Page 65 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

“Could be a she.”

“Are you gonna look?”

Good point. I pick up the bunny, but its fur is so thick I can’t tell. “I’ll let you look later.”

“Why’s that?”

“Guys are always better at the nitty-gritty.”

He hoots a laugh, and the sound warms my chest.

Being in Rhett’s truck is giving me a sensory overload. It smells distinctly of him, and it’s so tidy. There’s not a speck of dust to be seen.

He’d probably turn green if he saw the inside of my car. I’m pretty sure there’s a half order of french fries hiding under at least one seat—maybe two.

“You never told me how you made your money. I only know that you were a poor Maddox.”

“Right.” He glances over and smirks. “When my grandfather died, I inherited a little money and bought a fishing pole company.”

“A fishing pole company?” I ask, brows lifted.

“I see you think it’s funny, but don’t knock it. The owner was an old man, and he wanted to sell, gave me the business for a steal. For the next three years, I made fishing poles, eventually building up the company enough that I sold it for a nice profit.”

“So that’s how you ended up wealthy.”

“That is how I made my money, yes.” There’s a slight pause before he says, “And what about you?”

“How’d I make my millions?”

“Yes, if you’ve got a story. But what I mean is, why’d you go into massage?”

I pet the bunnicorn as I answer. “The truth is, I wanted people to feel better. When they’ve had a hard day or are just feeling bad, massage is there to take away the stress.”

“You wanted to help people. That’s pretty noble.”

“I know what it’s like to feel bad.” The words come out quieter than I intended. “I spent a lot of my childhood in the hospital—sterile rooms, beeping machines. Nurses who knew my name better than my parents did.”

Rhett’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Why were you in the hospital so much?”

“Let’s just say, they weren’t the best at taking care of me.” That’s the understatement of the century. “So yeah. I wanted to help people feel better. Because I know what it’s like when you don’t.”

“And did you get sick, or were you in the hospital because of your asthma?”

The weight in my throat takes shape, becoming a stone that fills the space. It takes me a moment to wrestle it under control. “My asthma. I used to have a lot of emergencies.”

Just saying it makes me breathe easier.

“And are you better now?”

“Oh, yeah.” I wave off his worry. “I take my steroid inhaler every morning. That helps control my lungs.”

“What about the night we met? Your inhaler. Was that . . . Were you okay?”

Something in my chest loosens. “Yeah. Just anxiety triggered it. Happens sometimes.”

He nods slowly, processing. “If it happens again—during the competition, or whenever—tell me. Okay?”

“Rhett . . .”