True Love, Inc.. Jackie Braun

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      She glanced up. One eyebrow lifted over the top rim of her glasses, leaving that little mole hidden.

      “Give or take a few,” he amended. “Caroline has been on a pizza kick lately and it’s easier to cave in than to argue with her.” When Maddie just kept staring at him, he added, “She’s six, but she’s good.”

      One-eighty, give or take a few pounds, Maddie mused, and probably all muscle. As interesting as she found it that a man would hedge about his weight, she was more intrigued by the way this man looked. A faded Cherry Republic T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, and she recalled that softly molded denim had hugged a pair of well-formed thighs when he’d walked.

      She cleared her throat, perplexed by the inappropriate direction her thoughts kept taking. Her voice was an embarrassing squeak when she asked her next pitifully obvious question.

      “Occupation?”

      “I’m a cherry farmer, Miss Daniels.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in an otherwise bronze face, and nodded toward the window and the start of the orchard visible through it. “Foleys have farmed this land for three generations. My dad met my mother here. She was a migrant worker, one of the thousands of Mexicans who came to Michigan each summer to harvest the cherries before modern technology made hand-picking obsolete.”

      Maddie studied his features. His hair was a light, sun-kissed brown, but the warm hue of his skin and the coffee-colored eyes that peered at her from below a slash of dark brows hinted at his heritage.

      She broke off her gaze and pretended to jot down more notes.

      “Do you smoke?”

      “No, filthy habit.”

      She stifled a relieved sigh. She couldn’t agree more. Of course, she told herself that the relief she felt was merely because finding Cameron Foley a match would be that much easier if he didn’t have a pack-a-day habit. The vast majority of her clients were nonsmokers.

      “Do you drink?”

      “I like a cold beer after a hard day.”

      That fit, she thought, working up the mental image. She could picture him hoisting a long-necked brown bottle in the evenings, sitting on the steps of that inviting front porch, maybe listening to Ernie Harwell call a Tigers game on the radio.

      Then he threw her a curve.

      “And I like wine. I sometimes have a glass with dinner. I’m not particularly a connoisseur,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I’m partial to anything French and expensive.”

      “French and expensive,” she repeated. This new data did not compute.

      “Sure. No one knows grapes like the French. But, I have to say, the local vineyards are coming along. In fact, a few of the Leelanau wines are passably good. Have you tried any?”

      “No, I’m afraid I don’t get out much,” she said as she wrote down social drinker.

      Cam frowned. “You don’t get out much? That seems kind of odd for the president of a dating service.”

      “My business is relatively young, so I spend most of my days, including weekends, at the office. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else.”

      The explanation seemed perfectly logical. Cam knew all about the demands of being the boss, meeting a payroll while trying to turn a profit, but for some reason he didn’t buy it. A woman with her looks would attract plenty of male attention. So why would she choose to spend Saturday nights alone?

      Maddie settled the glasses more firmly on the bridge of her nose and said, “Let’s move on to your health. Is there anything, ah, contagious that I should know about? Anything you’re being treated for?”

      The tone was polite enough to make him smile, especially since she was essentially asking him if he had a social disease. Again, he caught the slight hint of the South in her speech.

      “You’re not from around here, are you? Originally, I mean?”

      “No.”

      “Your accent, I’m guessing South Carolina.”

      “Georgia, actually. I grew up just outside Atlanta. My parents and brothers still live there.”

      “Really? Kind of chilly up here for a Southern belle, especially come January. That’s one of the reasons my parents moved to Florida when they retired five years ago. What made you decide to relocate to northern Michigan?”

      Before she could respond, he grinned and added, “I’m guessing it was a man, and I’m guessing it was a while ago. You’ve lost a lot of your honeyed drawl, Miss Daniels.”

      Maddie didn’t like the way he’d taken over the interview or the way he had begun to probe into her personal life. He was good at it, too. She had moved north to be with a man—the man who, as of nine months ago, had become her ex-husband.

      Turning her tone to one of frosted efficiency, she said, “That’s not really important. The point of this interview is for me to gather enough information to put together a basic personality sketch of you. I know your time is valuable, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Health?” she repeated.

      His lips thinned into a serious line, and he answered rather pointedly, “My health is excellent. I’ve been out of circulation too long to have caught anything deadly.”

      She bobbled the coffee she’d been about to sip, although she managed not to spill any of it on her blouse. “What kind of woman would you say you prefer?”

      It was his turn to be uncomfortable. He straightened in his seat and twirled the spoon in the sugar bowl. “I don’t know. I’m not very particular.”

      Hogwash, Maddie thought. Cameron Foley would be very particular. Any man who would drive into Traverse City during the height of tourist season to protest a dating service’s mass mailing clearly had an opinion on more than mere marketing practices.

      “I can’t do my job if you’re not candid. We had a deal, Mr. Foley.”

      “Cameron,” he corrected her, sounding slightly irritated. “My friends call me Cam. Since you’re digging into my personal life, I’m thinking you should at least call me by my given name.”

      “Very well.” She took a deep breath and settled on the more formal moniker. “Cameron.” The word seemed to linger on her tongue like peppermint candy.

      “Does this mean I can call you Madison?” She thought he might be teasing her. A light danced in his dark eyes, but his lips remained unbowed.

      “Maddie, please. Only my mother calls me Madison. And my father, when I’ve tried his patience.”

      “I’ll bet that’s often,” he muttered.

      “Excuse me?”

      “Nothing. Isn’t Madison an odd name for a girl?” His gaze skimmed down her torso, lingered an uncomfortable moment. “Woman,” he corrected himself.

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