herself on. From the day she’d discovered that the men in her family didn’t stick around, she’d also learned how to keep men from affecting her.
And she’d been darned good at it, too, Maggie thought as she reached for the locket around her neck. Her pulse hadn’t hopscotched about in her throat at the sight of a good-looking guy for years. But then, she hadn’t met too many men with eyes like this one.
After standing and smoothing the wrinkles from her wrinkle-free pants, she met his gaze once again. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was—” She stopped midapology and blinked. Several times, in fact. Perhaps it was time to get her eyes checked, because just a second ago, with the sun pouring in behind him, she would’ve sworn that this man was dark, suave and sophisticated. But he wasn’t. Far from it.
Sure, he was tall with a powerful, well-muscled body, as far as she could tell under all that leather and denim. But, she mused, taking in the motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm, unless the Harley-Davidson that she was certain sat parked outside happened to be named Sophistication, he was far from refined. Rugged was the word that best described him. A sexy, rough-and-tumble kind of man that you might see in an action-adventure movie.
Her gaze moved over his strong, angular face. His rich-brown hair was pulled into a long, loose ponytail. His hands were large and callused and he had a few days’ growth of stubble on his jaw.
If this man was looking to find a love match, it wasn’t going to be an easy undertaking. The women in Santa Flora were particular and liked their men well-groomed and stylish. In her conversations with them, she’d found out that her female clients were looking for long-term relationships, marriage and children. Not tearing down the Pacific Coast Highway on the back of a motorcycle with Russell Crowe’s twin.
That’s not to say she wouldn’t try to find him a match. She was all over a challenge. And, jeez, who knew? There just might be a bad girl out there for this bad boy.
She applied her most professional smile. “Welcome to Maggie’s Matches, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Her heart executed a perfect somersault. Deep eyes, deeper voice.
“Didn’t mean to startle you when I came in,” he said, his husky tone wrapping around her like flannel pajamas on a rainy night.
“It’s no problem,” she managed. “I was just doing some paperwork. Getting ready for my grand opening.” Feeling at a disadvantage, Maggie walked around the desk and stood beside him. But being so close to him didn’t make her feel the least bit in control. Instead she felt rather breathless, as if she’d just sprinted up ten flights of stairs.
Lord, he was tall. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulders. He looked like a modern-day warrior in his white T-shirt and worn leather vest, his tanned arms corded with muscle and sprinkled with hair.
If her female clients reacted to him the way Maggie was, then maybe this man’s search for love wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d first thought. “We’re not opening for another four weeks yet, sir. But if you’d like to fill out a questionnaire, I’ll put you on the list. We’ll schedule a time for the video whenever it’s—”
He laughed, a rich sound that filled the room. “I’m not here to get a date.”
Her smile faded as she watched her first potential male client try to wriggle off the hook. “I understand. Coming to a matchmaker is a little weird at first, but if you’d—”
“Honestly,” he said quickly. “I’m not looking for a match or a matchmaker. I’m Nick Kaplan.”
He was looking at her as though he expected her to know that name. Know him. She took several mental steps back. Could he be a referral from a friend?
“Your grandmother sent me over,” he said.
Maggie’s brow furrowed. “My grandmother?”
A month ago Kitty Conner had packed up all her stuff and moved into a retirement village. She’d wanted to be near her friends, and even though Maggie had assured her grandmother that she didn’t feel the need for privacy, Kitty had told Maggie that she was getting it, anyway. It was no secret that Kitty wanted her granddaughter to find a man. And she’d thought that moving out was a sure-fire way to get the ball rolling. To help with living expenses, her grandma had offered to find Maggie a suitable roommate. Someone closer in age and energy level. And supposedly she had. An out-of-towner. The girl was moving in this weekend.
Perhaps Mr. Harley-Davidson here was helping with the move, Maggie thought. Heck, maybe this was the roommate’s brother. A shot of awareness erupted in her stomach. If that was the case, this hunk of man would be hanging around her house from time to time.
“No one was at your house,” he said, breaking off her horrifyingly alluring thoughts. “So she gave me your business address.”
“What can I do for you?” Good Lord. Had she drenched that query in “come-hither” cream or what?
A sparkle of amusement played in his eyes. “Well, the keys would do for a start.”
Yep. Friend or boyfriend or brother. The almost desperate desire for it to be brother surprised her. “Keys. Sure.” She reached over the desk, grabbed her purse and took out three small plastic bags with crisp labels on them. She took a set of keys from one.
“Are you taking her over to my house now?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is she in town yet, or is she still getting in this weekend?”
“She?”
Maggie glanced up at him, frustrated. “The woman who’s renting the room in my house?”
“I don’t understand. There’s no—” He stopped midsentence, his brow furrowed. Then a slow smile made its way to his lips. “Let me introduce myself again,” he said, amused. “I’m Nick Kaplan.” He stuck out his hand. “Your new roommate.”
Maggie just stood there, blank and wordless as the sounds of another Saturday at the beach floated through the open door. Her roommate? What was he talking about? He couldn’t be serious. She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. Then again, he looked pretty darn serious.
“Mr. Kaplan,” she began slowly, her tone controlled. Very controlled. “Obviously, there’s been a mistake.”
He grabbed a bunch of papers from his back pocket. “There’s no mistake.”
“Misunderstanding, then.”
“I don’t think so.”
She stared blindly at the pages he thrust at her. “What’s that?”
He handed it to her. “A copy of the signed lease agreement.”
Grasping the paper with two shaky hands, Maggie scanned the paper. “This shows my room was rented to a quiet, responsible, nonsmoking—” She gasped, stared at the box checked “male,” then lowered her gaze to the chirpy signature at the bottom. Kitty Conner. No. She didn’t. No. She hadn’t. Maggie looked up, feeling like a balloon that had just had all the air let out of it.
“Well,
