Free The Perfect Match by Susan May Warren

lot to do around here—”
    “So, in other words, if we get a call I just need to phone the hockey rink?”
    “Or the church. Most of those guys . . . well, with the exception of a few, are regular attendees. Like I said, not much to do around here.” He smiled and spiked an eyebrow. “Hey, you don’t sing, do you?”
    She made a face. “Only in the shower, and even then Franklin howls.”
    Her dog had decided to check out the comfort status of Dan’s tennis shoes. Dan rubbed the dog behind one of his floppy ears. “Franklin. As in . . . Ben?”
    Why that question spiraled right to the soft tissue of her heart, she didn’t know, but she felt warm to her toes. “Good guess. I thought it appropriate to name him after the first firefighter.”
    “I used to have a dog. Petey. Cocker spaniel and black Lab mix. Great dog.” Franklin opened an eye at Dan’s monologue and rolled over. “He was hit by a car a couple years ago. Never could bring myself to replace him. I guess I’m a one-dog fella.”
    “Gets lonely that way, I’ll bet.” Oh, where did that come from? She wanted to wince, but suddenly she had to know. Why wasn’t he married? He was the town pastor—didn’t he have to take an oath that he’d get married straight out of seminary or something? Or . . . maybe he’d taken a different kind of oath, one that would ensure that her reputation was indeed safe as they sat onshore, talking into the twilight. She suddenly felt a tad ill at even noticing his white smile, his dark, run-your-hands-through-me hair, and his gentleness with her dog.
    “Oh, I keep busy,” he answered without a twinkle, as if her question—no, her probing —went right over his head. Good. She shouldn’t be— wasn’t! —interested anyway. “So, you’re from Duluth?” he asked.
    “Yep. Born and raised in a little house on the hill. Woke up each morning to the foghorn. I used to love watching the boats motor into Canal Park. It seemed like such an exotic life. Forlorn, perhaps, but exotic.”
    “And . . . you like exotic?” His eyes had darkened and his tone deflated, as if weighted by sadness.
    “I guess so. Maybe. It’s better than forlorn.” She chuckled, and he responded with a one-sided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s it like—being a pastor? I suppose you hear a lot of sob stories.”
    The sun had sunk beneath the western rim of the lake, leaving a trail of maroon in its wake. Dan threw a rock into the waves. “Now and then. I’m a pretty good listener if you ever need an ear.”
    Oh no . . . that was the last thing she needed—to let the man go searching around her soul, only to discover her scarred heart. “Thanks. But . . . well, I have Franklin.”
    “Yeah, he looks like the listening type.” Dan glanced her way, and there was friendship in his eyes.
    It dragged the truth out of her before she knew it. “Well, he doesn’t preach at me, and that helps.”
    When Dan winced, it was clear she’d hurt him. “I’ll try not to preach.”
    She felt like an insensitive clod. “That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry. I just . . . well, let me just say it aloud.I’m a Christian. But I work hard, and that means I don’t always make it to church. So don’t come around and start leaving blank attendance records on my desk. Got it?”
    He narrowed his eyes slightly, and it gave him a way-too-dangerous, threaten-her-emotional-boundaries-type look. “Uh-huh.”
    The air suddenly felt thick, and she fought the urge to get up and run. Fast.
    He considered her for a long, painful moment before he spoke. “You know, being a pastor is a challenging job. I have to admit I struggle for words sometimes. I’m never quite sure if I’m making a difference, to tell the truth. It’s not like fighting a fire. When you’re done, you know if you’ve won or lost—if the fire has bested you, or if you’ve escaped. Sometimes you escape with burns, but you always learn something.