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Chapter 1
Olivia
Usually, I love stopping in at The Moon.
It’s a hip little bar one block from Main Street. A good place to hear live music, catch up on gossip and have a drink or two.
I’m a social person. Most of the time I like noise, a fun crowd, and a good gabfest.
But tonight’s an exception.
I’m tired.
My clothes are airplane-rumpled.
And no, washing my face at the Denver International Airport seven hours ago didnotmake me feel fresh. Hunching over that stainless steel sink only made me wish for a steamy hot shower, a pile of Dove body wash in my palm, and satin pajamas.
I just want to go home to my little apartment. Maybe stop in and see Gran, have a cup of chamomile tea, and then tuck myself in bed.
I grip the steering wheel and yawn.
That nap I took onAir Italiadoesn’t count as a night’s sleep. I closed my eyes somewhere over the pink-tinted, snowy Alps.I’m not sure how long I was out. It was out long enough to feel disoriented when the stewardess woke me up, but not long enough to make me feel anywhere close to clear-headed.
That’s how I’d like my head to feel right now.
Clear.
That’s the best frame of mind for problem-solving, and right now I have a major problem to fix.
As I pass the Silver Creek welcome sign, a faint melody tinkles out from somewhere deep in my purse.
Probably Trent again. My brother is in panic mode.
I don’t blame him. I would be too, if I was in his shoes. In fact, the smartest thing my older brother Trent’s done in a long time is to freak out about the fact his fiancee, Maggie, left him.
I ignore the ringing. He’s probably calling to ask me how far out I am. Now that I’m only five minutes away it’ll be better to show up than to take yet another call from him.
In an effort to drown out his annoying ringtone, which I’ve heard way too often over these last two days, I turn up the podcast playing through my Mazda.
The topic is romantic relationships.
That’s the trickiest subject in the world, in my humble opinion.
Maybe that’s why I’m single.
To me, getting a real grip on how love works is tougher than deciphering a menu in Italian, when you don’t speak the language.
Or figuring out how to get from Terminal A to Terminal D at the Denver International Airport.
This whole romance thing, I think, is more complex than calculus, and I never got near that kind of math class in high school.
“...so you’re saying, Gemma, that when you make a match you’re focused on personality types?”“Oh, no, no, no.”GemmaLafferty, a matchmaking expert, sighs.“I wish it was that simple, Andrea. But studies show that really good, solid, long-lasting couples— these couples who are truly in love and you can see it when they interact with each other— you know that kind of love?” “Oh, yes. One hundred percent. The Holy Grail for all of us single women.”
Sing it, sister.
I hang a right on Market Street.“Well, studies show that that kind of love is based on a very specific recipe, if I can call it that. It’s a mixture of personal histories, values, attachment styles, and, yes, personality traits. And even that barely scratches the surface. That’s why I like to really dive deep with each of my clients so that I can…”Up ahead, I spot the sign for The Moon.
The narrow, paved street is lined with cars. Out in front of the bar’s brick face, there’s the expected gathering of locals in a mix of fur, stylish felt hats, sleek leather cowboy boots, and designer suede. Silver Creek’s attracted a bunch of wealthy second-home owners lately, and working-class locals are few and far between. I squeeze the Mazda into the only available parking spot on the block that I can find.Come on, Gemma. Give me something I can work with.
