Deacon had run eight miles that afternoon—mapping out a route across the huge Ravenel Bridge and back, then around the Battery, up and down beautiful side streets, and around Colonial Lake before returning home. Then he turned right back around to buy a ten-foot North Carolina Fraser fir at a church parking lot on Wentworth Street. It was supposed to be a quick-and-easy errand, but he wound up having words with Trent Gillingham, the local jerk on Aunt Fran’s favorite show. Trent had wanted the same tree.
“I’m Trent Gillingham,” he’d said, “from Bless Your Heart, and I saw this tree first.”
He put his hand on the tree trunk Deacon had already claimed as his own. Deacon was only waiting for the tree lot guy to bring back his change. “I’m Deacon Banks,” he said, “from Manhattan, and no, you didn’t see this tree first. It’s mine. Go find your own.”
Trent glowered at him and gave the tree trunk a little push with his palm. Luckily, Deacon had anticipated such a tantrum and had already tightened his hold on the tree. It didn’t move.
Trent stalked off.
“Merry Christmas, buddy!” Deacon called after him.
What an idiot.
Back at Aunt Fran’s, he told the story, and instead of being upset at Trent’s rudeness, Aunt Fran wanted to know where her favorite television hunk had touched the trunk, and then she wondered if Deacon should have given it to him.
“No,” Deacon said. “He was a brat. And I’d already paid for it anyway. Why are you so obsessed with this guy again?”
“He’s handsome, and he has such a great accent,” she said.
“There are plenty of guys in Charleston with the same accent,” said George, who was helping Deacon put the tree in its stand.
“And ones closer to your age,” Deacon chipped in.
Aunt Fran sulked for a minute, but only until Deacon gave her some spiked egg nog. Then they all got busy putting on the lights and decorating the tree, after which Deacon and George strung the balconies with lights—all in preparation for the parade of boats that night.
And Christmas, of course. But the cocktail party spurred them on.
Now Deacon was freshly showered, the last of the pungent tree sap scrubbed off his fingers, and on the piazza again in a sweater and jacket. A light wind blew off the harbor a mere hundred feet away. It was pleasantly cold—not nearly Christmas cold, but he liked it anyway. The seventy-five-year-old bag boy at Harris Teeter had told him that morning that it was more mild a Christmas than usual, but any day they’d get polar temperatures.
“You just never know with Charleston,” the old man had said with a cackle, then stopped and looked at the plastic container he was putting in the bag. “You’re getting a lot of olives and cheese and crackers, aren’t you? Throwing a party? Are some pretty girls attending? I see you’re not married.”
“Yes. It’s a small cocktail party. During the boat parade.” People around here liked to talk. And take their time bagging groceries. And ask you personal questions.
“Of course.” The bag “boy” chortled. “You gotta good place to watch it?”
“Sure do. Right over the Battery wall. On a … piazza.”
“Fancy that,” the guy said with robust cheer. “The Battery. In one of those big mansions?”
“Yes. My aunt has a condo in one.”
“Good for your aunt. Is she a sweetheart?”
“Oh yeah. Sweet as can be.”
“Then you tell her ‘Merry Christmas’ from Peter, especially if she’s single.” He winked and put a box of crackers in the bag.
“She is single, as a matter of fact.” Deacon grinned. “I’ll tell her.”
Walking back to the Battery with a bag in each arm, he decided he didn’t mind the menial errand or chatting with strangers. They were good distractions, but more than that, he was having fun living in the low-key zone.
As usual, he had a lot on his mind. Sales figures. Profits. Staffing problems. Scaling the businesses he’d bought across the country. If he really wanted to, he could be on his phone and his computer all day, or flying out to the West Coast or Chicago for meetings.
But he knew the best—the very best—business people in the world took time off—a sabbatical of sorts. A chunk of time to reflect, to renew, to discover new aspects of themselves and their talents maybe they didn’t even know they had until they stopped for a little while and let themselves catch up.
So he forced himself to let it all go.
It felt weird and exhilarating. He was on vacation. He was with his aunt. If he was thinking about work, he couldn’t carry on a decent conversation with her or anyone at her party. Now he watched his aunt’s guests drink, eat, and chat while waiting for the boat parade to start. His own drink was gone, and he wondered where Macy was. He felt immature waiting for her like a high school boy, but so be it. She liked the tulips. She’d texted him to thank him. He’d texted back that he was glad she liked them, but he couldn’t text her again without a good reason. The only good reason he could think of was to talk about women she’d set him up with—and he didn’t want to do that.
He’d just have to be patient.
George was at the bar, pouring ice into a bucket. Deacon headed his way. Celia threw him yet another searing glance, but he ignored her. What was she thinking? Did she assume he was interested in an affair? Where had that come from? Especially when her husband, who seemed like a perfectly nice guy, was standing right next to her.
Aunt Fran appeared at his elbow. “I’ll take a martini,” she told George.
“You’re in Charleston,” George said. “New rules. Men go to the bar for you and bring you your drink.” He made the martini and passed it to Deacon. “Give this to your aunt.”
Deacon handed it to her.
Aunt Fran pushed it away. “No way. I get my own martinis. You drink that one, George, and make me another.”
“I’ll be glad to.” George threw it back and got to work shaking up another. “You sure are stubborn.”
“There’s only so much I can change.” Aunt Fran poked Deacon in the side. “You look a little preoccupied.”
“Some small part of me still believes I’d better behave,” he said, “or I’ll get coal in my stocking.”
“Impossible,” his aunt said, and picked up her new martini. “I brought you up right. Can you guess what I’m giving you for Christmas?”
George shoved a fresh drink Deacon’s way. “Maybe a book or two on politics, history, or some celebrity biography,” Deacon said. Most of them came from the green room on her set, former interviews she’d done. But she’d have them autographed to him, which was nice.
Her eyes flew wide. “Absolutely not,” she lied. “What else?”
“My annual suit.”
“Well, of course. This time we’ll get it at Charleston’s premier men’s store. It’s called Berlin’s, and the locals tell me people fly down from New York just to shop there.”
She’d been giving Deacon a new suit every Christmas since he was three years old. They’d always gone to Bloomingdale’s on Third Avenue when he was a kid. Later, he graduated to a custom tailor on Broadway.
“And of course, we’ll have our usual beef tenderloin dinner,” she said, “although Celia says we have to have oyster pie also. She’s giving George the recipe. Afterward, we’ll do the usual.”
Which was watching Mame. They did every year. Aunt Fran had raised her sibling’s child, just as Auntie Mame had, so the show was near and dear to their hearts.
“I could use a little Christmas right this very minute,” Deacon said, paying homage to their favorite tune in the show, as he kissed his aunt’s cheek.
She smiled. “I wish Macy were here.”
That was exactly what he was thinking … Macy would be a little Christmas for him.
But he was in Charleston to protect Aunt Fran and to advance her interests. So he did his best to be the nephew she could be proud of at the party. He especially enjoyed meeting retired marine colonel Ed Block, appropriately named because he came across as an immoveable force.
Colonel Block had a tendency to jut out his chin and clench his jaw, like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. “I smoke a cigar and drink bourbon in my library every day at seventeen-thirty hours sharp,” he informed Deacon in a thick Southern drawl. “If it’s nice out, we retire to the brick patio. I live around the corner. Feel free to stop by.”
A petite redhead with a short, sophisticated haircut came up to the railing.
“These lights are pretty spectacular,” she said.
“They are,” Deacon agreed. From big sailboats, shrimp trawlers, motor yachts to modest johnboats and a few Sunfish, the boats were all covered with lights. It was a very merry display, and a twinge of honest-to-God Christmas spirit snuck up on Deacon. He shot his new companion a friendly smile. “Hi. I’m Deacon, Fran Banks’ nephew.”
“Hey, back.” The new arrival stuck out her hand and smiled. “I’m Penelope Gordon. I work at the Historical Foundation. Macy Frost told me to meet her here, but I see she hasn’t arrived yet.”
“She’ll show up at some point, I’m sure.” If she didn’t, Deacon’s budding Christmas spirit would take a hit. “Thanks a lot for stopping by.”
Penelope was attractive. And personable.
“My pleasure. I talked to your aunt about your family history here in Charleston.” The diminutive redhead gave a pretty shrug and smiled. “She actually didn’t have anything to tell me beyond the surname Banks. Supposedly, one of your family members came here at some point.”
“It’s more like an old family rumor,” Deacon confessed.
Penelope nodded sympathetically. “Every family has them. And sometimes they turn out to be true. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“You’re kind to do that.”
Ten minutes later, he and Penelope were still chatting. Boats streamed slowly by. Drinks were refilled. The talking on the piazza got louder. Out on the street, the crowd shifted, grew, and one group starting singing Christmas carols.
“So how are you and Macy friends?” Penelope asked.
“She’s setting me up on dates through Two Love Lane,” he said. “I’m doing it for my aunt. It’s a Christmas present.”
Penelope laughed. “I get the impression you’re not ready to settle down yet, Deacon Banks.”
“You read me well. But the truth is”—he hesitated—“aw, never mind.”
“No, tell me.” Penelope had such a friendly face.
“Well, all right,” he said. “If I’m going on any dates while I’m here, I’d rather go out with Macy than her clients.”
Penelope’s expression softened. “Why?”
“I really like her,” he confessed.
“My oh my.” Penelope cocked her head. “That’s so sweet. Thanks for confiding in me.”
He shrugged. “I’m not trying to be sweet. And I don’t think it’s particularly gallant of me to be talking to one lovely woman about another one.”
“No, no.” She waved a hand. “I like your honesty. And I feel like we’re already friends, don’t you? A little Christmas cheer in a cup and a nice boat parade go a long way to breaking down barriers, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m honored you think so,” he said. “And I agree, friend.” He grinned and raised his glass to her.
“To friends.” She smiled and raised hers back. “Look, I want to help you here. Macy is very professional, so I don’t think she’d ever go out with you when you’re her client.”
“You’re right.”
“But you can’t back out of your deal, correct? I mean, your aunt is counting on you for this gift?”
“Yes. Not only that, Macy has this burning desire to find me my soulmate. So both ladies would be devastated. One personally, the other professionally.”
Penelope laughed. “What a quandary. But I’ve got an easy solution. Do you have the phone numbers of the women Macy’s setting you up with?”
“I do.”
“May I see them?”
“Sure.”
Penelope perused the names on his phone. “I know three of the four. And that’s no big deal. She’ll be on board after I talk to her.”
“What do you mean?”
Penelope grinned up at him. “I’m going to tell them we need to conspire with each other to get you and Macy together. Whatever it takes. We all love her. And she’s always putting other people first. It’s time for her to have some fun.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. And I don’t mind helping you out either. You’re my first friend from New York City.”
“I’m blown away. Thanks.”
Penelope chuckled. “I’m looking forward to this, Deacon. Big-time.”
“You rock. Really.” They clinked glasses again.
“Hey, she’s here,” Penelope said, “and she’s heading our way.”
Deacon turned. Sure enough, Macy was on the other side of the piazza.
“Work with me when she comes over, okay?” Penelope asked him.
“Will do.”
“Hey, you two.” Macy squeezed in between them at the railing.
“Hey, yourself.” Penelope bumped her hip with her own.
“Now we’ve got ourselves a real party,” Deacon said. “Can I get you a drink, Macy?”
“Not just yet, thanks,” she said. “Let me look at the boats.”
So they did. The twinkling lights on the water, the people lining the Battery wall, it all added up to a spectacular, heartwarming sight.
“I had to help my sister wrap presents for thirty-five teachers,” Macy said. “But I’m not gonna lie. I enjoyed every minute of it. I’m a good-cheer junkie.”
“Me too,” said Penelope. “Life’s too short to live it any other way. What about you, Deacon?”
“Sure.” He raised his glass of bourbon. “Cheers.”
“Not that kind,” Macy teased him.
“I like the other kind too,” he insisted. “The feel-good, Christmas kind that’s supposed to last all year. Like Charles Dickens said.”
“I love a well-read man,” Penelope stage-whispered to Macy.
Macy laughed. “He is, honestly. Ask him about any Shakespeare play.”
“I’d love to,” said Penelope, “but I have to run. Hey, I’m bummed because I have reservations at FIG tomorrow night that I have to give up. My friend is too busy to go, and I am too, honestly. You know how hard those are to get, Macy. I had to book six weeks out.”
“Yes,” said Macy. “FIG’s so good, it’s almost impossible to get in unless you plan way ahead.”
“That’s too bad,” Deacon said.
“How about you two take them?” Penelope looked between them both.
Deacon wished he could laugh out loud. She was a fast mover.
“I don’t know.” Macy sounded skeptical.
“If it’s that good…” Deacon put down his bourbon. “I wouldn’t mind.” He tried to sound nonchalant.
“I don’t know.” Macy’s forehead puckered.
“Oh, come on,” said Penelope. “It’s always amazing. You’ll be at work all day, Macy. Won’t it be great to walk to FIG afterward for a glass of wine and a fantastic meal? The reservations are early. Six o’clock. They’re the only ones I could get.”
Six o’clock was definitely not the dating hour.
Macy’s shoulders relaxed. “Okay.”
“Fine by me.” Deacon was playing it cool.
Penelope grinned. “Thanks, y’all. I would have felt so bad cancelling. It’s FIG!” She bade her farewells, and that was it.
Deacon had a date with Macy.
“We need to talk,” Macy said.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“You’re going to tell me FIG isn’t a date. And of course, it’s not. I’m your client.”
Macy relaxed. “Exactly.”
“It’s only a six o’clock reservation.” He struck a casual pose against the balcony railing. “Nothing romantic about that.”
“True. In fact, we’ll call it a practice date. I’ll check out your style.”
“You saw it at Fast and French.”
“But that was business. And daytime. This is dinner at a white-tablecloth restaurant. A different vibe.”
“I don’t really need help dating,” he said.
“I know that. But maybe we do things a little differently in Charleston. I could give you tips. And it never occurred to me to add Penelope to your dating list because she recently came off a bad breakup. But I think I should.”
“You’re the expert,” he said.
“She’s so smart and pretty. And nice.”
“Yep.” She was selling Penelope hard.
“I think she might like you.”
“You think?” He had to fight to sound truly interested.
“Sure.”
“Too bad she’s not my type,” he said.
Macy’s grin faded. “She’s not?”
“Nope.” He kept his eyes on the long line of festive boats.
“Do you have a type?” Macy asked.
“Sure.” He drained his glass. “Likes to bake cakes. Asks too many questions. But she’s sexy and sweet, so she can get away with it. We’ll go from there.” He was going faster than he’d planned. His Christmas drinks had loosened his lips.
“I have no idea which of the women on your list like to bake.” So she was going to pretend she didn’t know he was talking about her. “But all of them are sexy. And to heck with sweet. They’re reasonable, friendly, and mature.”
“Those are great qualities. But let me clarify sweet. I actually mean she’s got to be flexible about kissing.” He knew it was high school talk. But he had a crush. A big one. “I’ll want to kiss her in front of her parents. Or at a football game. Or when she’s coming out of the shower.”
“Hmm.”
His body was begging him to get close to Macy Frost. His mind couldn’t stop thinking about her. And his heart was clamoring for her attention. He wanted to put his arm around her badly, to pull her close, to kiss her temple, murmur sweet nothings in her ear.
But he knew that he’d not want to stop there. He’d want to kiss her mouth. Run his hands down her sides, relish the curve of her hip. Lose himself in her body.
“You ready for that drink yet?” he asked her.
“Sure. But I really just want a Coke.”
But George was out of Coke.
“No worries,” said Macy. “I have some at my house. Let me go get it.”
“Thanks, doll,” said George.
“I’ll go with you,” Deacon said.
“Great.” She gave a lighthearted shrug.
They chatted easily down the stairs about nothing special. But when he opened Fran’s front door for her, and she passed beneath his arm, he wanted to reach out, pull her close, and kiss her.
Not yet, though. He wanted to be mature about it—and cool, and respectful—but waiting was driving him crazy.
Outside on the sidewalk, she wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s getting colder.”
“I love it.” He liked walking with her to her house. And there was no place he’d rather be when he followed her onto her piazza, through her foyer and dining room, and into her kitchen.
She grabbed two liters of Coke from the pantry. “Here we go.”
“Let me,” he said, and took them from her but put them down on the countertop.
It was time.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “A kiss is coming, isn’t it?”
“I want it to.” He tugged on her hands. “Do you?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Oh, why not?” she said, and put her hands on his chest. “It’s a party.”
“It’s always a party being around you. Did you know that?”
She blushed. “I was talking about your aunt’s party.”
“I’m talking about you,” he said. “Not that damned piazza and George behind the bar and all those people Aunt Fran is trying to charm.”
Macy gave a slight shake of her head.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, just before lowering his mouth to hers.
The kiss was searing hot. And it went on. And on. Macy’s hourglass figure fit perfectly within his arms. Her mouth was perfection. He wanted her badly. She was a hot kisser, giving as good as she got, so maybe she wanted him too.
“Wow,” she said, finally pulling back.
He would like nothing better than to pick her up and lay her down somewhere, strip off her clothes, and make love to her.
“We can’t,” she said. She always knew what was on his mind.
“I want,” he said.
She groaned. “No. I was stupid to kiss you.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“You’re so cute. And … and sexy.”
“So are you.”
She backed up a step. “We just can’t.”
“Tell you what.” He tugged on her hands and pulled her close again. He couldn’t tell if she was acting shy or wary—or both. “You’re fired. You can keep all the money, but this arrangement isn’t working.”
Her eyes widened, but she quickly recovered her professional cool. “What about your aunt? Your promise to her?”
“Here’s a compromise that will satisfy her: You and I go out. I don’t want to see those other women.” He squeezed her hand. “You feel it, don’t you? I want you in my bed.”
To hell with playing games, using Penelope and the other women to help him win Macy over. He could do it himself. And in a lot less time.
He believed in honesty.
She stared at their interlocking fingers, hesitated, then pulled her hand away and looked up at him. Her eyes held a glint of shock. But he saw regret there too, which made the flame of his crush hotter than ever.
“Deacon”—she had the grace to hesitate again—“you’re tempting. I gave in to a kiss, and it was worth it. Believe me. But I don’t want to get involved with a guy who doesn’t even live here and who has said he’s emotionally unavailable.”
She was smart. Of course she was. Smarter than he was. “Maybe this isn’t practical,” he said. “But we could have a lot of fun. And I’m not heartless, you know. I like you. I like you a lot.”
“I like you too, but I’m not into Christmas flings,” Macy said simply. “Neither am I necessarily interested in getting into a relationship. I’m a busy woman. I’m happy. Fulfilled. It would have to take a heck of a situation for me to change course—I mean, love with a capital L and all that it involves. You get that as an entrepreneur yourself. Don’t you?”
“Of course. But I don’t have to like it.”
“Look.” She smiled softly. “Our business arrangement will work if you give it a chance.” She picked up the two liters of Coke. “Please? For your aunt’s sake?”
“Okay,” he said, and took the Cokes from her again. This time he held onto them. “The arrangement stands.” He had no desire to continue with their agreement. But he would. To keep her and his aunt happy. But if he was going to have to jump through a million hoops to do so, he refused to feel guilty about trying to make the experience a lot more enjoyable for himself. He’d go along with Penelope’s plan. What Macy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
And maybe, just maybe, it would work.
* * *
So Deacon was completely into her, Macy realized. That was the problem—and the delight of her heart. She was an evil, wicked, terrible matchmaker. But she couldn’t think about how amazing that kiss was or dwell on her own shortcomings for long.
She had a phone conference to get through with a client on business in Jamaica. He really wanted to talk to her about one of the women she’d set him up with. He was starting to fall for this woman, he told Macy, but he had reservations. He didn’t like her dog. It was too small. Yet this potential soulmate of his was obsessed with it. What could he do? He only liked big dogs.…
All in a day’s work for Macy.
After convincing him to give the woman and her small dog at least another week’s try when he returned home, Macy popped her head into Greer’s office. “Heading out to Roastbusters and then to pick up a new skirt I bought at Nancy’s on King Street. I had to get it altered. Wanna come?”
Greer pushed up her glasses. “I wish. I’m too busy. Thanks, though.”
Macy wasn’t ready to tell anyone she’d kissed Deacon, but she was dying to talk to Greer and Ella about her fake date with him—What should she wear? Was it okay to spray on a tiny bit of perfume when this was only a practice run?—but she didn’t want them to know she was actually excited. She was a professional, right? She was all about that.
Macy found Ella’s office door shut with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob. Loud noises she couldn’t decipher emanated from within, something like a hammer pounding. Or two blocks being hit together. And then a mysterious whining noise, followed by a thump—and another thump.
She sighed. Ella was apparently off-limits at the moment.
She went to Miss Thing. She wouldn’t dare talk to her about the date. Their office manager saw through Macy every time she tried to hide something—and darned fast. Oscar sat on a chair next to Miss Thing, his tail flicking relentlessly. He was obsessed with her pink feather duster, which he knew was hidden in her lower desk drawer.
Miss Thing was resplendent in a nubby yellow Chanel wool jacket and skirt finished with white stitching on the sleeves and breast pockets. At the moment, she was updating the December calendar on Two Love Lane’s website. Each day, she added a holiday dating tip.
“What’s going on in Ella’s office?” Macy asked.
Miss Thing lowered her crystal-studded reading glasses. “Some secret Christmas activity.”
“I’ll say.”
“Have you heard anything more from that young man, Deacon Banks?” The sharp gleam in Miss Thing’s eye didn’t bode well.
“Sure, I’ve seen him.” Macy braced herself. “He’s my neighbor.”
“He is?”
“Yes.” She did her best to sound dismissive and picked up some paperwork from Miss Thing’s desk. “What’s this? The bill from the landscaping company?”
“They fixed the hose out back so it doesn’t leak anymore.”
“Good. I see the equipment charge. But where’s the labor cost?”
Miss Thing ripped the paper out of her hands. “Mr. Banks is your neighbor?”
Macy sighed. “Yes. His aunt bought a condo in the house next to mine. I can see directly onto their piazza from my bedroom window.”
“Oh my heavens.” Miss Thing started waving the landscaping bill in front of her face as if she were about to burst into flames. “So what’s happened? Have you been over there? Have they come over to see you?”
“Yes, I’ve been there, several times now. And Deacon—”
“You call him Deacon?”
“That’s his name.”
“Yes, but—my goodness. That was awfully fast.”
“Not really. I tend to call all my clients by their first names within the first couple of meetings—unless they prefer a more formal interaction.”
“Still.” Miss Thing blinked. Her mouth, lined in a deep fuchsia matte lipstick, tilted up in a tremulous smile.
“Miss Thing. You must remember something.”
“Yes?”
“We are a business here. Deacon Banks is my client. Please don’t forget that. Our reputation rides on our commitment to our mission, that we are professional matchmakers who put the needs of our clients first. Whether I’m attracted to Deacon Banks or not doesn’t matter.”
“You are?”
“Of course!” Macy put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot on the floor. She was feeling quite … flustered. Yes, that was the word. “Let’s stop talking about it. Okay?”
“Whatever you say.” Miss Thing’s tone was smug as she abandoned the landscaping bill and started polishing her white princess phone with a lace handkerchief. Oscar stood, his pupils widening, and watched that handkerchief wiggle all over the phone.
Macy put on a brittle business smile. “See you in a little while. I have errands to run.” Of course, she loved Miss Thing, but gossip didn’t pay the bills. She escaped to the vast entry hall, where she inhaled a deep breath, put on her coat, slung her purse over her shoulder, and prepared to exit the house.
“Oh, Macy dear?” Miss Thing called to her.
“Yes?”
“Do you have somewhere to be tonight? Where you’ll see Deacon?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I can just tell. Have you kissed him yet?”
“No!” she lied, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
Thank God for Roastbusters. Two Love Lane was equipped with a coffee machine, but there was nothing like the slow drip they made at the coffee house, and nobody beat Roastbusters at making peppermint cocoa.
Macy had been getting it a couple times a week since Thanksgiving.
“Extra hot, please,” she told Andy, the owner and main barista. “Extra whipped cream too, if you don’t mind.”
“Right.” Andy winked.
“And no lid, please,” she added.
“Right, Macy.” He laughed.
“Sorry. Oh, and—”
He put both his palms on the counter. “Don’t you think I know your holiday order by now?”
“I suppose you do.”
He leaned closer. “You don’t want a lid so you can really pile on the whipped cream. You like it extra hot because you take it back to work and get so busy, you forget about it, and it cools down, and your microwave is broken and you refuse to fix it because your mother doesn’t believe in microwaves. You do, but you feel guilty about liking them.”
“I’ve told you that?”
“Several times.”
She blushed.
He went on. “You like half a pump of peppermint instead of a whole pump, and you like me to put a cherry on top, even though cherries and peppermint don’t go together that well. You tell me that too. You say, ‘Andy, they don’t go together well. But I don’t care. I like them.’”
“Oh.” She could feel her blush deepen. “I guess I do say that.”
Andy laughed. “We don’t do drinks with cherries on top, Macy.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. I keep a jar just for you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. And you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I like you, that’s why. The first time you came in and asked for a cherry on top, I felt terrible telling you we didn’t have any. I pretended we normally stock them. And that night I went to Harris Teeter and bought a jar.”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you. Because I like you.”
“Andy. Oh my gosh. I like you too.” She was so touched.
“You keep coming in here and being you, Macy. It makes my day.” He slid her peppermint cocoa across the counter. The whipped cream on it was so high, the cherry jiggled.
“Thank you, Andy. I-I—”
“Go on, now. You don’t have to tell me I’m your favorite man. I already know I am. You can go do your errands. I can tell you’re in a rush. Or something exciting is going on.”
What was exciting? She couldn’t remember. And then she thought about seeing Deacon that night at FIG. It was embarrassing, but she was excited about that. She tried to tell herself she was excited because she loved the food there. But the truth was, she wanted Deacon to see her in her beautiful new skirt from Nancy’s on King Street.
“Andy, can I admit something to you? And will you promise not to tell?”
“When have I ever told your secrets?”
“You’re right.” She leaned closer. “Sometimes I’m the worst matchmaker ever.”
“No, you’re not,” he said stubbornly. “You’re a wonderful matchmaker. Go on, now.”
She sighed with gratitude and started walking away then turned around. Something had occurred to her. “Are you married? Or in love?”
He laughed again. “I’m in love with life. And that’s good enough for me. Are you trying to set me up, Miss Matchmaker? This is a first. You’ve held back until now.”
“Well, yes, but only if you want me to. I just think you’d make someone a wonderful partner.”
Andy’s face grew serious. “I had a wonderful partner,” he said. “But that was many moons ago. It was a big enough love to last me a lifetime. Now I’m passing it on to all my customers.” He pointed to her cup with his right hand, his palm up. “That love is in your peppermint cocoa.”
Her heart swelled. “I can tell.” She gave him a quick smile, and he turned away, got back to work.
She was lucky, so very lucky.