Page 9 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

Me.

And beside me, it hits Rhett, too.

Everyone in the room stares at us.

The air begins to hum, and the hairs on my arms lift to attention. Goose bumps wash across my skin, and I shiver.

A woman in a strapless magenta dress trimmed in feathers slides into the center spotlight as if she’s made of smoke.

“Good evening, everyone. My name is Mina Shaw.” She might be made of smoke, but she sounds like a chipmunk, and she also gives off the same energy. “I’m here to announce an exciting opportunity for you single folks—Mystic Meadows’s very first magical matchmaking competition.”

People clap with excitement. People who aren’t me.

Since everyone’s looking at Mina, I slink toward the exit, but as soon as I move, she sees me because of that stupid spotlight.

Her piercing eyes pin me in place, and my breath stills.

Oh look, on top of being a stalker, I’ve forgotten to breathe.

“Better stop moving,” Rhett whispers, his warm breath caressing the outer shell of my ear. “She’s got her eye on you.”

I stifle a laugh.

Dammit.

Mina floats toward the crowd, explaining more. “What if I said your perfect match might be out there, you just haven’t met them yet? Well, through the power that pulses underneath this town, you no longer have to wonder who your match is, because the magic will do it for you.”

Beside me, Rhett stiffens. What’s he got to be worried about? At least he’s not a stalker.

“Give me a break,” I murmur. Magic might be able to do a lot of things, but pick my boyfriend? Impossible.

“You don’t believe in soulmates?” he asks.

As if I would tell him. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“You’re not exactly whispering.”

I shoot him a tight smile. “Stalkers don’t have soulmates.”

“Now, wait a second—”

But before he can finish telling me how he didn’t realize I was the stalker and he never would’ve said it if he’d known, Mina steps in front of us.

She glares at Rhett. At me.

In fact, all eyes are on us—in our stupid spotlight.

I’m beginning to hate this resort.

Mina flicks her hand. “Allow me to present . . . the Soulmate Quilt.”

I snort. Soulmate Quilt? You’ve got to be kidding.

Two hotel workers dressed in black whip a cloth off a stand, revealing a patchwork blanket that looks like something you’d find in an antique shop—squares of blue and red rimmed with bands of cream and white, and in the very center sit two pale squares that look like someone forgot to color them.

Other than the fact that it’s got a spotlight on it, the quilt looks like something you’d find on your grandma’s bed. Likelihood of magic?

About a zero out of ten.