The Match Maker Series
§ A coffee house in a town of the author's choice.
§ The heroine goes inside and meets the owner, Freya.
§ Freya sits down with the heroine, listens to her story and sets her up with the hero.
§ At the end of the story, the heroine goes back to the coffee house and finds it is now a vacant lot.
§ The coffee house must be described as Freya’ Coffee Shop with a grey roof, yellow stone walls, red trim windows and a red door with blue trim.
§ The owner, Freya, must be described as an older woman in her seventies, red hair and brown eyes. Freya’s name means: the goddess of love, beauty and sensuality. She likes to wear: clothes in the shades of love (reds, pinks), eye shadow, nail polish, and a large sapphire ring on her right hand. Freya is very friendly and quirky.
My mind started churning. You know that incredible “what-if…” feeling? Oh yeah! Something in those few lines of parameters called to me. I don’t know why. I don’t write fantasy or magical stories. Although it is magical anything I write ever gets published, but we won't go there.
What kind of man would use the services of a matchmaker? A man who's lost hope, perhaps? Slowly Declan Fleming began to take shape. Not just any man, but a Renaissance man. A man who built things with his hands, who read a lot and worked with teenagers. A man of contradictions. A man with a violent past, an ex-SEAL, who also knew the language of flowers. The lady who would charm his soul? Well, she had to be a bit of a handful, someone completely unexpected. Still, I'd never written really "short" before. Did I have the skill set to quicky develop my characters and a strong GMC? Oh, I do love a challenge...
Hope Morningstar has the worst luck with men. One boyfriend wrote her a “Dear John” letter while serving overseas. Her latest romantic interest broke up with her in a text. When a traffic detour puts her in an unfamiliar neighborhood, she stops at Freya’s Coffee Shop where she gets more than directions. She gets another chance at finding love.
Declan Fleming, scarred by a cheating ex-wife, has given up searching for love. He’s taken the route of a few other men and engaged the services of Freya, the matchmaker. Still, he’s been waiting for a year and he’s just about given up hope. Then Freya sends him Hope.
When feelings of insecurity and trust issues come into play, can finding love stand a chance? Can the magical influence of this matchmaker create a happy ending? After all, finding that one special love often involves a bit of special magic, does it not?
“A man’s kiss should taste like chocolate, dark flavor melting, doing sensual things to you.” –Freya, the Matchmaker
Hope’s stomach cramped, and she couldn’t seem to take one deep, complete breath. She eyed the paper bag she kept in her purse. If she hyper-ventilated, she’d need it. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, I am freaking insane.
Once he came, if he came, she’d give him ten minutes, and then she was out of here. She didn’t care how good looking he was. Wait, she’d decided to go for content of character, not looks. This change in priorities would take time. Old habits were hard to break. Her gaze swept the area. With any luck he wouldn’t show.
“Don’t turn around.” A deep voice behind her sent chills up her spine. “I’m Declan, the man Freya sent. I know you’re scared, but don’t be. There’s no need.”
Why couldn’t she look at him? Was he butt-ugly? Short and fat? What? Remember, I’m not going to concentrate on his looks. I’m making wiser choices this time. I’m looking at the man on the inside, not the hunk on the outside. She exhaled a long, slow breath. “Okay.”
“Close your eyes for just a second.”
Oh, this was just too weird. Even so, she closed them. Something satiny soft rubbed over her cheek and she jerked. Roses. She smelled roses. Velvety softness caressed her chin.
“Rose petals are very soft, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” They were also very sensual when rubbed over her face. “I’m opening my eyes now.” Enough playing games. Every person in the food court had to be watching them.
“As you wish.” He held a small bouquet in front of her. “Purple roses are for love at first sight. Purple irises are the flower of hope.”
There were two purple roses and two irises snuggled in a bed of baby’s breath and tied with a pink ribbon. What a charming gesture. Don’t weaken. Be strong. Don’t let him suck you in.
“And the baby’s breath?” She’d yet to look at him, but took his sentimental offering from his calloused hand. “What does that flower mean?”
“Sincerity.” He stepped to her side, and her gaze lifted. “Hello, Hope. I’m Declan Fleming.”
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