Make Me a Match: Almost In Love, #1

1

Alice doesn’t live here anymore

The Saturday morning of his fortieth birthday, Eric Stewart began to wonder if maybe his crazy sister Anna was right about the stormy effects Uranus was having on his astrological chart.

Eric didn’t personally know Uranus from a hole in the ground, apart from hearing Anna blather on, but there was no doubt turbulence was in the air.

I don’t want a relationship; all I want is sex, Nema screamed, letting fly with a piece of pipe he’d been saving to use as a tail for the dog he was welding out of iron rebar. Garbage was how he made his living, but dodging it wasn’t his favourite pastime.

She was panning the area for more ammunition. We discussed it in the beginning. Why can’t you stick to the plan?

Judo and great reflexes helped at times like this. Eric was able to dodge again, even though Nema’s aim was deadly. At six-one, she was not just tall but well muscled, and he was grateful she didn’t have a gun; she’d taken marksmanship, hoping to get a part on a television cop show currently being filmed in downtown Vancouver.

He’d met her at a party where a lot of the guests were actors. He’d figured he’d been invited for comic relief; the cretin giving the party kept introducing him as the garbage man. It backfired, though, because Nema dumped the guy and came home with Eric.

On the way she’d said, So, are you really a garbage man? as she ran her fingers through his hair. Clean-cut, blond curls, baby blues, you don’t look like a garbage man.

I’m undercover, and I bathed before the party, he’d joked. I own a garbage disposal business, Junk Busters Inc., he’d explained. Garbage has been good to me.

Ohhh, a real, live blue-collar hunk who’s taller and stronger than me, that’s such a turn-on, she’d said, and then she’d gone down on him right there in the car. But that was eight weeks ago, and other things had gone down since then, like his enthusiasm for Nema.

"I don’t want to come to your birthday party, she was shrieking, and I don’t want to meet your sisters. I don’t want to talk about acting or welding or movies or books. I don’t want to look at the junk you make out of junk. I just want to get naked and come. What part of that don’t you get?"

She looked around the room for something else to throw, but fortunately, everything else within her reach was way too heavy. Thankfully, he’d salvaged only big pieces of iron this week.

Easy, honey. He knew from years of experience raising three sisters that when a woman was this mad, reason didn’t work. Soft and soothing usually didn’t either, but it was worth a try. Calm down, let’s talk about this.

To his amazement, this time he got lucky.

Nema’s pretty face crumbled and she collapsed on the chair he’d made out of discarded plumbing supplies. She shook back her flaming hair and swiped at her wet eyes.

It was so good in the beginning, Eric, she wailed. "Why do you have to mess it up like this with birthday parties and family and conversation?"

He let out a breath and wondered if he dared sit down. She could go off again without warning, he reminded himself. Better stay on his feet, keep a few yards away.

He tried to figure out a strategy. It wouldn’t be smart to tell her the truth, that he was bored cross-eyed with being a sex object, that he didn’t always want to drop his pants and his blowtorch just to get it on with her.

That even for a guy in his prime, six times in twelve hours was pushing it. He’d read that book about Tantric sex; he knew there was a school of thought that figured it was dangerous to deplete your store of vital essence. Besides that, his balls were sore from overuse.

And there was his pride to consider as well as her temper. What guy in his right mind wanted to admit that welding pieces of discarded iron into useful shapes could get to be way more interesting than sex?

You’re a gorgeous woman, Nema. That seemed safe enough, and it might buy him time to figure out what else to say.

"But? I hear a ‘but’ coming." Her sultry dark eyes narrowed and her full mouth tightened.

He eyed her warily. "No buts, honest, honey. Truth is, I think I’m having some sort of mid-life crisis." That wasn’t technically true, at least he hoped not, but he’d watched a television program about male menopause a couple of days ago, and it might just get him off the hook here.

It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. I’m questioning a lot of things about myself lately.

Most of which had to do with whether he’d get the financing for two more trucks and forty more bins, which meant he could expand into Vancouver’s bedroom communities. That would mean Junk Busters Inc. was in the big league when it came to removal services.

He had four trucks and as many regular drivers. He had ninety bins to drop off wherever people needed them. He was making more money than he’d ever thought possible back when he was sixteen, which was when he’d quit school and bought a beat-up half-ton for seven hundred bucks. He’d started carting junk away from building sites to pay for it.

He hadn’t realized then that there was no ceiling to the garbage business. As long as people kept throwing stuff away, somebody had to pick it up and take it away. So much of modern society was disposable.

So now he was worth a million and a half on paper, and the ironic part was that he still sweated bullets sometimes at month’s end when the bills were due. Equipment rich, cash flow poor. That would level off when he got the two latest trucks paid for, but it made it touchy when it came to expansion.

His brother-in-law, Bruno Lifkin, who was also his accountant, assured him the business was doing fine financially.

Garbage had also given Eric a hobby he loved. A lady he’d dated once or twice—Ainsley? Amy?—he couldn’t remember. Anyhow, she’d dragged him to an art exhibit, and he’d seen what some guy made out of old car parts, a weird and otherworldly sculpture that was only good for looking at, and inspiration had struck.

Eric was practical. The things he scrounged from the trucks and then welded together now furnished his apartment, tables, chairs, lamps, and his sofa. The dog was the first thing he’d done that wasn’t strictly functional. Welding unlikely bits of scrap energized and thrilled him. It also gave him the feeling he was making something out of nothing, which in turn gave him hope for his future.

It was too bad Nema didn’t thrill him any longer.

I’m considering talking to somebody, Nema.

His bank manager, with Bruno in tow, first thing Monday morning.

"Like a shrink?" He saw the horrified look on her face and realized he was on the right road here. He shrugged and tried to look depressed.

Analysis. That’s it, that’s the straw. She shot to her feet and grabbed the oversize quilted handbag she used as an overnight case. I’m outa here. I already went through this with a guy once; we ended up sitting in this geek’s office talking about our mothers. I’m just not into that head stuff. What is it with guys these days, anyway? Call me when you’re over it.

A moment later, the outside door slammed behind her. He blew out a breath and let himself flop onto the sofa. He looked out the tall, un-curtained windows at the busy street and the wild and windy June morning and tried to figure out how he felt about her walking out on him instead of the other way around, whether he was making a huge mistake here, whether his pride ought to be hurt when the door banged open again.

His heart gave a thump and he leaped up, ready to duck.

I forgot, here’s your keys. Nema lobbed them into one of the hubcaps he’d fashioned into a bowl. Have a nice life. If you happen to come to your senses, you’ve got my number.

The door slammed again. He heard the lock engage, and now he had the spare set of keys. Radical!

And it felt final this time. He tried to remember if she had any stuff in the bedroom or the bathroom. He didn’t think so; he was pretty careful about letting women leave anything at his place. Generally, he preferred their bed to his, that way he could get up and come home, but Nema had four roommates, so they’d spent more time here than he was comfortable with.

He didn’t care if women stayed over Friday and Saturday, but Sunday night he’d always made it a rule that they went home and took everything they owned with them.

The weekend rule, he called it.

He didn’t want them to get any ideas about moving in, and it was easier to maintain the status quo if there were rules. He was vigilant about making sure they didn’t leave makeup bags and wisps of underwear behind, and in turn, he never left so much as a razor at their places either.

He’d kicked himself for allowing Nema to have keys to the place.

She’d cajoled them out of him early on, in a particularly vulnerable moment. Before he got so disillusioned with being a stud.

It wasn’t noon yet, but he figured he deserved a brew after what just happened. Besides, it was his birthday, how often did a guy turn forty? He got up and retrieved a Bud from the fridge, screwed off the cap and flopped down again, considering things.

He took a long swig and choked when the door buzzer sounded.

She was back.

He thought of hiding, but he’d never been a coward. He walked to the door and opened it cautiously, wishing he was wearing a cup. He’d seen her practice kickboxing; it was a scary sight.

You got muscle strain? Rocky Hutton gestured at Eric’s hand, which was hovering over a vital part of his anatomy.

I thought you were Nema. Eric glanced up and down the hall and sighed with relief when there was no sign of her. C’mon in.

You guys having a fight or something? Rocky picked up the box of plumbing parts he’d brought and carried them inside. Happy birthday, I thought you could use these old fittings to make more hat racks. Rocky was a plumber. He often brought Eric valuable secondary material. I won’t stay. You and Nema will wanna make up when she gets back.

She’s gone for good. With any luck, she isn’t ever coming back. Eric got another beer from the fridge and handed it to Rocky. Sit down, I’m celebrating.

Geeze. You really okay with her walking out on you? Rocky took off his baseball cap and scratched his head.

Eric figured the Rock had no idea that his thick black hair had moulded itself to the shape of the cap. As usual, it was mashed flat on top and sticking up over his ears and around the back of his head.

I might not be in a couple weeks when I get horny again. He hadn’t had a single chance to feel horny for the past two months, not since he’d met Nema. Right now it feels pretty good to have her gone. That sex thing all the time was starting to wear me down.

Yeah, that could be a real problem, all right. Rocky gave Eric a doleful look. I struggle with it myself. So how many is that you’ve gone through since January?

Six months? Eric shrugged and tried to add it up.

Six, maybe. Seven, if you count that mail carrier, but that only lasted two weeks. Her legs had attracted him. She had first-class legs; it was all the walking, but talking about postal zones and the weight of flyers proved to be a real turn-off.

It must have to do with being blond and having curly hair. Rocky gulped his beer. I’m thinking of getting a bleach job and a perm. Y'know, I hate to say it, but Sophie’s right about you and that catch-and-release thing.

Yeah, well, Sophie’s a smart ass. His sister was also an ER physician, and she’d heard the phrase after chatting with a patient in the ER, a fisherman who was getting a hook extracted from his ear. You fished for the sport of it, the guy told her, and when you hooked one, you took the hook out and put the fish back into the water. The mouth was somewhat damaged, but it healed.

Catch and release.

Eric thought it had a nice generous ring to it, but his sisters had an entirely different opinion. They’d started keeping score of the women he went through, which had tended to make him secretive in the past few months.

Does Sophie know about Nema?

Nope, none of the girls do. I was going to introduce her tonight at the party, but now there’s no real reason to mention her. They look at one another with that expression on their faces, like here we go again, and then when it’s over, they get on my case about being fickle and how the poor girl must feel and life passing me by. What they don’t know won’t hurt me.

Gotcha. Rocky knew all about the self-help books on commitment phobia Eric’s sisters had been buying him. They worry about you, Eric. I wish I had some sisters to worry over me, Dad and I are turning into old guys with hair in our ears and nose and not enough on our heads.

Your head still looks pretty well covered to me. And you and Fletcher have it made, single, no women breathing down your neck and giving you a hard time about commitment.

Yeah, no hot chicks like Nema hanging around, either.

What about Chloe?

That’s history. Rocky had hired Chloe to do some paperwork for his plumbing company, and they’d been going out for months. She joined the Hare Krishna’s, says she’s decided to be celibate. She’s in that temple down on Marine Drive.

Eric whistled. Wearing those robes and all that, dancing at the airport? Chloe had always been a little left of normal, but this was extreme.

The robes, yeah. I don’t know about the airport, I think they gave that up.

She’s a good-looking lady. Smart, too. Go figure.

Yeah. The celibate thing sorta smarts. I thought that part was going okay unless she was faking.

They all do that sometimes. Nobody else on the horizon? Apart from being tall and well-muscled, Rocky wasn’t what anybody would call handsome, but his broad face and chocolate-brown eyes shone with goodness.

Eric had known him since high school and would have trusted him with his life, and several times, he’d come pretty close. He’d certainly trust him with his sister Sophie if Rocky would only wake up and smell the antiseptic, which on Sophie took the place of perfume. For years now, they’d been out of step. When Sophie wasn’t in a relationship, Rocky was, and vice versa.

Not at the moment.

Give it time. Which maybe wasn’t the best advice in this case. Rocky married his high school sweetheart, Melanie, right after graduation. Mel died in a car wreck two years later, and a month to the day after that, Rocky’s mother dropped dead of a heart attack. So Rocky moved in with his dad, Fletcher. The two of them had grieved together and stayed together. Fifteen years later, they were still the odd couple.

Your sisters feel bad about giving you such a hard time when they were growing up. As usual, Rocky didn’t want to talk about his foibles when Eric’s were available for dissection. And with no brothers or sisters of his own, Rocky loved hearing about Eric’s.

Yeah, well, they have good reason to feel guilty. I learned too much about the worst of the female gender from them. It’s a wonder I’m not alcoholic and bald after what they put me through.

Hell, it was a wonder he wasn’t gay; raising them was enough to put anybody off women. He shuddered even now, remembering that with three of them, somebody always had PMS, which meant that three weeks out of every month were unbearable, and the one left over was no picnic either. It was no wonder a lot of his relationships hadn’t lasted twenty-eight days.

I wish they’d stay the hell out of my love life. I wouldn’t exactly say any of them are experts on relationships. I don’t see Sophie galloping to the altar. Although she might if you asked her, Dumbo. But then again, maybe Rocky just didn’t find Sophie appealing.

She still with that surgeon?

He did keep up with the men in Sophie’s life, though, which was interesting.

Nope. That ended a couple weeks ago. She said he had no sense of humour.

Rocky nodded in enthusiastic agreement. What about Anna and Bruno? They’ve been married what, a year now?

Fourteen months. They’re doing okay.

She getting any clients yet?

Not that I know of. Anna had just given up a pensionable job teaching high school to do private consultations in astrology.

Eric figured she could benefit from private consultations with a shrink, but at least that was now Bruno’s problem and not his.

He’d spent enough time watching Anna take classes in everything from tarot card reading to past life regression. He’d thought marrying a steady guy like Bruno might straighten her out, but it hadn’t happened.

How’s Karen doing?

Pretty good. His baby sister was a single mom with two rambunctious little boys. She was the one Eric worried over the most. You coming over there for dinner tonight?

Nope. Karen called and invited Dad and me, but we figured it’s best if we meet you guys afterward at the pub. Birthday dinners oughta be just family.

Too bad. With the three of my sisters in one room, there’s way too much estrogen for Bruno and me to handle.

You’ll manage, you’ve got a Ph.D. in estrogen. Rocky finished his beer and got to his feet. Gotta go, I’m putting in a hot water tank this afternoon. See you later.

After he left, Eric swilled the rest of the beer, tossed the bottle in the trash, and reached for his welding mask. With Nema gone and a fresh supply of plumbing parts, thanks to Rocky, he had the whole afternoon to finish the dog. The party wasn’t until six.

His spirits rose. He put on his protective glasses and sparks flew from the welding torch, and after a few minutes, he started to whistle On The Road Again.

What was Anna’s latest litany? Whatever is happening now is right for you, that was it.

Maybe she was onto something there.

By seven that evening, Eric knew for certain Anna was, as usual, dead wrong.

Family tradition dictated that gifts were opened when the birthday cake was served, and along with the double-chocolate layer cake, Sophie handed Eric a plain white envelope. He looked down at it, and then up at his sisters.

Three sets of nearly identical wide blue eyes were fixed on him. The girls—all over thirty, but always the girls to him—were all back to their natural blonde at the moment, and there was no denying the fact that they were pretty, even though Karen was way too skinny and Anna had gained a few pounds.

More than a few, and although she claimed it was a side effect of rapid spiritual growth, Eric knew it had more to do with her passion for pecan caramel ice cream.

Open it, big brother, Karen said.

They were all smiling at him with the straight, white teeth that had cost a fortune, and his heart sank because he saw through those smiles right away. They’d used them way too often when they were trying to put something over on him.

Even Bruno had a nasty, knowing smirk on his face.

What’d you get, Uncle Eric? Five-year-old Simon bounced up and down in his chair. Mommy wouldn’t tell us. She said it was a surprise.

A ’prise, mumbled three-year-old Ian around a mouthful of cake, sending chocolate crumbs spraying in all directions.

Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot, Simon admonished, punching his brother on the arm.

Simon hit me, wailed Ian, spraying even more and letting half-chewed brown lumps slide out of his mouth and down his chin to plop onto the white tablecloth. He called me idiot. Idiot your own self. He doubled up a fist and returned the punch.

Don’t fight. Simon, don’t call your brother names. As usual, the boys paid no attention to Karen, and punches flew. They’d figured out long ago who ran the household, and it wasn’t their mother.

Over their screams, Karen hollered, Eric, speak to them, okay?

You guys want to leave the table now and go to your rooms? Eric gave his nephews each a withering look, and in turn, they shook their curly red heads and pretended to look scared.

Eric didn’t appreciate being cast as the boogeyman, but Karen was out of her depth with these two.

Sorry, Ian, Simon offered without prompting.

Sorry your own self, Ian responded, sticking his tongue out.

Peace finally reigned, and Eric turned his attention to the envelope, ripping it open and extracting the single sheet of paper inside.

He had to read it twice before it sank in.

The typed message was on heavy bond with a stylish letterhead that read Synchronicity, and it said that Eric Stewart was the recipient of a gift membership. He was asked to come in for a personal assessment, after which he would be matched with suitable companions.

The letter was signed,

Clara Beckford.

Underneath, in capital letters, was printed,

PROFESSIONAL MATCHMAKER

2

The sound of one hand clapping.

"A matchmaker ?

Eric knew he sounded horrified, but he couldn’t help it. "You guys enrolled me in a dating service? He could feel his blood pressure rising. He looked at his sisters. This is a joke, right? He could tell by their expressions that it wasn’t. Everybody uses Tinder for stuff like that."

Don’t hyperventilate, Sophie advised in her take charge ER voice. Take some deep breaths and we’ll explain exactly what’s involved here. Sure, people use online sites like Tinder, but more and more singles these days are going back to real live matchmakers. Everyone’s busy and it saves time. A professional links you up instead of a bot on the net. It beats meeting strangers in bars or paying for lunch for fifty women who lie about themselves online.

I’d rather just pick somebody up in a bar. Eric couldn’t see what was wrong with that. Works for me.

Sophie raised her eyebrows. Need I say more? You could benefit from some professional advice.

I agree, Anna chimed in, but I think the matchmaker ought to use astrology. For instance, if I took a look at someone’s chart, I’d know whether the person he was dating was compatible. It would cut out a lot of guesswork. It’s a more scientific approach. Astrology is the roadmap for our lives, after all.

She shoved her long straight curtain of hair back and got that know-it-all look on her heart-shaped face. As soon as you get lined up with someone suitable, Eric, I’ll do your combined charts and then we’ll know for sure if you’re meant for each other.

Eric swallowed his outrage and tried for a rational tone because anyone sane knew Anna was heading toward certifiable nutsville. Nobody seems to have noticed, but I don’t exactly have a problem meeting women.

Yeah, but you have a problem keeping them. You go through them like tissue paper, Bruno commented with a grin.

Eric had known Bruno since high school, and he was a lot less fun since he’d married Anna. The bastard was enjoying this.

Eric scowled at his brother-in-law, resplendent tonight in a navy satin shirt with silver snaps. Bruno wanted to be a cowboy in his next incarnation. He was the only accountant Eric knew who wore cowboy boots to the office.

He’s right, Eric, Sophie declared.

Sophie, the only one of his sisters he could usually rely on for common sense. Total betrayal, go figure.

We’re all getting to the point where we don’t even bother remembering their names, she went on. "It’s not quantity, bro, it’s quality you’re lacking. You’re not meeting the type of women you could get serious about and settle down