Chapter Three
“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Lena, but after the Spring Festival…”
The pause on the other end of the line stretches too long.
“…I think it’s best if we cancel the remaining sessions.”
The call ends before I can respond.
I stare at my phone like it might apologize.
That makes eight.
Eight cancellations since my breakup became a public spectacle. Apparently, watching the town’s matchmaker get humiliated in front of half the population doesn’t exactly scream trust me with your love life.
I lean back in my office chair, the cushion wheezing under my weight like it’s just as tired as I am. On my desk sits my Love By Design mug, half-full, pastel pink letters mocking me with their relentless cheer.
Five years ago, I built this business from nothing—right here, in this tiny office.
It started with my mom.
With Victor.
I still remember the way her smile changed when she fell in love again. Softer. Brighter. Like she’d finally stepped back into the sun after years of standing in the cold. Watching that happen—watching love heal her—made something click inside me.
I wanted to do that for others.
Now I’m watching everything unravel.
A familiar ache tightens in my shoulder. I rub at it absently, the tension clinging like it always does when I’m overwhelmed. Before I can sink too far into it, a sharp knock snaps me back to the present.
“Come in!”
Jen steps inside, her smile tentative.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” I say quickly, straightening. “How’s your mom? Is she recovering okay?”
Her face softens. “She is. Those meals you sent really helped.”
I wave it off. “I just made extra. Now—what’s going on?”
Jen hesitates. “There’s… been talk.”
Of course there has.
Briarwood Falls runs on three things: coffee, tradition, and gossip.
“Kyle’s started a local review blog,” she continues carefully. “And—well—you’re kind of his main topic.”
I don’t even bother pretending to be surprised. “Let me guess. I’m outdated. Unreliable. A cautionary tale.”
She winces. “Pretty much. He’s also promoting Diane. A lot. Calling her the future of matchmaking.”
Diane.
The glossy, big-city matchmaker with luxury packages and prices that could bankrupt a small family. She arrived weeks ago with sleek branding and the confidence of someone who’s never had to scrape by.
“There’s more,” Jen adds quietly. “He’s been encouraging your clients to switch. Saying expensive equals successful.”
My stomach drops.
“How many cancellations?” I ask.
Jen glances at her phone. “Four more this morning.”
I blink. “So…?”
“We’re at zero.”
Zero clients.
“And the Events Committee emailed,” she adds. “They’re reconsidering whether you should host the Annual Matchmaking Gala next month.”
My pen slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor.
This isn’t just a business. It’s my dream. It’s tradition. It’s the thing that made me believe in love—even when my own life kept proving otherwise.
I press my palms to the desk, grounding myself.
“Did the recent matches have anything in common?” I ask.
Jen hesitates. “Maybe… the new system?”
The one I changed.
The one Kyle pushed me to change.
Careers. Status. Appearances. Checklists.
Instead of balance. Instead of connection.
I nod slowly. “It just needs refinement.”
Or maybe I do.
Lunch with Elaine and Roxanne feels like oxygen after drowning.
The Old Mill hums with familiar warmth, the vinyl booths worn soft by decades of shared meals. Maeve greets us like she always does—with kindness and zero judgment.
She slides a plate of mac and cheese in front of me. Extra crispy topping.
“Extra comfort today,” she murmurs.
I almost cry.
Between jokes and gentle teasing, my friends hold me together without making it obvious.
“You’re not alone,” Roxanne says simply.
And I believe her.
Until—
“So,” Elaine says casually, “have you ever noticed how Rowan is always single?”
I choke on my water.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends who built each other’s furniture,” Elaine points out.
“Friends who memorize tea orders,” Roxanne adds.
I shake my head. “Friendship pact. Remember?”
They exchange looks.
Dangerous ones.
We step outside afterward, sunlight warming my skin, when the gym comes into view.
Collymore Fitness.
My heart stutters.
And there he is.
Rowan.
Leaning against the front desk like he belongs there—because he does. His hair is a little messy, sleeves pushed up, that slow smile forming the moment his eyes meet mine.
Elaine waves. Loudly.
I glare at her just as my phone buzzes.
ROWAN:
Wanna come in? I can squeeze you into my schedule.
I swallow.
ME:
I’ve recently developed a rare allergy
to burpees.
Three dots appear.
Then:
ROWAN:
Tragic.
I’ll prescribe coffee instead.
My chest does that annoying, hopeful thing.
And somewhere deep inside, the box labeled Do Not Open starts to crack.
