Page 19 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

“Doubtful. Work is mistress enough.”

“She’s a cold one. You can’t cuddle up with money.”

I fold my arms. “But you sure can buy fun things with it.”

“That, you can.” He claps his hands. “So. I know I’ve already asked this, but I’m hoping you’ve changed your mind in the past ten seconds. You gonna pin your name to the quilt?”

I laugh, but it quickly fizzles out when I realize my cousin isn’t laughing with me. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

“Yeah, no. Not interested.”

The pins on the quilt glint all at once, like it’s reacting to me, and this time Stone clocks it.

“Interesting. Maybe the magic knows something I don’t.”

I grunt in reply.

My cousin watches me like there’s something on the tip of his tongue. “Listen, Rhett . . . you gotta let it go. It wasn’t your fault.”

My jaw tightens before I can stop myself. “I’m doing just fine, Stone. We’ve got a resort to get off the ground. Let’s just focus on that and leave the magical matchmaking to the locals.”

My cousin eyes me before slowly dragging his gaze away. “Whatever you say. But I still think you should throw your name in the fire—I mean, blanket.”

“Maybe another time,” I reply as the quilt radiates a tug so sharp it feels like it’s hooked into my pulse, calling me, whispering that with its help, I’ll find what I’m searching for.

But it’s wrong—I’m not searching.

I’m about to say as much when a crash draws my attention. My head whips left, and wouldn’t you know it, but standing in the middle of the lobby is Cristina with a cardboard box at her feet.

She clenches her fists and squats to pick up what she dropped—several small tissue-wrapped items.

“Excuse me,” I tell my cousin.

Stone points his thumb over his shoulder. “I need to check in with Pane. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Sounds good.”

I head over to Cristina with a plan to apologize and hopefully put the past behind us so that she and I can move forward as employer and employee.

“Whatcha got there?”

She looks up, and her eyes widen in horror when she spots me.

Me.

Apparently, I give the woman horror eyes, which is unfortunate because she has the exact opposite effect on me. Case in point, my stomach flips at the sight of her—braided hair draped over one shoulder, tan, toned arms quickly working to gather the items.

My breath catches, brief and impossible, before the moment shatters.

As I cross to her, one of the items—a small round object that looks like a ball—rolls toward me. The air shifts, faint and electric, raising the hairs on my arm.

I shake off the unease working through my body and pick up the object, doing a double take. It’s a man’s head with a big swoop of hair.

It’s made of clay, and even though it’s small—about the size of the end of my thumb—the detail is sharp. The hair is textured with lines, the eyes indented, the cheekbones high. So much care given to such a small thing. It says a lot about the creator.

“Is this one of your sculptures?”