Page 62 of A Little Bit More

Mairi the Matchmaker

This story takes place two years after

Can’t Tie Me Down.

Keir McKenzie arrived home from test-driving the custom motorbike he’d designed for a client to find his wife of three years lying on her back in the middle of their living room floor.

Having shucked off his leather jacket and boots at the door, he tugged up his faded jeans and crouched down beside Mairi, who gazed up at him with wide green eyes.

“Tough day?” he asked, taking in the messy knot of thick, curly red hair on top of her head, the wrinkled blue tartan shirt tied at the waist, and the denim cutoffs with a coffee stain on them.

She groaned, and Keir had to smother his grin. Mairi could do dramatic with the best of them, but usually, it took the form of some hyperactive, ill-thought-out scheme that he had to put a stop to before someone got injured.

“I’ve got a new client.” She pouted. “He’s unmatchable. I knew this would happen someday, but I just didn’t think it would be so soon. It’s the sign I’ve been waiting for. The one that tells me there are no more decent men out there to match. I knew this business was too good to last.”

Yep. His wife was a drama queen.

“When did you last eat?” There was no point in trying to deal with her irrational complaints if the woman needed food in her stomach. He’d learned years earlier that managing Mairi meant feeding her regularly and ensuring there was coffee waiting for her as soon as she opened her eyes in the morning. Otherwise, life could get dicey.

Her nose scrunched up. “Breakfast?”

That’s what he’d thought. “Come on.” Keir took her hands and pulled her to her feet as he stood. “Let’s make you a nice potato scone sandwich, and then we can talk about this new guy you’ve signed.” Fried potato scones on white bread with tomato ketchup were catnip to Mairi.

“He’s awful.” She leaned into him, wrapping her arm around his waist as he maneuvered her into their kitchen. “Clueless and arrogant. There’s no dealing with him because it’s clear he thinks there’s nothing wrong with him.”

With Mairi seated in a bright blue chair at the kitchen table, he headed straight for the fridge. Opening it always made him shake his head. There were the healthy shelves—with salads and smoothies—and there were the shelves with Mairi’s preferred foods—basically anything you could fry or get a sugar rush from eating.

Over the years, he’d subtly changed out her food for healthier versions, hoping she wouldn’t notice. So far, so good. Between that and secretly adding vegetables to everything he cooked for them, Mairi was eating much better than she’d done in her life. Which meant that the odd fried sandwich wasn’t likely to harm her.

He placed a frying pan on the stove and added olive oil instead of the butter Mairi would have used. While that heated, he cut two slices of the healthier white bread that Mairi referred to as “posh bread” but seemed to enjoy. It had fewer chemicals and more fiber but still looked gleaming white and was seed free. Mairi believed seeds were for birds.

“So how did this guy hear about you?” Keir asked as he buttered the bread.

“One of the other guys met him through an online game and recommended me.” She flopped forward and rested her cheek on the table. “I wish he’d found out a little more about the new guy before he fobbed him off on me.”

“He’s a geek?” That was Mairi’s specialty. She found partners for clueless, geeky men. The business had come out of her years as an online girlfriend to guys just like that, and she understood them. Generally.

“Oh yeah. I also suspect he’s a mummy’s boy. Apart from that, he’s a contractor, doing software development for different companies.” She gave him a pained look. “He lives in his parents’ basement.”

Keir’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought that was a cliché.”

“I wish.” She groaned. “I can’t find this guy a wife. Ishouldbe finding him a therapist.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’ll show you.” She pushed away from the table and padded out of the room on bare feet with pink painted toenails.

He was in the middle of frying her potato scones when Mairi returned with her laptop. She flipped on the TV facing the dining table and sent a video through to the larger screen. As Keir assembled her sandwich, the image of a man appeared on the wall.

“Holy crap.” Keir waved a spatula at the guy. “It’s Clark Kent. A really pale, anemic-looking Clark Kent, who was probably dressed by his mother.” His clothes had been pressed to within an inch of their lives—he even had a crease down the center of his jeans—and his hair was parted to the side and combed flat against his skull.

Mairi cocked her head as she considered her latest client. She had the cutest little frown on her face. “I suppose there are some bare bones to work with,” she said begrudgingly. “His shoulders are broad, and his face is nice. He just looks so…doughy.”

Hiding his smile, Keir placed Mairi’s food in front of her and ran a hand down her back. “Are we just going to stare at him, or does he talk?”

“Oh, he talks.” She grabbed the sandwich with one hand as she hit the play button with the other. “He doesn’t stop talking.”

“My name is Ambrose Durst,” the guy said in a nasal American accent that screamed condescension. “I’m a self-employed software developer. I like to keep my options open. Plus, I see no need to leave home to work when I have everything I could want right here. It’s important in life to make smart decisions and not be swayed by society’s expectations. I pride myself in being able to do that.”