Wish Upon a Matchmaker. Marie Ferrarella

short amount of time, it always astounded her. She could hardly believe that at long last, there was enough money in both her savings and her checking account for her to be a little—hell, a lot extravagant if she wanted to be, instead of always having to count pennies, constantly be vigilant and deny herself even the smallest of indulgences.

      Danni almost gave in to the cliché to pinch herself. Life was that perfect. For the first time in her life, she was living in her own house, a house she’d paid for, not a house she was merely renting and that belonged to someone else.

      The rush she felt when she put the key into the lock of her own front door for the very first time was one she couldn’t even begin to describe. It was unequal to anything else she’d ever felt.

      But Danni wasn’t so enamored with the idea of ownership that she was blind to the house’s flaws. She wasn’t. She was very aware that the house came with warts. Quite a few warts.

      The two-story building, built somewhere around the early 1970s, was in need of a new roof, new windows that kept the air out, not invited it in, and the three bathrooms were all but literally begging to be remodeled. The kitchen, which to her had always been the heart of the house, needed a complete makeover as well. To anyone else, these might have been a deal breaker, but Danni had fallen in love with the layout and had bought the house for an exceptionally good price. So she’d signed on the dotted line, promising herself that if and when her show’s option was picked up and renewed, and if it subsequently took off, she would give the house a much-needed facelift.

      That day had come.

      Her last visit to Maizie had been to tell the helpful Realtor that she was finally at a place where she could afford all those renovations they had talked about.

      “What I need now,” she’d said over an enticing small pyramid of a dozen glazed wine cupcakes, “is for you to recommend a reliable general contractor who can do it all. I really don’t want to have to deal with a half a dozen or more men, all at odds with one another.”

      There’d been a slight problem with her request. The man Maizie had been sending people to for the last eight years had recently relocated to Nevada to be closer to his daughter and her family. Consequently, Maizie had told her she’d be on the look-out for someone reliable and that she would get back to her as quickly as she could.

      Danni had no doubts that the woman would find someone.

      And Maizie had.

      When she came home yesterday, bone weary after a marathon taping session, the first thing she’d seen was the red light on her answering machine blinking rhythmically as if it was flirting with her. Danni had stopped only long enough to drop her purse and step out of her shoes before listening to the message.

      She waited less than that to call Maizie back. Five minutes after that, she was on the phone, dialing the number that Maizie had given her.

      Danni wanted to call while her lucky streak was still riding high. There was a part of her—a diminishing but still-present part—that expected she would wake from this wonderful dream, her alarm clock shattering the stillness and calling her to work at the insurance company back in Atlanta.

      Before that happened, she wanted to take full advantage of this magic-carpet ride she found herself on.

      The man who Maizie had recommended sounded nice on the phone. He had a deep, rich baritone voice that was made for long walks on the beach beneath velvety, dark, star-lit skies.

      He looked even better, Danni thought as she brought her vehicle to a squealing stop in her driveway and all but leaped out of her car. He was on time, she noted ruefully. And she was not.

      “Sorry,” Danni declared, approaching the man who looked as if the stereotypical description of “tall, dark and handsome” had been coined exclusively for him. She put her hand out. “Traffic from Burbank was a bear,” she apologized.

      His fingers closed around her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

      Stone had been all set to leave.

      He absolutely hated being kept waiting and felt that the people who were late had no regard for anyone else’s time and no respect for them, either.

      But the attractive, bubbly blonde’s apology sounded genuine enough rather than just perfunctory and it wasn’t as if he were awash in projects and could turn his back and walk away from this one.

      So far, it had been a very lean year for him and the savings he’d put aside to see himself and his daughter—and sister if need be—through were just about gone.

      Danni suddenly paused just as she was about to unlock her door. She half turned and looked at him over her shoulder as a thought occurred to her that she had just taken his identity for granted.

      “You are Mr. Scarborough, right?” she asked belatedly, punctuating her question with a warm, hopeful smile.

      Even if he wasn’t, Stone caught himself thinking, he would have temporarily changed his name just to be on the receiving end of that smile. But, with a clear conscience, he could nod and say his full name, just in case the woman had any lingering doubts.

      “Call me Stone,” he told her. There, that should set her mind at ease about his identity. After all, he reasoned, how many men were there with that first name?

      “I’m Danni,” she said, her smile all but branding him. “But then, you already know that.” There was just the slightest hint of pink tint on her cheek as she turned away.

      She opened the front door and despite the fact that it was July and the sun had yet to go down, the interior of the house was all but utterly enshrouded in darkness.

      “The first thing I’m going to need is light,” she told him.

      “That usually happens when you turn up the switch,” he pointed out dryly, indicating the one that was on the wall right next to the doorjamb.

      Danni laughed then, even as she did exactly as he’d suggested. “I mean light from above.” She pointed toward the roof, which was some eighteen feet up, thanks to cathedral ceilings. “Like a skylight. This room appears incredibly gloomy in the winter, even when the drapes are opened. And I’d really rather not have to leave the lights on all day long.”

      As she spoke, Danni dropped her purse near the front door and saw him looking. “I could use a small table there,” she admitted. “Haven’t gotten around to that, yet. Haven’t gotten around to a lot of things yet,” she admitted ruefully in a moment of truth. “They said the pace here in Southern California is laid-back.” Danni just shook her head about that. “They lied.”

      “They?” he asked, curious.

      “The people back East.”

      There it was again, that accent he couldn’t quite pin down. This was probably his one chance to ask her the question.

      “How far back East?” he asked.

      “Atlanta.” She saw the look that came over his face. He assumed a triumphant air, as if he was congratulating himself on a guess well played. “Is it that obvious?”

      “No, not that obvious,” he told her. “Just that you weren’t from around here.”

      She laughed shortly, thinking of the people she’d been interacting with since she’d transplanted herself. She had the kind of face and manner that drew people to her. Not only that, but it drew them out as well. People would find themselves telling her things they wouldn’t even whisper into their priest’s ear.

      “Is anyone from around here?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but obviously, not for Stone.

      “My wife was,” he told her, then added, “and my daughter is.”

      Is and was.

      Danni was instantly aware of the switch in tense.

      He mentioned his daughter in the present tense, but