I clear my throat and say, “What about you, Ms. Scott? You ever get tired of matching up other people?”
She pauses, half-smile flickering, but says, “I like seeing people line up with who they’re supposed to meet. There’s nothing tiresome about it.”
Direct hit, but she doesn’t let me have it.
We run down friends and other potential clients. She takes rapid notes when I mention Cotton (“Socially awkward, big-mouthed, but loyal as hell. Into obscure coffee blends and YouTube history docs”), and when I bring up Garth Voss, she nods, recognizing the name. “The new sheriff who raises sheep?”
“Yeah. He’s got the flock out east of town. Could use help, probably. He’s a serious guy, so not looking for anyone flaky.”
She makes a checklist for “Garth—Intro Package.”
I mention Cody, the hermit on Bear Paw Mountain, mainly to see if she reacts—if she blinks or shows any sign that she realizes he won’t be easy to approach.
“Anyone else?” she asks, massaging her wrist.
I shake my head. “Sagebrush isn’t exactly a singles paradise. Too many roosters and not enough hens.”
She lets out one sharp, surprised laugh, then catches herself. When she looks up, her eyes seem to realize for a split second what I’m up to, but she quickly masks it, returning her expression to professional neutrality.
She closes the tablet and sets both hands on the table, symmetrical and firm. “That’s all I need. I’ll send the contract and payment options tonight. After that, you’ll get a call when I have a match.”
I almost say, “I’m looking at one,” but I stop. She’s all business, already putting her notes into order.
So I ask, “Are you always this efficient?”
She looks me straight in the eye. “Some people need a little help finding what’s right in front of them. That’s all I do.”
I nod, slowing for a beat. “Maybe people just need a reason to admit what they want.”
She studies me, patient. “Could be.”
Mrs. Mercer shouts over her brand new espresso machine, “Y’all still need anything?”
We both shake our heads.
The air crackles with after-storm tension, all our words spent too soon.
Hannah gathers her portfolio, tugs her bun tighter. “I’ll be in touch, Rhett. And thanks for making time on a Sunday.”
I stand up slowly and reach to hold open the door as she passes. She’s smaller than I remember. Her arm briefly brushes mine as she squeezes through. Without looking back, she walks quickly toward her rental car.
I stay in the coffee shop, watching the streaks she left behind. I regret playing it loosely; I didn’t tackle this dilemma head-on. But I’ll be damned if I try to outdo her professionalism.
Cotton’s baby sister, Ruby, slides into the chair across from me, picks up the coffee pot, and silently refills my mug.
“Nice gal,” she says. “You should go for it.”
“Yeah, I should,” I say. “But she’s out of my league.”
FOUR
HANNAH
I’m staying in a split-level Airbnb that’s set up for ski season, but it’s empty now that it’s spring. There’s a futon, a wood stove, and a view of a blue mountain range that I keep trying to find inspiring. I kick off my shoes and settle onto the futon with my tablet and portfolio, pages spread out like cards. My notes from the first Sagebrush interviews are in my own shorthand—arrows, smileys, and colored highlights. Ms. Winslow from junior year French would be horrified.
I check my list against last night’s notes. Rhett’s form is the most complete, but it’s full of contradictions. He likes people who “don’t take themselves too seriously,” but also “aren’t flaky” and “know how to run a fence line.” He wants warmth but can’t stand anything too sentimental. He’s charming, but I can see there’s more beneath the surface.
Next is Cotton Mercer, who’s a bit of a wild card, but his early personality signs look good. Rhett described him as socially awkward, talkative, and extremely loyal, so he probably needs someone patient and maybe a bit nerdy. I move a few profiles into his folder, color-code them, and write down possiblematches. I enjoy this first round of sorting. My algorithm is fast and efficient, but I always trust my instincts first.
