Dear Mr. Heart On: The Matchmaker Series Read online

  Dear Mr. Heart On

  The Matchmaker Series

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  Copyright

  About the Book

  1. Imogen

  2. Neil

  3. Imogen

  4. Neil

  5. Imogen

  6. Neil

  7. Imogen

  8. Neil

  9. Imogen

  10. Neil

  More Matchmaker!

  More Frankie Love Valentine’s Day Romances!

  About…

  Copyright

  Edited by

  Peppermint Editing

  Copyright © and 2019 by Frankie Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About the Book

  DEAR MR. HEART ON

  By Frankie Love

  I make no apologies for the man I am.

  Being a tough guy gets the job done.

  Which means I have no time to waste on dating.

  Using a matchmaker seems like a stroke of genius — until I’m paired with Imogen Branch.

  The messiest, fiercest …and sexiest woman I’ve ever slept with.

  And this woman who seemed so wrong is now giving me a constant hard on.

  But Imogen has a bone to pick — she claims I’m emotionally unavailable.

  She wants more than a man with a hard on … she wants a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.

  Dear Reader,

  Imogen is giving Neil a run for his money … lucky for them both he has gobs of it.

  He’s rich, handsome, and really cocky.

  Not to mention he’s got a really huge … heart.

  Read to find out just how big!

  Skip the roses and chocolates this V-day and take care of yourself, I’m always here to help a girl out.

  XO, frankie

  Imogen

  I’m just getting out of the shower when someone knocks on the door of my apartment. Wrapping a towel around myself, I leave a trail of wet footsteps as I hop to the door, calling, “Who is it?”

  “It’s your mother. Remember?”

  I groan. Yes, I remember. Of course I remember. Every other Tuesday my mother comes into the city to take me to lunch. Which is nice. So nice … and I am grateful, I am … except every lunch includes more than our requisite Cobb salads, hold the meat, with two glasses each of white wine. She also likes to use the opportunity to remind me that I need a man.

  Right. Need. As if I am not a successful and capable woman in my own right. What year is this, anyway?

  Sure, I do rely on her and my father for rent. And grocery money. And to pay my grad school tuition — but that doesn’t mean she has the right to lecture me on my love life. Does it?

  I love my parents dearly but they drive me batty.

  I unlock the door and pull it open, the loud clank of the ancient steel echoing the corridor. I can practically hear her wincing from the other side. I live in a studio space that is more abandoned warehouse than cozy flat, but I adore it. I have plenty of room to sprawl out with my canvases and brushes. Whenever a creative mood strikes, my paint supplies are within arms’ reach. Which is the point. I want to be an artist. I mean, I am an artist, but like, being an artist who can support herself with her creative work is the goal.

  Mom and Dad don’t exactly get it. They call it a phase. I call it my identity.

  With the door open, there Mom is, in her designer pant suit, perfectly coiffed hair and manicured nails. We don’t live in Beverly Hills, but she acts as if she is a cast member of the non-existent Real Housewives of Saint Louis.

  “Why aren’t you ready?” she asks, taking in the place. I watch as her eyes travel over my sink full of dishes, the overflowing laundry basket, the paint splatters on the floor. “Reservations are in twenty minutes and you’re still in a towel.”

  “I didn’t wash my hair; I can be ready in ten.” I walk to my wardrobe and begin pulling out clothes, shimmying on underwear and a bra, pairing an oversized cream sweater with black pants and red pointy-toed flats.

  She scowls. “Are you ever going to grow up, Imogen? It’s nearly one in the afternoon and you’re just getting dressed. You are such a …”

  “An ambitious artist?” I ask, not biting my tongue. “I was up half the night working on a piece for the gallery show I have next week. Which I’m really excited about. In case you were wondering.”

  Mom purses her lips as if in pain. “Why are you doing this to your father and me?”

  I smile. “Mother, I am doing literally nothing to you and Dad except pursuing my dreams. Isn’t that what you always told me to do? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  I grab a can of dry shampoo and go to town on my jet black hair. I roll it into a knot on the top of my head and dig through the make up on my dresser. It’s near impossible to find the lip color I want through the mess, but when I do, I squeal. “There you are!” Mom watches as I apply ruby red lipstick and then swipe thick black liner across my lids.

  “Imogen, of course I want you to be happy … in fact, that’s what I wanted to talk with you about today.”

  Reaching under the pile of clothes on my orange velvet chair, I grab a red scarf dotted with black hearts and wrap it around my neck. Plucking my purse out from under the bed, I toss it over my shoulder and march to the door.

  “Under nine minutes, Mother, told you I had plenty of time.”

  She sighs with exaggeration, “It’s about time, darling!”

  If anyone wondered where I get my flair for the dramatics — they wouldn’t need to look very far.

  With salad and wine before us, I begin to relax. “So are you still working on the charity event for the hospital next month?” I ask Mom. Her favorite two things — besides giving me a hard time for being single — are coordinating auctions and attending them. I give her credit — for all my parents’ wealth, they make donating to charity a priority.

  “Yes, I’ve nearly ironed out every kink, so that’s good.” She lifts her wine and take a sip, looking around the French restaurant, hoping to find something worth gossiping about. “Your father has been working so hard lately, I told him: after the auction, we need a vacation.”

  “That’s sounds great.” I smile, knowing my father’s job as the leading heart surgeon in Missouri leaves him exhausted most weeks.

  “We want you to join us. We are taking a cruise to Cancun.”

  “Wow, that’s … amazing … but honestly a week locked on a boat with you, I might not survive.”

  Mom frowns. “Imogen, do you have to be so blunt?”

  I shrug. “Would you rather I make an excuse?”

  “No, I’d rather you bring a boyfriend. And don’t worry about school, I consulted your school calendar to see when your spring break was, and you have time off for the trip.”

  I bristle at the fact she is so meddling, but it’s no surprise. We’ve always been close, but we’ve also always butted heads. “And what if I already have plans?”

  “You have a few months to change them. Imogen, really. It’s for your father.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Dad wants to take a trip to Cancun?” I smirk, thinking about how Dad’s idea of a vacation is two weeks in the summer at the lake. “Okay, Mother, I’ll bite. Why do you want me to go so badly? With a boyfriend that doesn’t exist?”

  Mom groans, dropping her fork. “It’s Clara. She’s always talking about how amazing it is that her da
ughter Jenna is married and expecting, and I hate that she thinks she can one up me all the time. She’s so judgy.”

  “Why is she your best friend again?” I ask before taking a bite of salad.

  “I know you’ve never liked her, but we work together on the hospital event every year. We can’t not be friends. And anyways, I got the four tickets for the cruise from an auction last month, and that’s why I thought you might like to join us.”

  I finish my wine, considering this. On one hand, I’d love to spend more time with my father and I’ve never been to Cancun. On the other, I don’t want to do this just so my mom can Facebook about me to make Clara jealous.

  Not to mention I am not currently dating.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Mom smiles as big as the Cheshire cat. She drives me crazy but God, I love her. She always has something up her sleeve.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” she says, sliding a folder across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  Mom shrugs.

  I take the bait and open the folder. The single sheet of paper inside has a header that reads, What The Heart Wants: Matchmaking Services by Grace Graham.

  “What’s this, Mom?” I ask, realizing very quickly exactly what it is.

  “You always say there are no eligible men in Saint Louis, but I thought you might be wrong … maybe you are just looking in the wrong places.”

  I frown. My recent track record isn’t exactly glowing. I meet guys where I hang out. Bars. Clubs. Concerts. Hipster artists who don’t know the first thing about being authentic. Try-hards who wouldn’t know what it meant to be vulnerable if they put on The Notebook and ran a bubble bath.

  “He’s handsome, look.” Mom points to the photograph pinned to the paper.

  She isn’t wrong about that. He’s seriously handsome — stubble on his jaw line, gray piercing eyes. A smile that has my belly doing flip-flops. It’s been a while since a man made me feel anything but irritation.

  “He’s local, thirty years old, and—”

  “He’s six years older than me, Mom. He’s probably looking for someone more established.”

  Mom shakes her head. “No; Grace, the owner of the agency thinks you’ll be a perfect match.”

  “You seriously gave a matchmaker information about me?” I laugh, shocked. “I mean, you always take things pretty far, but this is a whole new level, Mom.”

  Mom winces. “I know,” she says, waving her hands in the air. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy. I think you want to make Clara jealous.”

  “But Cancun would be so much more fun if you had a plus one.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. My mother’s persistence is impressive. “This is sweet of you, to care so much, Mom, but honestly, the timing is bad. I’m crazy busy right now, Mom. The show next week is really important to me.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Next Thursday at the Beckenridge. And I know Dad is working and you committed to going to Aunt Nancy’s in Memphis — I understand.”

  “You know we wish we could come. It was just such short notice.”

  “Mom, honestly, it’s no biggie.”

  “I know,” she says with a smile. “Why don’t I get you a room for that night? As a little treat for your piece being included in the show. Isn’t there a new boutique hotel next door to the Beckenridge?”

  I nod. “Yeah, it looks cute. It’s called the All Saints Inn. But I can stay at my place, it’s literally fifteen minutes away.”

  “I know but it … well, just as a little gift. I know how much it means to you.”

  I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Thanks, Mom. That’s so sweet.”

  She smiles warmly and I forget all about her opinions she shared back in my apartment. She may be sharp around the edges, but inside she’s soft.

  “And you know,” she says, “you might as well invite this bachelor as your date to your show.”

  I practically choke on my water. “And here I thought you were being nice.”

  Mom reaches across the table, tracing the mystery man’s face. “It would be a shame to waste a man like that, wouldn’t it?”

  I snort. “You won’t drop this until I go out with him, will you?”

  Mom reaches for the menu, a sparkle in her eye. “We can get dessert if you promise.”

  I snatch the menu from her hand, rolling my eyes. “You know your way into my heart, I’ll give you that.”

  Neil

  I’m just finishing up a meeting with my in-house team when my secretary Linsey tells me there is a Grace Graham on the phone. I stiffen at her name, and immediately end the meeting.

  I pick up the phone, sitting in my black leather chair overlooking the beautiful city of Saint Louis. Not a metropolis, but that is the beauty of living in the digital age. We can work where we want and yet have clients all over the world. My family is from the farmlands of this state and I moved here after college. Became a self-made millionaire, and now am mostly described by my parents as a workaholic.

  But money doesn’t make itself. And the fact is, my parents needed my cash to save the family farm. So they may give me a sideways glance at holidays, but it’s my capital that keeps a roof over everyone’s head.

  I take the call, putting Grace through. When she picks up, her upbeat voice startles me. It’s not that I can’t handle sweet, but God, she is so sugary my tooth aches.

  “I have good news, Neil!”

  “And what’s that?” I ask briskly. I contacted her agency to find me a wife, not to chit chat when I could be buying and selling stocks to make my clients money.

  “I have a match for you!” She is practically bubbling over with excitement and I try not to roll my eyes.

  “Can you email me the information?” I ask.

  “I can tell you all about her over the phone.”

  “Did you follow my requests? Organized, put-together, and ready to settle down and get married?”

  “Yes, I mean she is all those things, according to her application.”

  “You haven’t met her?”

  Grace scoffs. “You are the one who asked me to put aside other clients to make this happen. She says she is available to meet next week. But that is the best I can do on such short notice.”

  I run a hand over my jaw. I gave Grace a timeframe when I contacted her, because I knew if I didn’t I would back out of this whole arrangement.

  It’s been so long since I dated anyone. I know it’s time — and not just because it’s been way too long since a woman shared my bed … I need to move on with my life. I’ve poured myself into my work the last four years and it’s made me rich as fuck, but some nights … damn, they are long and lonely.

  “No, next week is fine.”

  Grace sighs with relief. “Oh, that is so good to hear, Neil. Now here is the information….”

  By the time I hang up with Grace, I have plans to meet this mystery woman next Thursday at the restaurant inside the All Saints Inn hotel at six o’clock.

  My secretary Linsey knows I have a date. It’s a big enough deal on my calendar that she has it blocked out in red. Today is the day.

  Before she leaves for the day, she knocks on my door. “There’s a fresh suit for you in your closet, Mr. Johnson,” she tells me.

  I nod. “Thank you.” When she doesn’t leave, I ask, “Anything else?”

  She bites her bottom lip. She has been with me for a few years and she knows me better than most people. “Are you nervous?”

  My jaw tightens and I frown, looking down at my computer. “Why would I be nervous, Linsey?”

  “You just … never since … I mean.”

  “I understand, but no, I’m not nervous.” I lift a hand, dismissing her.

  She apologizes as she walks away, but I merely stand and close my office door, locking it. Then I lean my head against the wooden door and take a deep breath. I am a smart and savvy businessman. I can handle a date.
It’s not that big of a deal.

  Except it is.

  I haven’t dated anyone since Margene. Since … well, since I started my life over.

  But it’s time. I know that — and my cock, hell, it knows it too.

  I put on the suit and grab a cab to midtown. I never come here. It’s the art district and I sure as hell have no reason to traipse these streets on Friday nights art walks. That’s when I’m closing business deals before people — lazier people than I — take the weekend off.

  Still, I read a review about this new hotel and restaurant, and apparently the steak is good. That is as fine a reason as any to go out. I turn off my phone as the car pulls up to the hotel, not wanting to be distracted tonight. I need to observe this woman, take her in, see if we’d make a good match.

  I don’t have the energy to do this many times so I sure as hell hope Grace is as good a matchmaker as her client reviews would have me believe.

  When I get to the restaurant, I take a deep breath, tell myself to act like I do when I’m in a meeting — listen more than talk, get a read on the person sitting across the table. Don’t show my hand, hold my cards close. It’s what has gotten me where I am ever since Margene … and I will use those same tactics tonight.

  A hostess leads the way when I tell her I’m meeting someone here at six o’clock. “Is she here yet?” I ask.

  The hostess shakes her head as she shows me the table. I take a menu but don’t read it. I know what I want, having looked online ahead of time. “I’ll take a bottle of the Oregon Syrah,” I say. Knowing what I want is essential to keep my life on the path I have chosen. I follow that advice when I order, and when I make any decision.