3. The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society
3
THE UNDERGROUND GRANDMA MATCHMAKING SOCIETY
Miles
We’re going to have words, Birdie and me.
I stride into High Kick after just missing Leighton. I’d spotted her hustling up the block in the opposite direction, but I didn’t stop her or call out because, one, that’s creepy. And two, that’s really fucking creepy.
But Birdie is in big trouble with me. I march to the counter and park my hands on it.
“Why didn’t you text me that my wife was here?” I ask, narrowing my eyes in displeasure. “I planned to be here sooner, but after practice, Coach called us into the video room to review some things.”
Birdie tugs on her pink feather boa like it’s the source of her many grandmotherly superpowers. “Do you think I don’t have anything better to do than text you?” she asks breezily.
“Name a better use of your time than giving me the chance to ask her out.” I sigh and shake my head in disappointment. But really, I’m shocked. Birdie has been dying to set me up since Joanne and I split a few years ago. The world assumed our relationship petered out when I moved to San Francisco to join the Sea Dogs. In reality, she’d had enough of an injured boyfriend who’d spent the better part of a year in a low-level funk. And, I get that. I had enough of myself too.
But that’s the past, as Birdie likes to remind me. So why would my grandmother miss a golden romance opportunity?
“Well…” Birdie draws out the word with a sly smile. “Leighton and I talked about her job. That was very important.”
“So, while you discussed your headshots and whatnot, you didn’t once think, ‘My favorite grandchild in the universe would jump at this opportunity to meet her properly’?”
She straightens, chin up as if offended. “I was helping her with an emergency. She was stood up for a photo shoot.”
I bristle, my mood shifting. Lip curled, I hiss, “Who would do that to her?”
Birdie looks devilishly delighted. “I knew you’d feel that way. That’s why I told her you’d pose for her.”
I blink, speechless, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation—like Birdie wants to join some secret underground grandma matchmaking society and this is part of her initiation.
Fine by me. But I don’t want to seem too eager, so I say, “Just to clarify—you volunteered me as tribute…for a photo shoot?”
She takes off her feather boa and wraps it around my neck, holding the ends like a glittery lasso. “You heard me, Miles Falcon. If I rely on fate to put you both here at the same time, you’ll never get the chance to ask her out. So I made things happen.”
“Forgive me for ever doubting you,” I say.
“You’re forgiven,” she says haughtily, releasing her grip on the feathered noose.
“Good,” I lean in like we’re going for a pre-game briefing on the opposing team, “Give me the details. Does she know who I am?”
“I only said you’re my grandson.” Her brown eyes shift away from mine. “But take some grandmotherly advice. Don’t talk about hockey.”
I frown. “Why would I? The photo shoot isn’t on the ice, is it?”
“Nothing like that.” She puts her hands on her hips as if I’m a kid again. “My point is that women don’t want to hear a man blather on and on about his job. Talk about other things. Hobbies, pets, the city, the last great movie you saw, your favorite song.” Her face brightens with an idea. “You could take her geocaching. You love to do that, and solving all those treasure hunt clues is a fun way to get to know each other.”
None of this is bad advice, but I’m baffled about why she thinks I need it. Does she think I’m that hopeless in the romance department?
“Got it. But, so you know, I wasn’t planning to discuss hockey.”
“Of course you weren’t, dear.” She smiles and pats my arm. “I just have to look out for you, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s all part of your work in The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society.”
“That’s brilliant! If no such group exists, I’m going to start one. ”
“No one would be better.” I steer the convo back to more relevant intel. “So, does she know I’m the guy who ran into her outside the shop the other day? The one with the mannequin and the opinions?” Fuck it, those details don’t matter. I wave them away. “I’ll take care of all that. Where do I need to go? And when is it? Please say ‘today,’ because we’re leaving tomorrow for away games.”
Birdie tuts at my concerns. “Oh, sweetheart. You speak as if I don’t know your schedule by heart. The appointment is in about an hour.” She glances pointedly at the ticking clock then back at me.
Tick-tock, get moving. She doesn’t need to tell me twice.
If I leave for the final pre-season road trip without at least getting something started with Leighton, I know in my gut that I’ll regret it.
“I’m there.” I wheel around to take off, but then spin back. “Where is ‘there,’ exactly? And what kind of photo shoot?” I’m not going to miss this opportunity, but I also don’t want to show up unprepared.
Mischief flicks across Birdie’s eyes. “The kind where all you have to do is take off your pants.”
I freeze, not sure I heard that right. Yes, I’m shocked—shocked at how perfect that sounds. I head to the door, stop, and then remove the feathered boa.
“You don’t like the accessory?” Birdie asks innocently as I return to the counter.
“Love it.” I place it in her hand with a grin. “But I’ll just have to take it off anyway, right?”
“You were always my smart one.”
And a smart guy doesn’t miss chances.
Walking down the Hayes Valley street, I check my reflection in the window of a record shop up the block from Leighton’s studio. Dark button-down, sleeves rolled up. Jeans, motorcycle boots, black glasses. I can’t wear glasses on the ice, but I swapped out my contacts after practice.
I’ve got none of the telltale signs of an athlete. No hoodie, no sneakers—Birdie doesn’t want me to talk hockey? That’s easy enough. I didn’t get two bachelor’s degrees for nothing.
I drag a hand through my messy hair, which has been wild my whole life, and continue down the block. The guy in my reflection looks composed. But inside, I ping with excitement, and the focused awareness I get before I step onto the ice. When my world narrows to the game, nothing but the game, I block out everything else.
Turning at Elodie’s Chocolates, I count the street numbers, and just past Risqué Business, I spot a white door tucked between storefronts. On the list of businesses labeling the buzzer panel, I find Hush Hush Photography.
I press the button.
A few seconds later, a pretty voice asks through the speaker, “Hi! Is that Miles?”
“That’s me.”
I don’t mention I’m the guy about to ask her out on a date.
“I’m on the second floor. Come on up.”
She buzzes me in, and I bound up the narrow stairway. There are a couple of businesses on the second floor, but the red door is unmissable. A vintage sign with lovely feminine lettering reads Hush Hush .
I raise my hand to knock, and the door swings open.
Fuck me, she’s gorgeous. A black shirt slopes down her shoulder, exposing creamy flesh I want to kiss. Long jeans dust the floor, and I bet they’d look great on the floor too. The silver bracelets jangling on her wrists draw attention to the fine black lines of the flower patterns crawling up her forearms. But my eyes keep returning to her face. Chestnut waves frame her high cheekbones while long silver teardrops dangle from her ears. Her pink lips are slick with gloss. Her eyes are big, beautiful pools of blue. They flicker in surprise, but also with something like intrigue.
She tilts her head, her long earrings dangling. Her smile takes its sweet time forming as she looks me up and down slowly, like she’s savoring a scotch, taking a bite of decadent chocolate, watching a sunrise. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“Did you bring your opinions?” she asks.
“Only if you brought yours.”
“I guess we’ll see.” She lifts her index finger, gesturing to my face. Her nails are polished in shiny black. “You didn’t have on glasses the other day.”
“You noticed.”
“I’m a photographer. It’s my job to notice things.”
“Are the glasses a problem? I can manage without them for the shoot.”
She studies me like she enjoys the question, or maybe making me wait for her answer. Finally, she gives a flirty shrug. “There might be a glare but I can edit it out. They’re too sexy to take off.”
I don’t smile nearly as broadly as I want to. “I knew I’d appreciate your opinions.”
“Well, then.” She holds the door open. “Come in and stay a while.”
“I think I will. ”
I step inside and look around.
Wow.
This isn’t a date, but it’s the perfect setting for one. From the bed at the center with its satiny duvet to the sapphire blue chaise longue to the ruby red chair and white, fluffy rug, the studio oozes sensual vibes.
And if there were ever a better wingman than this studio—or wingwoman—I wouldn’t believe it.