Chapter 3
THREE
RHETT
We wave. No hugs, no cheek-kisses—that’s a Denver thing, and neither of us goes there, though I’d bet she knows how.
Spotting Ruby, Cotton’s younger sister, busy at the espresso machine, I make my way to the counter and order two coffees—mine black, hers with milk.
Meanwhile, Hannah selects a table by the window and methodically arranges her portfolio, phone, pen, and tablet into a careful grid.
When I sit down, the yellow vinyl seat squeaks under me.
She glances up, ready to work already. “You’re early.”
“Some folks call that prompt.” I shrug. “Wanted a good seat.”
She softens, a quick, almost-smile, and uncaps her pen. “Let’s start.”
I clink my knuckle on the Formica and say, “No small talk?”
She gives me a look. “We can, but you’re paying by the hour.”
I fake a dramatic sigh. “Brutal.”
She taps the tablet. “Okay. You said last night you have a few friends who might need matchmaking. But let’s focus on you first.”
Her face is expressionless and attentive, the measured patience therapists wear. My jaw tightens, so I cross my arms and lean back, feigning indifference.
She says, “I take everything in strict confidence. All details are private, and I can tailor the intake as casual or formal as you like. Some people want a deep dive, some just want a few dates and no commitment.”
I raise one finger. “No commitment, not yet.”
She doesn’t smile at the joke, just writes it down.
There’s careful math to these questions.
She wants to know where I grew up, what I do “for fun,” and what traits I respect most in a partner.
I tell her I run cattle, herd sheep, and I like old movies and fixing things that don’t need fixing.
I say I need someone who is “good with their hands.” She raises her eyebrow.
For the next question, I say, “I mean like, woodworking, or sewing, or gardening,” and she writes that down verbatim.
Cotton’s mom comes by with the mugs, setting them down with the particular care of someone who owns the place.
She’s got the same wide-set eyes as her son.
She looks at Hannah a long beat before she says, “You’re the matchmaker.
” Not a question. She sets down the half-and-half and taps the table once.
“I need your card. That boy of mine’s thirty-four years old and the most eligible bachelor in Sagebrush County, which is a tragedy.
” Hannah grabs a card from her bag with a smile that’s all professionalism, and Cotton’s mom tucks it into her apron without looking at it, like it’s already done.
She returns to her questions. “What sort of relationship history do you have? Serious? Casual?”
I keep it light: “Mostly casual and a little serious, in small doses.”
She deftly spins her tablet around with a brisk flick of her fingers, navigating screens swiftly. “Any dealbreakers?”
“I don’t like smokers, or people who correct my grammar,” I say.
She hums and types. “That’s better than most. Some folks ask for body type, height, and an exact resume.” She glances over her screen. “Anything like that?”
I think about it. “No vegetarians. Unless it’s for medical reasons. Or if they can cook for themselves.”
“Noted,” she says.
I taste the coffee. She’s too polite to say it, but I can tell she thinks I’m not invested.
Maybe I’m not. I just wanted to keep her here a while longer—get dinner, or at least another reason to see her.
But now she drills into dealbreakers, fingers flying on the tablet, and I realize I haven’t really thought this through.
But now it’s just us, the smell of her coffee, and the particular way she tucks her chin when she’s thinking.
She finishes the first page. “Okay. This is the important one: What qualities are you actually looking for, Rhett? Not just the surface stuff. This will determine so much.”
She leans in, tone changing. I feel the heat crackle up in my ears. The answer is right in front of me, pen-tapping, blue-eyed, impossible not to notice, but I’m not about to say that out loud. She’d scribble it down and move on, like I was just a variable in a spreadsheet.
I look at the mug, then back to her. “Warmth. I don’t mean always-smiling, but someone who can put people at ease.
Somebody who’s grounded and honest even when it’s awkward.
Has a sharp sense of what’s right and what’s just for show.
Not afraid to try new things, but isn’t restless—has her shit together.
” I gesture toward the tablet, half-laughing.
“Somebody who knows what they want and can ask for it.”
She types all of this and doesn’t react, not even a blink at the pretty obvious compliment in the middle.
She just asks, “Age range?”
“Twenty-five to thirty-five, I guess.”
She writes that. “Kids someday?”
“Not against it,” I say.
She never says anything personal about herself. That’s the trick of her job—make it about the other person, never show your own hand.
I clear my throat and say, “What about you, Ms. Scott? You ever get tired of matching up other people?”
She pauses, half-smile flickering, but says, “I like seeing people line up with who they’re supposed to meet. There’s nothing tiresome about it.”
Direct hit, but she doesn’t let me have it.
We run down friends and other potential clients. She takes rapid notes when I mention Cotton (“Socially awkward, big-mouthed, but loyal as hell. Into obscure coffee blends and YouTube history docs”), and when I bring up Garth Voss, she nods, recognizing the name. “The new sheriff who raises sheep?”
“Yeah. He’s got the flock out east of town. Could use help, probably. He’s a serious guy, so not looking for anyone flaky.”
She makes a checklist for “Garth—Intro Package.”
I mention Cody, the hermit on Bear Paw Mountain, mainly to see if she reacts—if she blinks or shows any sign that she realizes he won’t be easy to approach.
“Anyone else?” she asks, massaging her wrist.
I shake my head. “Sagebrush isn’t exactly a singles paradise. Too many roosters and not enough hens.”
She lets out one sharp, surprised laugh, then catches herself. When she looks up, her eyes seem to realize for a split second what I’m up to, but she quickly masks it, returning her expression to professional neutrality.
She closes the tablet and sets both hands on the table, symmetrical and firm. “That’s all I need. I’ll send the contract and payment options tonight. After that, you’ll get a call when I have a match.”
I almost say, “I’m looking at one,” but I stop. She’s all business, already putting her notes into order.
So I ask, “Are you always this efficient?”
She looks me straight in the eye. “Some people need a little help finding what’s right in front of them. That’s all I do.”
I nod, slowing for a beat. “Maybe people just need a reason to admit what they want.”
She studies me, patient. “Could be.”
Mrs. Mercer shouts over her brand new espresso machine, “Y’all still need anything?”
We both shake our heads.
The air crackles with after-storm tension, all our words spent too soon.
Hannah gathers her portfolio, tugs her bun tighter. “I’ll be in touch, Rhett. And thanks for making time on a Sunday.”
I stand up slowly and reach to hold open the door as she passes. She’s smaller than I remember. Her arm briefly brushes mine as she squeezes through. Without looking back, she walks quickly toward her rental car.
I stay in the coffee shop, watching the streaks she left behind. I regret playing it loosely; I didn’t tackle this dilemma head-on. But I’ll be damned if I try to outdo her professionalism.
Cotton’s baby sister, Ruby, slides into the chair across from me, picks up the coffee pot, and silently refills my mug.
“Nice gal,” she says. “You should go for it.”
“Yeah, I should,” I say. “But she’s out of my league.”