A Match Made by Cupid. Tracy Madison

“That’s what I’m talking about. You say we’re partners, so that’s what I want. Pretend I’m Kurt if you have to. Call me Kurt if it will help.”

       “I can’t pretend you’re a man. But you’re one-hundred percent right and I apologize for giving in to the impulse to tease you.” He raked his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry. The last thing I meant to do was upset you.”

       He sounded so forlorn and, Melanie had to admit, genuinely sorry. A good amount of her annoyance fled. Deciding to let him off the hook—for the good of the article and their partnership, of course—she nodded. “I appreciate the apology. But all this proves is that my earlier statement was correct.”

       Blinking, he said, “Now you’ve lost me.”

       Like before, she tapped her forehead. “Your brain, Jace. In addition to reasoning, the frontal lobe is responsible for impulse control,” she teased, enjoying the moment way more than called for. “Something you’re obviously lacking in. I bet you eat whatever you want whenever you want. And if I had to guess, I’d say that you’ve purchased many a product from late-night infomercials. Tell me, how many ShamWows do you own?”

       “Nice bringing that back around.” His mouth quirked. “For the record, I’ve never bought a ShamWow. But I own a Snuggie…or two.” He blinked again. “Maybe three. And here’s the kicker. I purchased the first one before they were available in stores.”

       She tried to imagine Jace snuggled up in a Snuggie watching something manly on the television—like a football game or an action flick. A gurgle of laughter escaped. “One of Portland’s ‘sexiest single men’ in a Snuggie. A picture of that should go with your columns.”

       His face contorted into a half scowl, half pout. “A man has a right to stay warm and comfortable in the privacy of his own home. And, I’ll have you know, the Snuggie is a genius creation! I can eat popcorn, drink a beer, work on my laptop, or read a book all without getting…um…a chill.”

       She tried to regain her composure but couldn’t. “Jace Foster, the man about town, the man who cycles through women every time the wind changes, drinks beer while in his Snuggie. It’s just so at odds with your public persona.”

       “Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a man of mystery.”

       “Hmm. Yes. A man of mystery who owns three Snuggies.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I really need to see a photo.”

       “Not in this century.” His scowl became full-fledged. “And I do not ‘cycle through women every time the wind changes.’” Pushing an unopened bottle of water toward her, he said, “Feel like calming down so we can get back to work?”

       He couldn’t really be upset, could he? She hadn’t lied. His dating escapades were discussed in some depth twice a month in his freaking column, “Bachelor on the Loose,” weren’t they? And that was another thing: she hated the name of his column. It made her think of wild animals running free in the city, creating havoc wherever they went.

       Another bubble of humor crawled up her windpipe as the ridiculous image of a lion wrapped up in a Snuggie appeared in her head. She took a sip of water to combat the urge to laugh. When she was sure she had her laughter under control, she inhaled a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I somehow offended you. But come on, you know it’s a little funny.”

       “Snuggies are nothing to laugh about,” he said in mock seriousness. “However, I get your take on it. You see me as the epitome of masculinity, so learning about my soft side disarmed you and made you question everything you think you know about me.”

       “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

       He regarded her silently for a moment. With no warning whatsoever, the air changed and a spark of something passed between them. A tingle teased along her skin, shimmied down her spine, and a crop of goose bumps exploded on her arms.

       “Um…so…we should probably get back on track.” Her voice came out all weak and wobbly and breathy. Focus, she told herself. “Work. The article. My ideas.”

       Jace sort of shook himself, as if waking from a deep sleep. “Absolutely. Back to business. What, exactly, are you proposing we expose in the article?”

       She had to reorient herself, remember what they were discussing before the conversation turned a corner. “Valentine’s Day is the biggest con job going. It’s a gold mine for greeting card companies, chocolate manufacturers, florists and jewelry stores. If we go that route, focus on the monetization of the holiday instead of the lovey-dovey crap, we’ll be able to do most of our research from our desks.”

       “How is that different from any other holiday?” Jace tapped his fingers against the surface of his desk. “They’re all a boon for the businesses you mentioned, and then some. Following that mentality, Christmas would be the worst of the lot.”

       “You’re right,” she replied instantly. He had a valid argument. Luckily, so did she. “Partially, anyway. Every holiday is highly commercial, but you can’t really put Valentine’s Day in the same column as Christmas or Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.”

       “Still not seeing the difference,” Jace said. The deep brown of his eyes darkened to a near black. If she allowed herself, she could drown in those eyes.

       “It’s simple.” She dropped her gaze downward. She couldn’t look at him when he was staring at her with such intensity. “Mother’s Day is about celebrating mothers. Moms exist. They’re fact. Father’s Day is about fathers, so the same deal applies.” Not that she’d had a reason to celebrate Father’s Day for a couple of decades. “Both have a basis of fact. Valentine’s Day sticks out like a sore thumb.”

       Jace let out a long sigh. “Maybe I should’ve eaten my Wheaties this morning, but I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

       A sarcastic retort sat on the tip of her tongue, but she resisted. “Okay, let me try it this way. Valentine’s Day is a holiday based on an intangible emotion. Not a fact.”

       “Ah, but you’re forgetting the fact that Valentine’s Day—St. Valentine’s Day—began as a celebration for a saint, and was—”

       “Right. I know the history,” Melanie interrupted. “But that isn’t why the holiday is celebrated today. At least,” she amended, “by the majority of people.”

       “Fair enough.” Jace cleared his throat. Twice. “So, should I take this as your way of saying you don’t believe in love? Or in…I don’t know…the idea of celebrating love?”

       “I love my mother. I have friends I care enough about that you could say I love them. But,” she said slowly, “romantic love is a whole different animal. I mean, you don’t believe in that type of love, do you?”

       “Actually, I’m a card-carrying member,” he said in complete seriousness. “I’ve seen how love can heal, how it can survive incredible odds. And I hope to experience it myself someday.”

       She stared at him in stunned silence. A minute passed, maybe two. Finally, she said, “Even supposing romantic love is real, Valentine’s Day is a forced celebration. The media hype is so overwhelming that men and women are suckered into spending money for gifts to prove their love. I…guess I think that’s ridiculous.”

       “Wow, Melanie. Some guy must have done quite a number on you.”

       Her mouth went dry. She took another drink of water, gathered her thoughts and said, “Gushy, feel-good articles about everlasting love are expected at Valentine’s Day. Why can’t we cater to the readers who prefer to be single and are sick of the happily-ever-after mentality being shoved down their throats everywhere they look?”

       “I’m curious,” Jace said softly, but with an edge that made her sit up and take notice, “about what happened that soured you on the idea of love. And I’d like his name and address, please.”