The Match: An EXTENDED edition rom-com from the author of the TikTok sensation THE CHEAT SHEET! (It

Chapter 1

I wake up to the feel of Charlie’s tongue grazing my cheek. I don’t like being kissed like this first thing in the morning. Mainly because I don’t like mornings, and I wish that he would get it through his thick head that I need my sleep. But just like every morning, he’s persistent.

I am Sleeping Beauty, and he is the prince. Although, I’m pretty sure the prince didn’t roll his tongue all over Sleeping Beauty’s face like Charlie is doing now. What a different movie that would be.

“Can you please just give me five more minutes?” I ask while shoving my head under the pillow in an attempt to block his advances.

But he doesn’t like this game. Never has. It worries him to not see my face. We’ve been together now for three years—and he’s become the tiniest bit overprotective. But he’s the best snuggler in the whole world, so I allow his slightly domineering attitude.

Plus, he really does know what’s best for me. He’s improved my life in more ways than I can count. It’s why I adore him. It’s why I let him lick my face at 6:30 A.M. It’s why I sit up in bed and roll him over onto his back and rub his tummy until his leg starts shaking.

Oh, right. Charlie is my dog. Did I forget to mention that?

More specifically, he’s my seizure-assist dog.

I was diagnosed with epilepsy when I was sixteen years old. It stole my adolescence. It stole my peace of mind. And more importantly—it stole my license. Turns out, the state doesn’t like it too much if you randomly black out and convulse. Believe me, under no circumstances will they let you behind the wheel of a vehicle once they get wind of the E-word.

No one sympathizes more with the poor girl in the Beach Boys song about her dad taking her T-Bird away than me. Except mine was a 1980 slate-blue Land Cruiser with a cream-colored top. My dad bought it for me a month before my sixteenth birthday. Not even a week after that sweet sixteen, I had my first seizure. And my life changed forever.

Those next few years were hard, to say the least. I was scared of going anywhere or doing anything. One day I was a teenager, blissfully carefree about everything besides the chip in my hot-pink glitter nail polish. The next, I was painfully aware of how small a part I played in my own existence on this earth.

Charlie didn’t come into my life until I was twenty-three and still living with my mom and dad because I was scared to live on my own. Actually, I thought I couldn’t live on my own. But then I met a woman in a coffee shop who had an adorable white Labrador retriever at her side, a bright-blue vest strapped around its body with a patch sewed on the side that read Working Dog, Do Not Pet.

The first thought that went through my mind was wondering if this dog could do my taxes. Turns out, they don’t do that sort of work. The woman was kind enough to field all my silly questions, because in her exact words, “No question is too silly.”

But I figured if she gave me enough of her time, I could manage to change her mind.

The rest was history. Joanna Halstead, the woman from the coffee shop—also known as my fairy godmother—quickly became one of my best friends. I learned that she owned a service dog company called Southern Service Paws, and she trained and matched dogs with people living with all sorts of disabilities. Disabilities just like mine.

That’s how Charlie came into my life. It’s how I regained my independence and security. It’s how I decided to live on my own. It’s how my parents came to hate the company that I adore and am being groomed to take over when Joanna retires next year.

Well, company might be a bit of a stretch.

Companyimplies monetary value. And money is not something that Southern Service Paws has. It’s more like Jo is grooming me to take over her heart. Something that has a whole lot more value than money, but a shockingly low credit score.

I am the only other employee that is paid a salary—the rest are volunteers. And, actually, salary is also another one of those deceptive words. When you hear it, you think benefits, 401(k)s, and down payments on pretty little houses. When I hear it, I just think of my apartment that is the size of my thumbnail and my kitchen pantry that is stocked with ramen noodles and Froot Loops.

Luckily, I love Froot Loops.

I will eat nothing but sugary cereal for the rest of my days if it means I get to keep working for Jo and her company. Because I love what I do and the people I help. And as cramped as I am in this little place, I’m proud that it’s mine—not my parents’.

In this new world I have carved out for myself over the past three years, I’m just Evie. Not Miss Evelyn Grace Jones, daughter to Harold and Melony Jones of the prestigious Charlestonian family that resides SOB (South of Broad, aka Snootyville, and where I was raised). That name might not mean anything to you, but around here in Charleston, it’s everything.

My family comes from what’s known as “old southern money.” You know the kind: big historical houses, prestigious country clubs that only accept members with names that have been on the list since it was founded, garden cocktail parties served by men in white jackets, and a unique southern drawl that says, I’m better than you.

My dad is an attorney and partner at Jones and Murray Law, the oldest and most elite law firm in all of South Carolina, and my mom is on the board of the Powder Society of Revolutionary Ladies. What do they do? Mainly sit around in their finely tailored day dresses and drink martinis, planning more cocktail parties for their wealthy husbands to mingle and continue to pass their old southern money back and forth like playing cards.

Basically, how I’m living now is the exact opposite of how I grew up, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

That thought reminds me of my schedule for the day, and I reach over Charlie, my ninety-pound golden retriever—who is more of a bed hog than any full-grown man—and pick up my phone. I do a double take at the time. That can’t be right. It says it’s 9:10 A.M. How can that be when I set my alarm for 6:45 A.M.? Oh, wonderful. I forgot to set it. And now I’m going to be late for my client meeting.

“No, no, no.” I throw off my white comforter and jump out of bed.

Charlie sits up, ears at attention and body poised for anything, and watches me race across my studio apartment to the closet. I’m wearing a pair of cute new pink undies, and it occurs to me how sad it is that Charlie is the only male in my life to see them.

I trip over a shoe before I look in my empty closet and remember that I put off going to the laundromat last night so I could finish binge-watching The Bachelor. Don’t judge me. It’s the only romance I have in my life right now.

Charlie walks up beside me and gives me a look that says, I told you not to shirk your responsibilities. He’s so much more adult than me.

I put my hands on my hips and frown down at him. “I have twenty minutes before I need to be at the coffee shop, and I have nothing to wear, so quit giving me that high-and-mighty look or I’m going to shave your fur and wear it as a coat, like Cruella de Vil.” I’d never.

He rolls his eyes at me. Some people might think it’s impossible for a dog to roll his eyes, but that’s only because they haven’t met Charlie. I smile and rub his adorable head because I can never be mad at him for more than two seconds.

Thankfully, I spot the turquoise summer dress I wore yesterday. It’s lying crumpled on the couch in a tight little ball that would make my mom gasp with disbelief. Her maid would never allow one of her dresses to crease. How atrocious.

Crossing the room, I shake out my dress, give it a good sniff, then decide that wearing it one more day won’t hurt anyone. It smells a little too much like the burger I ate last night, so after pulling it on I douse myself in vanilla body spray.

Now I’m a walking ad for Bath Body Works, and I consider requesting some sort of royalty from them.

The clock continues to race, and I look like I’m in the middle of a game show challenge as I rush around my apartment trying to gather everything I need for the meeting, take my meds, and get Charlie fed. I better win a million dollars when I beat this clock.

“Charlie, find your vest,” I tell him while hopping on one foot and pulling my white tennis shoe on the other.

Another fact that would make Melony Jones gasp. Mom swears that this is the reason I’m not married yet. I think it has more to do with the shockingly small pool of men who want a serious relationship with a woman who has to take a service dog with her everywhere and might drop down with a seizure in the middle of their dinner date.

And I just haven’t been looking for a man all that much. My days are full of work, and I don’t have much time to devote to weeding out the guys who only want to sleep with me from the ones who I could count on to show up if I made them my emergency contact. And at this point in my life, I’m ready for the emergency contact.

I check the time on my phone and then give myself two minutes to brush my teeth and wipe the mascara from underneath my eyes. I wish I had more time to spend on my face. There’s nothing I hate more than feeling rushed for a meeting. It lends too much credence to my mom’s opinion that I don’t have my act together.

In record time, I swipe on some pink lip balm and knot a loose braid over my shoulder all the way to where it stops right above my hip. I’ve been growing my blond locks out for a few years now, and it’s grown so long that I half expect a prince to throw a rock at my window and tell me to let down my hair.

Do I have a fairy-tale princess obsession?I blame it on those Wednesday cotillion lessons I had to attend in high school.

Charlie pulls me out of my wandering thoughts and keeps me on track by dropping his blue vest at my feet. He’s better at finding things than I am. “I’m sorry about the ‘turning your fur into a coat’ comment. We both know I’d give my soul for you, Charlie boy.” After buckling the vest around his golden body, I give him a quick kiss on his head.

Since the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet my new client is right down the street, I plan on walking instead of calling a ride. Not being able to drive has been one of the hardest parts of living with a disability. There are so many nights when I wish I could hop into my car and run down to the drugstore to pick up a pint of ice cream. Or when I run out of tampons, it would be so nice to pop down to the store myself instead of having to call and wait for an Uber or order off of a one-hour grocery delivery service. Without fail, my delivery person ends up being a young guy. And every single time, he blushes when he makes the drop.

Evening, ma’am. Here are your military-grade tampons and overnight pads. I hope you don’t die of anemia tonight.

At 9:20, Charlie and I are on the sidewalk, jogging toward the coffee shop. Literally, jogging. My braid is bouncing around my face, and I realize I probably should have worn bike shorts under my dress. Someone catcalls at me from somewhere across the street, and my suspicions are confirmed.

Somehow, I remembered to grab my binder full of information to share about our matching process as well as our training methods and fees before I darted from the apartment. I wish I could say that our dogs come free of charge to qualifying recipients, but we just aren’t there yet. Right now they come with a hefty price tag. It weighs on me that there are so many people who could benefit from having a service dog but can’t afford one due to the massive medical bills that also come along with having a disability.

But, hopefully, after the big fundraiser Jo and I are putting on in a couple months, that will all change. Several major businesses have agreed to donate their goods and services for our first-ever fancy-schmancy silent auction. If we make the kind of money we’re hoping, we’ll be able to give away our dogs one hundred percent free of charge to those who qualify. The recipients will have to prove that they are financially capable of providing food, necessary medications, and vet visits for their dog, but that’s it.

If all goes as hoped, it’ll become a yearly event.

I clutch my binder tightly under my arm as I race toward Hudson Roasters. When a bead of sweat runs down my face, I wonder if it would have been better to just reschedule.

The man I’m meeting, Jacob Broaden, wanted to discuss having his ten-year-old daughter matched with one of our dogs. And maybe I would have canceled if it wasn’t for her particular disability. Epilepsy. It’s not as if we’ve never matched anyone who shares my same disability before, but for some reason, knowing how young she is makes me feel a kinship to this girl. I feel like I owe it to her to show up today.

The dad sounded nice enough over email—if a little . . . eccentric. Although, I think he might have been in a hurry when he sent off the email, because he misspelled a few words. His choice of five exclamation marks at the end of every sentence was intriguing as well. Actually, now that I think of it, I’m just hoping he’s not a creep. I really don’t want to get stuffed in someone’s trunk today.

As we round the corner to the coffee shop, Charlie and I slow our pace. It’s as hot as hell today. I’m sweating like I’ve been sitting in the desert wearing a parka, and my skin is emitting the vanilla body spray in toxic quantities.

My mom would be so proud. I’m really putting my best foot forward today.

Before I reach the door of the coffee shop, I come to a stop. I close my eyes and catch my breath, mentally reminding myself of all the major points I need to cover today and hoping I don’t forget anything. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing this for three years now; I’m always super nervous before these first meetings. I think it’s because I know firsthand how much a service dog can change someone’s life, and I don’t want to say anything to deter them from taking that step.

I glance down at my dress and do a quick check that all my fun parts are where they should be and have not fallen out of the scoop neckline during my jog. But who am I kidding? None of my fun parts are big enough to move, let alone escape their confines. There are things I love about being tall and lean, but having a membership to the itty-bitty-you-know-what committee is not one of them.

I open the door, and Charlie walks through with a loose leash like a perfect little gentleman. During the first year after I adopted Charlie, my eyes were constantly glued to him and his to me. I used my face and hands, asking him to stay, wait, go ahead, or lie down at my feet. Now it feels as if Charlie knows what I’m thinking before I think it. He and I are so attuned to each other that sometimes I forget he’s there. He’s a part of me. My second skin. A very hairy second skin.

It’s an odd thing when there’s no one in the world you trust more than your dog. But that first time I had a seizure alone in my apartment, and Charlie did exactly what we had trained him to do—push the medical alert button on the wall that calls Joanna and then my parents, then turn me on my side and lick my face to help me regain consciousness—it sealed my trust.

And today I hope I can help a little girl and her dad find that same security.

The cool air of the coffee shop rushes over my heated skin, and I dab away the beads of sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand while looking for a man with a young girl. Mr. Broaden gave me a brief description of himself in his email, so I know to look for a tall man with “hunny”-colored hair. I really hope that his fingers hit the keys wrong, and he actually knows how to spell the word honey.

I’m scanning, I’m scanning, I’m scanning, and . . . bingo!

There’s a tall man with dirty-blond hair, a to-go cup in each hand, walking toward a young girl sitting at a table. This has to be them. Charlie and I approach the two, and the girl notices us first. When she sees Charlie, her eyes light up with a look I recognize easily. It’s the same one most people give my dog. It’s a look that says she’s seconds from lunging at him, and I’m going to have to gently ask her not to pet Charlie while he has his vest on.

Mr. Broaden notices that something has caught his daughter’s eye, and he turns.

And then, BAM. The most spectacular pair of blue eyes hits me, and I almost feel like taking a step back. I’m staring into his eyes and dreaming of swimming in the shallow part of the ocean where you can still see your feet but the water is so blue that it looks like God dipped his brush in it after painting the sky. I immediately appreciate the way his eyes perfectly contrast the white cotton T-shirt that’s straining over his chest and shoulders.

I mean, wowza. Is this what dads look like these days? Where do I sign up?

I’ll take one dad with dirty-blond hair, tan skin, six feet tall, glittering blue eyes, and a chiseled body that makes my insides feel like molten lava, please. Actually, better yet, I’ll just take this one. Thanks.

It’s impressive how quickly my mind absorbs the information that his ring finger is blissfully empty. Not a tan line in sight.

“Mr. Broaden?” I ask, sounding a bit too excited for my taste. Take it down a notch, Evie.

“Yes?” He’s tentative as he scans me, eyes dropping all the way down the length of my body until they land on Charlie and stop. He frowns, then those gorgeous eyes bounce up to mine again.

His hesitation is odd. There’s a strange vibe, but I can’t pinpoint the reason for it.

I tuck my binder under my arm and then extend my hand to him. “I’m Evie Jones. It’s so nice to meet you in person!” My southern accent is friendly and inviting, and if we’re being honest, a little bit adorable. I’ve been told I sound just like Reese Witherspoon more times than I can count. But he’s not taking my hand. He’s staring at it like he’s just escaped from a deserted island he’s been stranded on for most of his life. Human contact is foreign to this man.

My smile falters, and an odd feeling settles in my stomach. Finally, he seems to remember some sort of manners and accepts my hand. The moment his skin settles against mine, my body breaks out in chills. Until this moment, I’ve been completely unaware of how important it is to me that a man have hands so large they completely engulf mine. My hand looks like a tiny baby hand inside his, and I love it.

Mr. Broaden pulls his hand back, and I’m pretty sure he takes a step away from me. The bad feeling returns.

“I’m sorry, but . . . do we know each other?” he asks, his voice deep with only the slightest touch of a southern accent.

I’m not exactly sure how to respond to his question since we technically have met, but only over email. But he should know that already. He looks blindsided, like I’m a threat to his safety. He’s concerned I’m going to try to kidnap his daughter and run away.

It’s at this point that I realize the little girl at the table is biting her lip and focusing intently on the paper cup in front of her. She looks just about the right age to spell honey with a u and two n’s.