3. Isla
Chapter 3
Isla
“T hank you for your hard work, Isla, but after the Spring Festival . . .” The client’s words drag, her tone sharp enough to cut. “I’m sorry about what happened between you and Kyle . . . but I think it’s best if I cancel the rest of my sessions.”
The phone pressed to my ear feels heavy as the line goes dead.
That’s the eighth cancellation since my very public, very humiliating breakup. Turns out, when the town matchmaker gets dumped in the middle of a festival, it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
I sink back into my chair, the worn cushion sighing beneath me. Across the desk, my Love By Design mug sits half-full, its cheerful pink lettering suddenly way too optimistic for how this day is going.
Five years ago, I built this business from scratch in this very office. It was after I quietly—okay, secretly—matched my mom with Victor. I still remember seeing that lit up smile on her face that she hadn’t worn since Dad left, a version of her I thought was long gone.
I think I cried just as much as she did the day Victor told her he loved her.
And that’s when I knew I wanted to help other people find that kind of love, too.
But now I’m staring at an almost empty client list and watching my personal disaster bleed into my professional life.
A sharp pinch blooms in my shoulder. I reach up and rub at it, trying to work out the stubborn ache that always settles there when I’m overwhelmed. The tension clings tighter than it has in weeks. Before I can wear it down, a sharp knock at the office door yanks me back to the present. I sit up and smooth my skirt.
“Come in!”
It’s Jen, my assistant. “Um, Isla? Do you have a minute?”
“Of course!” I push aside my own worries and straighten in my chair like I’m not having the worst day of my career. “How’s your mom doing? Any better since her hip surgery last week?”
“She’s getting there,” Jen’s lips curving into a faint smile. “Those meals you sent over really helped.”
Jen’s mom, Laura, is the kind of woman who still writes handwritten thank-you notes and gives out butterscotch candies to kids at the pharmacy. If someone in town needs help, she’s already five steps ahead. Bringing her a few meals was the least I could do.
I wave off her thanks with a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it. I just made a little extra and figured she could use something warm and comforting. Now, please tell me what’s going on.”
Jen steps inside, wringing her hands. “So, there’s been some talk around town about . . . you know.” She glances at the floor. “The Festival incident.”
Of course, there has. My love life is now Frosthaven’s hottest topic, spreading faster than a viral TikTok dance. I can practically hear the town’s gossip mill cranking into overdrive. Mrs. Henderson, the retired librarian, is probably leading the charge with her knitting circle of doom. And the ever-gossipy town Facebook group is already blowing up with dramatic posts.
Maybe I should just change my name and move to a remote island.
I paste on a smile so fake it could probably be seen from space. “Oh, that old news? I’m sure people have already moved on to something juicier by now.”
“Well . . .” Jen shifts her weight. “Kyle’s been doing more than just talking. He started a review blog about local businesses.”
My fake smile freezes. “Let me guess. We’re his first target?”
“He’s saying your matchmaking methods are outdated and unreliable,” Jen says with a wince. “He used your recent failed matches as proof and wrote another piece practically worshipping Diane, like her way of matchmaking is the only one that works. Then he plastered your ‘failures’ and her success story all over his socials. You know how far his stuff reaches. Now Diane looks like the new matchmaking queen.”
Diane. The big-city matchmaker who rolled into town a few weeks ago as part of her grand small-town expansion, armed with fancy branding, luxury packages, and a price tag that could make your wallet cry.
“There’s more,” Jen adds, her voice gentle. “He’s been going around town, telling your clients to switch to Diane’s service. Saying the high price means higher success, even if it stretches their budget.”
Matchmaking has always been part of Frosthaven’s charm. Legend has it the first two settlers didn’t come here to build a town—they were just two travelers stranded during a brutal winter who fell in love and decided to stay. Locals like to say the town was founded on romance . . . and a really good wood stove.
Over the years, people started honoring their story by helping others find love too—passing notes, nudging neighbors, setting up accidental run-ins. Eventually, a few locals began offering matchmaking as an actual service and proposed starting the town’s Annual Matchmaking Gala. From there, it grew into a full-on tradition.
Even when the town started to slow down after the old paper mill closed and more families left for work in the city, the Annual Matchmaking Gala never missed a year. The mayor and the committee believed in holding onto tradition.
But a few years ago, something shifted. More people started signing up—locals, even people from out of town. Maybe it was Zoe, my fellow matchmaker’s fresh energy. Maybe it was the two of us insisting on offering a boutique-level service at a fraction of what other matchmakers charge.
Because we both believed the same thing: love should be for everyone.
We’ve both been lucky to help a lot of people find their person. But Zoe moved to Arizona two months ago, which left me the only one still fighting to keep the service affordable.
“How many cancellations?” I ask.
“Four more this morning through emails,” Jen says quietly, scrolling through her phone. “That leaves us with zero clients.”
I blink. “Zero?”
“I’m pretty sure the rest went to Diane.” She nods. “And I just got an email from the Frosthaven Events Committee. They said they’re reviewing whether you should still host the Annual Matchmaking Gala next month.”
My pen slips from my fingers and hits the floor.
“Isla?” Jen’s voice is gentle. “Are you okay?”
This business isn’t just my job. It’s everything to me. Helping people find love has always felt like a privilege. Even if I haven’t found it myself, at least I’ve been close to it.
Like watching my mom fall for Victor after all those difficult years, seeing that kind of connection made me believe that maybe it could find me, too.
Am I losing my dream job, too?
No. Focus. I just need to find a way to fix this. Win back their trust. Remind them why they believed in me in the first place.
I press my palms against the edge of the desk, grounding myself. “Do you have any idea why the recent matches haven’t been working out?”
“Maybe . . . maybe it’s just the new system throwing things off? You said you updated your method a few weeks ago, right?”
I nod, rubbing my temple. The new compatibility system focuses on the client’s dream checklist. Successful careers. Polished appearances. Impressive accomplishments.
It’s a pretty big shift from how I used to work. My original method paired people who balanced and complemented each other, not focusing on checking off all the boxes.
And sure, it doesn’t make much sense to change something that brought me success before.
But I want to keep improving.
“Come on, Isla. This isn’t a fairy tale. People need successful partners who elevate them, not hold them back.” Kyle used to say that all the time.
He had consulted for other matchmaking companies in bigger towns and cities. I figured he knew what worked, like trends, client psychology, and the kind of systems that made those agencies successful.
I rub my shoulder and fix my gaze on the floor. “The system just needs more time. A little refining, and it’ll be perfect.”
I’ll work on making the system perfect. Well, I have to work on myself too. To be better, to be perfect.
If I can just get close to that, maybe people won’t walk away. Maybe I won’t get dumped ten times. Maybe my father wouldn’t have packed his suitcase back then and never looked back.
The bell over the door of The Old Mill Restaurant jingles as Elaine, Roxanne, and I step inside. My friends insisted on taking me out for lunch, determined to make sure I’m okay.
We all grew up next to each other on Quail’s Nest Way, along with Asher and another neighbor, Xander. We used to play together, run back and forth between houses, and have family dinners like one big neighborhood crew.
Things aren’t quite the same since my twin brother, Conner, left town for his professional hockey career but retired early from his promising hockey career due to injury, and Xander . . . well, he also left town a long time ago for reasons none of us talk about anymore.
Still, Elaine and Roxanne are my closest friends besides Asher. And by “closest,” I mean they know all my embarrassing secrets and still choose to be seen with me in public.
Like the time I accidentally dyed my hair highlighter orange trying to go strawberry blonde, and they both showed up at my place with matching wigs and said, “If you’re going down, we’re going with you.” We wore them to the town bonfire that night like it was a fashion statement.
“Three for lunch?” Maeve, the restaurant owner, calls out. Her gray curls bounce as she peers at me through wire-rimmed glasses. “Isla, honey! How are you holding up? I’ve been meaning to thank you again for helping with that online system last month. It’s made such a difference with the lunch rush.”
Great. Even Maeve knows about my humiliation. I force a smile. Maeve’s the kind of person who’d rather study dinner specials than town gossip, so if she knows, everyone must know.
“I’m okay.” I step a little closer to the counter, like it might shield me from the dozen curious eyes I can feel swiveling in my direction. “And I’m really glad the system’s working out. If you ever want to try online reservations or pre-orders, just let me know. I’m happy to help.”
I tug at my sleeve, offering a quick smile that I hope reads as normal-person-at-lunch and not town-pariah-walking-through-fire.
Elaine loops her arm through mine and grins at Maeve. “Window booth, please. And yep—same orders as always. You’re the best, Maeve.”
We slide into the worn vinyl seats, and I immediately grab a menu to hide myself behind.
I can feel Roxanne studying my face, probably cataloging every micro-expression. She’s always the level-headed one of our little trio. I swear, sometimes I think she missed her calling as a detective or something.
I summon a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as plastic as it feels. “What?”
“So,” Roxanne says, flipping the same dark brown curls she once tried to straighten with a clothes iron in eighth grade. Coming from our resident ice queen, the forced casualness in her voice is almost jarring. “How’s business?”
I peek over the laminated edge. “Oh, you know. Booming. I’m thinking of franchising.”
“Right. And I’m thinking of giving up baking to become a professional wrestler.” Elaine laughs, her blonde ponytail swaying as she shakes her head. “The Pastry Punisher has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I’ll take down my opponents with my signature move—the Rolling Pin of Doom.”
Hopefully, her first opponent won’t be my dear twin brother. Thank goodness he’s not in town.
“I’d pay to see that.” I bite back a smile.
Roxanne reaches across the table, gently lowering my menu shield. “Is, we’re worried about you.”
“You know what? I’m going to give Kyle some lessons,” Elaine declares, punching her fist into her palm, her eyes gleaming. “Asher said he’ll help.”
“I think,” Roxanne says with a slight curl of her lip that almost resembles amusement, “what Asher actually meant was he’d prefer to handle it himself.”
Somewhere between my lungs and dignity, something does a cartwheel. I can still see the way his jaw locked when he stepped in front of me like a human shield. It still makes me feel something I shouldn’t.
“Okay, fine.” I slump in my seat, not wanting to think about any of it. “Things aren’t great. But I’ll figure it out.”
“We know you will.” Roxanne tears a napkin into precise little squares. She’s never been one for emotional speeches. She’s the kind of girl who once dragged me to a drive-thru in our pajamas at midnight, handed me fries like they were tissues, and muttered something about how crying burns calories, so I should eat up.
Roxanne sets the napkin scraps down and then meets my eyes. “But you don’t have to go through it alone. You’ve got us. Always.”
A lump forms in my throat. I blink rapidly, determined not to cry in the middle of the restaurant.
Before I can completely lose it, Maeve appears with three steaming plates balanced expertly on her forearm. Her arrival feels like a life preserver thrown to a drowning woman.
“Here we go, girls. Pot roast for Roxanne, turkey club for Elaine, and—” she slides a plate in front of me with a soft smile that crinkles at the corners of her eyes “—my special mac and cheese with the extra crispy breadcrumb topping for Isla.”
“Thanks, Maeve. You know me better than I know myself.” I glance up, a lump forming in my throat.
Maeve pats my hand, her touch warm and comforting. “Honey, in thirty years of feeding this town, I’ve learned that mac and cheese fixes most heartaches. And I added extra cheese because, well . . .” She gives a meaningful glance toward the front door where a group of gossiping seniors are entering, “. . . some people deserve extra comfort these days.”
“You’re gonna make me cry.”
“You just eat up. I’ve got fresh apple pie for after.” She winks and bustles away, already greeting the newcomers with the same warmth she shows everyone.
“How’s your mom doing? Didn’t you say she and Victor were going out of town?” Elaine takes a bite of her sandwich, somehow managing to look elegant even with mayo at the corner of her mouth.
I twirl my fork through the gloriously gooey mac and cheese, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, they’re visiting some of Victor’s family in Michigan. Mom was so excited about it. She’s been texting me pictures of every lighthouse they visit.”
Mom met Victor five years ago when he came to town to take over the hardware store after his uncle retired. He wasn’t a local, but his confidence and genuine smile won everyone over, especially Mom.
I’ll never forget how he showed up at our house that first winter with handmade bird feeders for her garden and somehow ended up fixing our perpetually leaky kitchen faucet while they talked for hours. They tied the knot after two years, in a small ceremony by the lake where he’d first told her he loved her.
“Your mom’s incredible, and I’m so glad she and Victor found each other. They’re probably the sweetest couple in town,” Roxanne says. I don’t miss the slight longing in her voice, though she thinks she hides it well.
“I don’t know how she did it. She kept going. Kept believing things would get better, even when everything fell apart.”
Mom never told us to stop believing in love. Even when she had every reason to.
“Sounds familiar.” Elaine spears a fry and points at me.
“Please. I’m nothing like her.”
I’ll never be like her. I don’t have that kind of strength.
“Hey.” Elaine slams her hand on the table, making our water glasses jump. “Your mom taught you that love is beautiful and worth fighting for. And you’ve helped so many people find it.” Her voice carries the same passionate conviction she uses when defending her secret cookie recipes.
“Ironically,” I mumble, poking at my mac and cheese, “I think I’m the one person who isn’t destined to be loved.”
Elaine and Roxanne exchange a look, and I brace myself for the pity party.
Instead, Roxanne calmly slices a chunk of pot roast and plops it onto my plate. “You sure about that? Because a certain gym owner seems pretty devoted to you.”
“Who?”
Someone’s face immediately crashes into my mind like a pop-up ad I didn’t ask for. My pulse trips over itself.
“Asher!” Elaine and Roxanne chorus together. Elaine shoots a smug grin and high-fives Roxanne across the table.
“Come on, we’re just friends.” I shove a forkful of cheesy mac into my mouth to muffle the heat that is now blooming in my cheeks.
Elaine saws off a chunk of her turkey club and holds it out to me. “Here, sweetie. You clearly need protein if you’re going to keep lying to yourself like that.”
“I’m serious. Asher and I have known each other forever. He doesn’t see me that way.”
“Uh-huh,” Roxanne says. “Is that why he brings you your weird lavender-chamomile tea every morning? With exactly three drops of honey?”
“That’s just being neighborly.”
Elaine snorts. “Right. And I suppose it was also just being neighborly when he built you that floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in your apartment? The one that matches the library scene from Beauty and the Beast you’ve been obsessing over since we were kids?”
Asher somehow remembered that throwaway comment I made about wanting my own home library. He surprised me with it after I moved into the apartment and stocked the bottom shelf with all the books from my Tbr list.
The sticky note he’d left still makes me flutter. Every Beauty needs her library. Even if the Beast is your best friend .
See? Just friends. That’s what we are. That’s all we’ll ever be. And I need to stop my stupid heart from reading more into friendly gestures just because I had some silly secret teenage crush.
“Please. Asher is the perfect friend. And any smart person knows not to date their best friend. Remember the friendship pact?”
Elaine rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, don’t bring up that pact again. I’m so over it.”
Okay, yes. I invented the rule after watching my cousin’s friendship-turned-romance crash and burn in the most dramatic way possible. But Asher never challenged it. Never even hinted at wanting to.
If he felt anything more, he’d have said something by now, right?
Clearly, he doesn’t see me that way.
“Anyway, Asher semi-rejected me years ago,” I mumble. “I’m not exactly eager to embarrass myself again.”
And I’m sure Asher deserves someone who has their life together. Someone who isn’t a walking disaster with a failing business. Someone who’s actually worthy of love.
“Wait, what? When did this happen?” Elaine’s fork clatters against her plate.
“How have we never heard about this?” Roxanne leans forward.
“It was a long time ago. College years. It’s not important.”
Not important. But it still stings a little.
“If that’s the case,” Elaine says, a serious look replacing her teasing smile, and I can’t tell if she’s actually being thoughtful or just building up to another one of her outrageous theories, “have you ever wondered why he’s always single?”
I nearly choke on my water. “What?”
Roxanne nods. “Yeah, he’s practically the dream guy. Smart, kind, and I heard his abs—”
“Okay, okay.” My cheeks are burning. Definitely not picturing his abs right now. “I get it. Asher’s great.”
“So why doesn’t he date?” Elaine presses. “You know him better than anyone, Isla. Any insights?”
“I . . . I don’t know. It’s never really come up.”
Which is odd, now that I think about it. He’s the kind of guy grandmothers practically compete to set their granddaughters up with. The town has probably drafted a waiting list by now. But Asher has been single most of the time I’ve known him. Sure, there were a few dates here and there, but nothing ever lasted.
Maybe he’s just too picky. Or maybe he’s married to that gym of his. Though with those arms. That back. And that criminally well-behaved butt.
Full stop. We do not evaluate our best friend’s glutes.
But I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed. There was literally a Facebook poll last summer ranking the best butts in town. Asher won by a landslide.
There was another poll a month later about the best forearms. Asher won that one, too.
“Maybe . . .” Roxanne’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe you should help him find a match.”
My stomach does a weird flip. “What? No, I couldn’t—”
“Why not?” Elaine chimes in. “You know him better than anyone. And let’s face it, your business could use a win right now.”
My stomach twists. She’s not wrong, but the idea of matching Asher with someone else feels off. Like I’m betraying something, though I can’t quite put my finger on what.
Asher on a date. Asher holding hands with someone. Asher kissing—
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It would be weird.”
Elaine and Roxanne share a glance. Elaine bites back a smile while Roxanne’s eyebrow arches high. I can practically hear their unspoken conversation. Here we go again.
I reach for my water. If I keep my mouth busy sipping, maybe I won’t say something that gives me away.
“Okay, okay,” Elaine says, holding up her hands in surrender. “We’ll drop it.”
I make a mental note to revisit this idea later. When I’m alone. And can pretend I’m not thinking about Asher’s love life at all.
We finish lunch and step out into the sunshine. The late afternoon sun warms my face. I’m feeling a bit lighter after lunch with the girls, despite their ridiculous theories about Asher. We wander down Main Street, window shopping and chatting about nothing in particular until Collymore Fitness comes into view. My steps hesitate.
Asher’s probably in there right now, mid-session, in full trainer mode. The last thing I need is to see him in one of his most heart-crushing forms.
Especially when he keeps offering me free personal training sessions.
These days, having Asher as your trainer is like hitting the fitness lottery. He’s the town’s favorite, and since taking over the gym from his dad, he only takes on a handful of clients.
But it’s not lucky for me. Because stepping into that gym means stepping back into a crush I’ve been dodging since I was a teenager. I used to watch him working alongside his dad. Focused, confident, disciplined. And there’s just something ridiculously attractive about someone putting their whole heart into what they do.
My heart fell hard and fast.
I’ve spent years stuffing those feelings into a box, taping it shut, and slapping a label on it that says Do Not Open—Friendship Zone.
Especially when it comes to gym-mode Asher. The last thing I need is to trip and fall face-first back into that crush.
I keep my eyes glued to the ground as we pass the gym, but Elaine starts waving enthusiastically.
“Hi, Asher!” she calls out, much louder than necessary.
My head snaps up. Asher is leaning casually against the front desk. His eyes catch mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts, doing that maddeningly slow curve as if he’s got all the time in the world.
My stomach flips. The feeling in the Do Not Open box is starting to rattle the lid.
His dark brown hair is a little messy, pushed back like he ran his hands through it and forgot to fix it. When he turns to talk, the light skims along his sculpted jawline. I’m convinced some divine sculptor spent three years getting it that perfect.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Being friendly. Unlike some people who pretend not to see their best friends.”
Just as I reach for Elaine’s arm to drag her away, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
ASHER
Wanna come in? I can squeeze you into my schedule today.
ISLA
Oh. About that . . . I’ve recently developed a rare allergy to burpees.