Free Her Man Upstairs by Dixie Browning

fun and games right now.” She handed him the ale. “Do you want a glass for that?”
    â€œBottle’s fine.” Fun and games? She’d explained briefly about their favorite pastime of matchmaking—which explained part of the conversation he’d overheard. “Don’t your victims have anything to say about it?”
    â€œI’d hardly call them victims. I mean, look how many people try to meet other people in chat rooms. And lots of people go on blind dates.”
    â€œOf their own free will. Nothing’s forced on them.”
    â€œWe’ve never forced anything on anyone,” she protested. “All we do is arrange for X to meet Y, and they can take it from there.”
    â€œX and Y as in chromosomes?”
    â€œHadn’t thought of it that way,” she said, gray eyes twinkling. “Anyway, I’m too busy trying to figure out how to fit a bunch of ten-foot bookshelves into my two front rooms to worry about the social life of our neighborhood CPA. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.”
    â€œYour CPA’s probably about to have all the social life she needs, with tax season looming dead ahead.”
    â€œI meant advice with the bookshelves.”
    â€œOh. Right.” What the hell, he wasn’t one of her busy-buddies. What did he know about matchmaking? “That’s not a problem.”
    â€œMaybe not in theory. Just whack the shelves in two and close up the open ends. I’m good at theory, just not so great when it comes to the actual whacking and closing.”
    â€œI can do one or two for you after supper.”
    Her doubtful look gradually gave way to a smile that was all the more effective for a tiny chip on the corner of a front tooth. Oh, man, this natural bait was wicked stuff.
    â€œYou don’t have to do that,” she protested.
    He was tempted to agree. It wasn’t a part of their agreement. On the other hand, he wasn’t particularly eager to go back to the marina. This small yellow bungalow, even with a portion of the second floor gutted, was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the cold, damp cabin of a forty-year-old cruiser.
    Yeah, sure. The house is the only attraction.
    She was saying something about the dog, about how she was already dreading tomorrow’s walk. “Rain or shine, he has to get out twice a day for a run, and the Hallets won’t be back for… Oh, lawsy, five more days? I’m not sure my arms will survive.”
    Cole helped clear away the remains of supper as if he’d been doing it all his life. It had been Paula who’d insisted on hiring a combination cook-housekeeper. When he’d protested that with only the two of them they didn’t really need it, and besides, they couldn’t afford it, she had meekly agreed. A few weeks later he’d received a surprise promotion and a hefty raise.
    He’d been excited at first about getting in on the architectural side of the business. That had always been his goal. He’d even managed to get half a degree in architecture before he’d damaged his left knee, putting an end to his football scholarship.
    But not even when he’d been relegated to the job of selecting from a set number of styles and floor plans and making superficial changes among them had he tumbled to the fact that he was a kept man.
    Once he’d been given the job of working on more challenging projects like the Murdock Office Complex and the Josephine Civic Center, he’d settled in and actually begun to enjoy the work.
    That is, until too many accidents had aroused his suspicions and he’d started coming in early and staying late, poking into areas that were out of his jurisdiction.
    Now he followed Marty into the living room, where she pointed out the potential placement of her bookshelves. “That wall’s the longest. There are eleven of them, and if possible, I’d like to fit them into these two rooms.”