair in frustration. “I don’t know . . . I’ve just got to lose.”

“Why do you have to lose so badly, Cristina?”