Dear Mr. Heart On (The Matchmaker Series) by Frankie Love

Author:Frankie Love [Love, Frankie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-06T16:00:00+00:00

Neil

The way she looks at me makes me feel like a fucking fool.

She is clearly all wrong for me— just look at her. So beautiful it’s as if she was plucked out of a painting herself.

A muse in her own right, and way too enchanting for a stick-in-the-mud like me.

She repeats herself and it sends a dagger to my heart. “A wife? Really? That’s what my mom said? I mean, I’m … I never … we just…”

I need to get out of here. Now.

“No explanation necessary. I get it.”

“Neil, wait,” she says, wrapping a sheet around her.

I turn back, my heart tightening as I look at this woman who has my head spinning. “What?”

“You and me … we’re opposites, but … I swear…”

“Swear what?” I ask. Truth is, I feel something deep, something so damn real it scares me. I haven’t felt this way since Margene.

I may have just met Imogen but I knew the moment she sat down at the table that she was the one for me. Her eyes, her laugh — they way she made me feel. Like together we could fight the odds. Like together we might have that real, intangible, once in a lifetime thing: love at first sight.

But when I look into her eyes I see she is already backing away, shaking her head — is she scared?

“I swear I must have read this all wrong,” she says, looking at me in disbelief.

I want to tell her she didn’t. That she read this right. I want to tell her how I feel, what I am thinking — that I maybe be self-controlled but one night with her makes me want to be reckless, to throw caution to the wind, to turn a new leaf and make her mine. If I could, I know she would wrap her arms round me, I know she would be mine — but instead I feel my chest tighten, my shoulders stiffening … my vulnerability pulling me away.

She doesn’t belong with a man like me.

I reach for the door, needing to get home more than anything else. Away from the pain of being so fucking close to the thing I want, yet realizing it is further away than ever.

“I’m sorry, Imogen,” I tell her as I leave, unable to look back. She said I was emotionally unavailable and I’m just putting the nails in the fucking coffin.

Have I learned nothing since Margene died? Apparently not.

I get home, emailing Grace from the agency the moment I walk inside.

Ms. Grace Graham,

Please delete me from the database.

I am no longer in need of your assistance.

—Neil Johnson

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