Copyright © 2021 by The Arrowed Heart

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by The Arrowed Heart

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE ONE

  EPILOGUE TWO

  Don’t miss Abigail’s story next in The Bad Boy Bias!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

  All of Hallie Bennett’s book feature a curvy heroine and a filthy-talking hero!

  Find them all here!

  PROLOGUE

  SAOIRSE

  Pink and red streamers line Main Street for the Valentine’s Day Festival as Abigail, Ella, and I amble along the crowded sidewalk. We’re here to enjoy one of the few large events Smithfield hosts along with one other very specific task — to try our luck at finding love.

  “There it is. I found it!” Ella points excitedly at a booth decked out in holiday paraphernalia: cupids, hearts, teddy bears — the works. Destination sighted, we weave through groups of people to head that way.

  The Smithfield Matchmaking Booth.

  Each year we’d talk about signing up but could never muster the guts to follow through with the plan. A trio of curvy introverts, we met in college and formed a club where we promised to remain true to ourselves and never change for attention. Calling ourselves the Tees and Jeans Club, the spirit of the club has remained, though we’ve branched out from our casual uniform.

  “So we’re really doing this?” Abigail asks, hugging her cardigan closer. The quietest of us, her nerves are obvious.

  “Yes, we are; it’s been decided.” I twine my arm through hers while holding a cup of apple cider tight in my other hand. “We’ll be thirty soon, and it's time we take charge of our destinies.” All of us have trouble talking with guys — not that our small town teems with single, attractive men. But if it did, we’d still be hiding on the sidelines. At least with the matchmaking booth, we might have a chance. It’s a blind match with all conversations occurring via letter; maybe the anonymity will help us shed our inhibitions.

  To be honest, I'm already reaching that point after years of singlehood. Right after graduation, I'd ridden the confidence boost of surviving college and landing a job so quickly into a one-night stand with a fellow graduate to rid myself of my virginity. But no relationship followed from him or anyone else and call it what you will, but the older I get the less I care about how guys perceive me.

  I want a man. Plain and simple. Someone to love, to build a life with, and to yeah, fuck.

  My current way of living? Not working for me, so sign me up for matchmaking.

  Cold February air serrates my lungs as I take another deep breath for courage and wonder who my match could be. Like I said, troves of available men don’t cross my path very often, so where will the eligible bachelors for matchmaking come from?

  As if to challenge that thought, a handsome man brushes by us, and my eyes follow briefly before returning to our course. That’s one.

  “Hello, ladies. Are the three of you interested in participating this year?” An older woman in a blush-colored sweater stands to greet us, her pink-tinged hair suiting the booth’s theme perfectly.

  We let out a resounding “Yes” at varying degrees of excitement. Huddling nearer to the table filled with pictures of happy couples and packets of paperwork, I send up a quick prayer that this works.

  “How lovely! We’ve got a great selection of singles, so I’m sure we’ll find perfect matches for everyone.” Collecting three clipboards with a stack of forms, she hands one to each of us. “Now, fill these out, and when you’re done, I’ll go over what happens next.”

  I take a seat next to Ella on a bench and start writing in answers to the extensive questionnaire — beginning with a pseudonym instead of using my real name for the correspondence. Tapping the pen against my cheek, names filter through my mind until I decide to go the simple route and use a play on my name.

  The rest of the questions are more in-depth than I would expect from a small-town festival attraction, but I suppose it’s good that they’re being thorough. Maybe that means this will actually result in a relationship.

  Give me your best shot , Cupid.

  Once we finish and turn in the sheets, the woman explains the process. “We’ll try our best to match everyone as well as we can, though sometimes we have odd numbers or someone needs a special fit that we can’t meet. The letters are all anonymous.”

  She points to the scribbled writing on our forms before motioning to an address on a brochure. “You’ll use the names you chose on the form and mail the letters to the matchmaking P.O. box. We’ll make sure everyone’s letters get to the right person. The point of this process is to get to know someone completely blind until you reach a point where you’re willing to meet in person, then we step out as mediators and give you the information you need to continue. Make sense?”

  We nod and take the folder of information she hands over at the end of her spiel. “What’s your success rate?” I ask curiously, trying to gauge how much I should temper my hopes.

  “We usually have a couple hundred people enter and half of those go on to meet in person. Once that happens, we’ve seen thirty percent of couples make it to engagements and marriage. Keep in mind, this booth has only been up and running for three years, but I’m proud of the connections we’ve made so far.”

  Thirty percent.

  Not terrible, especially if I compare it to something like the Bachelor or Bachelorette; that show has a terrible success rate yet keeps chugging along. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones.

  After all, I’ve got Irish in my blood.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SAOIRSE

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  Liberty,

  My new position comes with its challenges, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m a bit of a thrill seeker, I suppose, because overhauling moldering systems, pulling them back from the brink, gives me a rush like no other. Well, except for you, of course.

  Your letters are the highlight of my days, and the pictures you send... My cock thanks you, though my hand gets tired.

  I want to see my sexy pin-up girl.

  Tell me we can finally meet. Your name means “freedom”, so please release me from this torture and say “Yes.”

  Your devoted (and very horny) servant,

  Law

  I finish reading my anonymous match’s letter, carefully refolding it and adding the sheet to the rest of his correspondence. Sometimes sweet, sometimes lusty — he always makes me blush. Who knew I’d be so fortunate after signing up for the matchmaking service?

  Poor Abigail and Ella’s matches had fizzled out after a couple of letters, but mine remains strong. And it’s become much more than writing down thoughts and feelings. I’ve escalated to including naughty polaroids for his pleasure; he wasn’t lying by calling me his ‘sexy pin-up girl’. The anonymity of our connection allows me to explore a side I rarely show others — the part that wants to be seen and desired.

  Though we’re meant to eventually move budding relationships into the open, there’s a wall in my mind preventing me from taking that next step. I like living in this fantasy. Of never having to worry what Law will truly think of me because we keep it strictly confined to letters and photos.

  With that in mind, I’d mustered up my courage and started snapping pictures of myself in silk and lace lingerie, making sure to never show my face but give him a taste of what he could have — if I ever worked up the courage to meet in person. Not to mention, it intensified my own foreplay preparing for the photoshoots.

  Damn, did it make me feel powerful.

  I don’t want to lose that feeling by entering into reality and having him see me in all my glory without prepared angles grabbing the best shots. It would hurt too much — no matter how confident I’ve grown with his encouragement and praise. I don’t want to disappoint him or revert back to the woman too nervous to speak with a man, let alone share suggestive photos. And I definitely don’t want this strong connection between us to wither because ordinary dating isn’t as romantic as these letters.

  Adjusting the camera angle for my next shot, I tease my nipples into hard points that poke at the thin silk of my nightgown before arching my back, causing the fabric to pull tighter against my breasts. The timer clicks, and a photo spits out with a familiar hum. Rolling to my stomach, I snatch the picture and shake it before an image appears.

  Perfect.

  My aroused body on display for Law will be sure to satisfy him for the time being; I’m just not sure how long it will last. His eagerness to meet is understandable; it’s been months of writing to each other. And I do wonder what he looks like — who he is.

  Every time I’m at the grocery store and see a man alone, questions of “Is he the one?” pop up. Then, like a hypocrite, I fear not being attracted to him despite our emotional connection.

  Another reason to stay safe in the bubble of anonymity.

  Sliding the photo in an envelope, I write a letter in response to his — making excuses to hold him at bay. One of these days, I’ll agree to meet, but it won’t be anytime soon.

  And definitely not this week with all the preparations I need to do for work. Dropping the letter in the basket holding my keys by the door, my mind switches gears, and I go over the list of things to get done tomorrow.

  It’s Homecoming Week at Smithfield College. As the manager of the campus cafe, which serves as a host for all guests, I need to keep the cafe completely staffed — maneuvering around students’ special schedules this week — along with double-checking we have enough inventory to accommodate such an influx of visitors.

  Plus, the college has a new Vice President of Finances, and he’s chosen this week to inspect my work and budget. To be fair, I think he’s working alphabetically down a list of names, but it sucks that my name falls on one of the busiest weeks of the year for me.

  Curling into the plush arm of my couch, my hand flies across the page of my work notebook, listing what needs to be checked and adding reminders for what to prepare for Mr. Moore’s visit tomorrow. Despite the small size of campus, I’ve only seen glimpses of him in passing and haven’t heard much gossip which is strange. An older man with salt and pepper hair, he’s still attractive — the women in Admissions would usually be pretty chatty about someone like him.

  Maybe he’s married.

  I shake my head in amusement because that wouldn’t stop them from admiring him and decided that whatever he is — married or single — I hope he’s reasonable and won’t start telling me how to do a job I’ve done well for the past six years.

  Because I don’t take kindly to being told what to do — even if he is my boss now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THOMAS

  I wake with a groan as my hand continues squeezing my morning wood, waking from another dream of Liberty — my mystery match and the woman starring in all of my fantasies. If only I had a face to put with her gorgeous body...

  Eight months and nothing more than barely-covered curves or the back of her head showcasing long, fiery curls.

  She keeps putting me off, never agreeing to an official date — no matter how hard I push. And I’m not sure how to get past her hesitation.

  When I’d signed up at the matchmaking booth last winter, my expectations had been low, but friends kept harassing me to get out there, so I gave in — never thinking it would actually work. The first letter I received from Liberty had been sweet and full of trepidation, and the next had been a little more relaxed, a little more trusting. Until she felt comfortable opening up to me about her past: the strong bond she shares with her college friends, the lonely road of singleness that led her to sign up for matchmaking. As we continued exchanging our fears and dreams for the future, it eventually morphed into what we have now.

  I’ll never forget that first photo she sent me; I felt like a teenager as many times as I jerked off to the view of her lush breasts spilling out of a scarlet red teddy in honor of the Fourth of July. A man my age should have more control, but how could I resist?

  An alarm beeps from the nightstand, and I try to set aside thoughts of Liberty in favor of the mountain of work I have ahead of me. Taking over from a predecessor who’d checked out of the job years prior to their retirement sucked. I love challenges which is what drew me to this new position, but fuck, some of these department heads refuse to adapt to better systems — insisting on clinging to old ways that aren’t fiscally working anymore. Hopefully, my meetings today won’t be so contentious.

  The morning passes in a blur of showering, shaving, and breakfast before I drive the short distance to a campus decked out in blue and gold for Homecoming Week. While I didn’t attend Smithfield College, the school spirit is catching, and I’m looking forward to the soccer game versus our rival on Friday. It’s strange not having a football game mark the end of the week, but we’re too small to substantiate such a team — thus, soccer reigns supreme.

  “Good morning, Kelsey.” I greet my personal assistant upon walking into the shared space housing mine and the Vice President of Operations’ offices.

  “Morning, Mr. Moore.” She smiles brightly and stands, revealing her short skirt. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, thank you.” I dismiss the offer and continue walking. Since my arrival, Kelsey’s made her interest known, though I’ve kept things professional. There’s already a woman in my life, even if she’s not physically present yet.

  Fingers crossed that changes soon...

  A COUPLE OF STUDENTS cut by in the student center as I head downstairs to the campus cafe known as The Bean — my last stop for the day, thankfully. Everyone has been resistant to the slightest suggestion, and I’m ready to go home and reread Liberty’s letters in an effort to relax.

  But first: Saoirse Shane.

  I don’t know much about her other than the fact that she manages the cafe, and according to the numbers I’ve seen, she seems more competent than some of her colleagues. Honestly, this should just be a cursory walk-through, since the books look good.

  The sharp aroma of coffee surrounds me as I step into the dim shop, ignoring the “Closed” sign hanging on the door. Hidden in the basement of the student center, small windows looking out on a gravel parking lot allow minimal light inside. But I can tell someone spent considerable effort trying to brighten the space with colorful paint and framed art on the concrete walls.

  A woman perches on a step ladder, struggling to erase something from the top corner of the chalkboard menu. Her precarious position worries me, and I immediately circle the counter to provide back-up.

  “Excuse me —”

  “Sorry, we’re closed during dinner, but you’re welcome to come back around eight when we open again.” Her voice is labored as she tries stretching for the out-of-reach spot again.

  “I’m not a student. I’m Thomas Moore, VP of Finances.” My hand hovers over her lower back, ready to catch her at the barest hint of a slip. “I really think you should let me help before you fall and hurt yourself.”

  “Fuck.” The quiet whisper isn’t meant for my ears, I’m sure, but a smile tugs on my mouth at the soft expletive. “I apologize for the unconventional introduction; I thought I had a few more minutes before you’d be here.”

  She scurries down the ladder, jumping off the last step with a hop, and turns to face me. “I’m...Saoirse.” Her green eyes widen at our proximity as her name stutters out after an awkward pause. Lemon cuts through the coffee in the air, and I realize the tart sweetness is coming from her before giving her some space.

  There’s a familiarity about her, but I shake the odd notion. So she has red curls like my Liberty — doesn’t mean a thing. Lots of women share the same trait.

  “No problem. Let me erase that section for you, then we can take a look through your budget and be done. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.” I grab the rag she dropped on the counter, gently guiding her to the side as I climb the ladder to finish the task. “You’ve done a great job with The Bean, especially since you inherited a mess, from what I can tell.”

  “Thank you. Mrs. Landry did the best she could, but it was a relief when I was able to take over.”

  “You knew the previous manager?” I ask, two feet on the floor again and curious to hear how she landed her supervisory position when she looks so young. Freckles sprinkle across her nose and cheeks enforcing the youthful image.

  “Oh, yeah.” She nods and waves me back into the kitchen area where I follow her to a small desk with a laptop. “I used to work here as a barista when I attended Smithfield. When Mrs. Landry decided to leave, she asked if I wanted the job once I graduated. It kind of fell into my lap; I didn’t even interview for it. But it’s been a fun experience that’s taught me a lot.”

  Taking a seat, she clicks around on the screen until a spreadsheet pops up. “Sorry, I’m kind of rambling. Here are the numbers for the semester so far.” Saoirse slides to the right, so I can look over her shoulder to study the figures — something I’ve already checked in my office.

 

1 2 3 4 5