Never Been Matched (Reluctant Matchmakers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Vivien

I never should have left Boston in the middle of a snowstorm.

A snowflake lands on my eyelid and melts into my lashes. I blink up at the darkening sky.

This is fine. It’s fine. I can handle a little snow.

I turn my gaze down to the engine bay, eyeing the various parts for the culprit of my breakdown, both literal and metaphorical.

Is it the engine, the battery, something else? I have no idea. I’ve always wanted to be some kind of badass who can wrench on cars, but instead I’m a pathetic recluse who spends more time anonymously browsing online forums than having actual conversations with real-life humans.

More snow tumbles from the sky, obscuring my vision.

I need to call someone.

I slam the hood shut and a metallic clang echoes across the quiet road, swallowed by the snow and the gathering dusk.

No houses. No headlights in sight. Just me, my dead car on a gloomy road in the middle of nowhere, and the creeping suspicion I should have bought that roadside assistance membership instead of the sauna blanket some online influencer insisted was “life changing.”

I must be close to Surrender. The last time I glanced at the GPS it said less than an hour to my destination. I haven’t been in this part of Massachusetts since I was shipped off to stay with Grandma Beverly the summer after Mother’s second divorce.

My foot slips in a patch of slush and I catch myself on the icy fender. I open the car door and shut myself in.

It’s not much warmer in here, but at least it’s less wet.

I pick up my phone from the center console. No service. Of course.

This is perfect. I haven’t slept a full night in weeks. Beverly passed away over a month ago. Even though I hadn’t seen her in a decade, the news hit me like a punch in the solar plexus.

Then last week, I got the notice from the attorney’s office that I needed to come to Surrender as soon as possible to claim my inheritance. In person only. It could not be done over the phone, video call, or mail.

The thought was terrifying and thrilling.

I haven’t traveled outside of Boston in years. I try not to leave my cozy little apartment unless it’s absolutely necessary and mostly it isn’t. These days, everything can be delivered.

What could Beverly have left me? I can’t fathom it. We aren’t actually related, except through marriage, but I don’t think she had any other living relatives.

She owned a retro theater in the center of town and a rambling farmhouse on the outskirts, but she wouldn’t have left me either of those, would she? It’s too much for someone she hasn’t seen in over a decade.

Maybe it’s one of the movie reels. The theater still had a working 35-mm projector, reserved for special screenings. She always told me Singin’ in the Rain would be mine someday because it was my all-time favorite.

But why make me come in person for that? I guess they don’t want to ship it? It’s probably pretty fragile.

I’m never going to get anything, though, if I end up dying on the side of the road. Bracing myself, I open the car door, wind slicing through me. I pace down the road, lifting my phone in the air like I’m offering it to the snow gods in exchange for a ride.

After about fifty steps, a single service bar appears on the screen.

“Thank you, snow gods.” I pull up a web search for nearby tow trucks.

In another miracle of miracles, the call goes through. My fingers are numb by the time a tired dispatcher named Marge finally answers.

“Yes, hi, hello, I’m on Route 7, maybe forty miles east of Surrender. My car died.”

After taking down all my contact details, she promises me a truck “within the next two hours,” which is either reassuring or a threat, depending on how long I stay above hypothermic.

She also quotes me over six hundred dollars due to the remote location, lack of available drivers due to the incoming storm, and the “holiday.”

Holiday?

We hang up, and I check the date on my phone. It’s February 14. Valentine’s Day. Is that a real holiday?

The time jumps out at me. It’s about ten minutes after five and I’m supposed to meet the estate attorney at six. There’s no way I’ll make it there in time.

I scroll through my recent calls and find the number for the attorney’s office. I set up the appointment last week with a receptionist named Quinn who heavy-sighed after every sentence and sounded like she was over dealing with humanity.

A text comes through right before I can click the number.

Are you still in Boston?

The contact is listed in my phone as Mother Dearest.

I swipe the message away. How does she know I left Boston? I swear she has spies following me. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with my mom. Not now, not ever. If avoiding her was an Olympic sport, I’d get gold every day.

I call the attorney’s office. It rings. Four times.

Shit.

Five. Six.

Someone answers after the seventh ring. “Spencer here.” The voice is deep, gravelly, and a little raspy. And young.

This is definitely not the bored receptionist or the town attorney from my youth. I met him once, when he and his wife came to Beverly’s for dinner. He was as old as she was, maybe older.

“Uh, Mr. Montgomery?” I raise my voice, trying to be heard over the noise in his background.

“Yes?” A crowd of indistinct voices clamors over the line, along with high-pitched laughter and yelling. I’m not sure where he is, but it can’t be his office waiting for me to show up. Unless his office is a zoo. Or a daycare. Or both.

Maybe he’s having his business line forwarded to his cell and he’s a single father to a dozen children.

“Hi, it’s Vivien. Vivien Hart. We have an appointment—”

“What? You’re breaking up. Did you say ebullient fart?”

The words are so unexpected that it takes a few long seconds for them to register. “What? No, Vivien Hart.” I speak my name loud and slow. “Why on earth would I call you and say ebullient fart?”

A child’s voice breaks over the line. “You said fart!” Followed by a series of hyper giggles.

“Fart isn’t a bad word,” he says. “Everybody farts, it’s a biological necessity.” His voice grows distant. “Have you seen the Valentine’s eagle? She has my watch.”

“Mr. Montgomery.” I am yelling into my phone now. “I am supposed to meet you at six, but I’m stuck outside of town, and my car broke down and—”

The dull roar of background noise ceases as the line clicks. Dead.

I draw the phone back from my ear and stare at it. Did he . . . hang up on me? To seek out a Valentine’s eagle?

Has the whole world gone mad?

I hurry back to the car. The mild snowstorm is turning into an outright blizzard.

An hour later, headlights sweep through the now pitch-black night, pulling in front of me before reversing into position.

Thank the heavens.

I step out into the driving snow as a hooded figure approaches, the glare of the headlights and the jacket bundled up around them obscuring their features. “Ma’am, you can have a seat in the truck while I hook up your vehicle.”

“Thank you!” I grab my overnight bag and purse and then scurry through the growing snow drifts and clamber up into the truck.

After about ten minutes warming my hands and half-listening to a muted podcast about gourds, I think, the driver’s door swings open. The driver climbs in, bringing a rush of frozen air with him.

He flips the hood of his jacket off his head, revealing a shock of dark hair under the dashboard lights and a cherubic face.

Holy shit.

“Are you old enough to drive?”

He buckles up. “I got my license last year.”

I’m scared to ask. “When, exactly, last year?”

“December.” He puts the truck in gear and we roll slowly down the road.

It’s February.

December was two months ago. This is it. I’m going to die at the hands of a child in the middle of nowhere. My epitaph will read: Here lies Vivien Hart. She was famous once, and kind of an idiot always.

The engine rumbles louder as the truck picks up speed.

“You’re . . .” A literal infant. “So young.”

“Yeah. But I’ve been driving for years, since I was a kid.”

Dude, you’re still a kid. “You drove as a kid?”

“My parents own a farm, and I work there too.”

I stare at his baby-face profile. Is that an explanation?

He eases into a turn and continues. “But I had to get another job as soon as I could to save up for my Cucurbita farm.”

I grip the arm rest. “Cucumber farm?”

“No, Cucurbita. It’s the technical term for fruits in the gourd family, like squash, pumpkins, and nonedible gourds.”

“Ah.” The podcast, still playing at low volume in the background, is making more sense.

“I have the perfect name for it already picked out. For a Gourd Time, Call Noah.” We hit a straightaway and he accelerates.

My grip tightens. “Wow. So, you’re Noah, then?”

“Yep. And you’re Vivien.”

I withhold a groan. It’s been a while since I’ve been willfully seen in public.

I almost forgot how awkward and awful it is to be recognized.

There’s an inherent pressure to perform for people, for fans.

It’s like acting, but worse, the pressure to be someone I’m not just in case this interaction ends up on Reddit, or they inevitably want something from me.

Most of the time they want to vent about the final season and if I’m upset that it sucked.

It didn’t, but there’s just no pleasing people.

I hold back my inner irritation. “Yes, that’s me, I’m Vivien Hart. I didn’t think I would be familiar to you. The Other Side of Ordinary was so long ago, and you’re so young.” Probably wasn’t even born when it first came out.

His glance in my direction is puzzled, brows drawn. “The Other Side of Ordinary? Isn’t that an old TV show? I think my mom told me about it. It’s about kids that are superheroes or something, right?”

What? “Wait. How did you know my name?”

“It was on the work order.”