Back then, she’d seen the job as a fun side interest to her main job of overseeing her mother’s career. Brandy Collins, before her car accident, hadn’t been all that different from Stacy Goodwell—charming and completely impractical. And she fired managers as easily as she agreed to random gigs without ever checking her schedule.
After Marissa finished college, it had seemed a natural fit to help her mother manage her career, especially after a financial advisor had absconded with a sizable portion of her mom’s fortune. Someone needed to make sure no crackpots has access to her mother. But matchmaking had been one arena that was hers alone, and she’d really enjoyed it. Eventually, she’d started a private, personalized matchmaking service catering to an elite client base—wealthy singles who either didn’t have enough time to meet new people or who had trouble meeting the right people. But Marissa had a knack for bringing couples together. Her theory was that seeing a good match required objectivity. But who could be objective when you were wildly attracted to someone?
Anyhow, she loved the job. She’d just never anticipated a day when it would become a high pressure, door-die proposition. Like now. What would she do if one of the competing matchmakers swooped in and wooed away the Goodwell business? The depleted Collins’ coffers couldn’t afford the hit.
“You really look like you could use that drink.” The male voice emanated from just above her right ear.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was. Her whole body hummed in recognition, reminding her of the second biggest problem of the night.
Despite the fact that she needed to win over Kyle for Stacy, Marissa wanted him for herself.
She opened her eyes to find the man of the hour standing mere inches away, a tumbler in hand. He held the amber liquid out to her, the ice cubes clinking.
Deep green eyes regarded her left hand for a moment before they darted north to meet her gaze.
Left hand?
She looked at the place his stare had vacated and spied her fake wedding band. Her thumb went automatically to the thin gold, smoothing it absently.
“I’m not hitting on you,” he assured her, seeming to catch the gesture. “If anything, I wanted to apologize for asking you to have a drink with me before. I didn’t realize you were, ah—married.”
Marissa recalled the way he’d shuffled her aside so abruptly. She’d been so caught off guard by her attraction earlier that she hadn’t even fully processed what had happened during that encounter. And while it would be really convenient to hide behind that wedding band, she felt strange overtly lying to him when his expression seemed so sincere.
“I’m not, actually.” She reached to accept the drink.
He yanked it away.
“Hey, I’m trying to do the right thing by you, okay?” His brows plunged together at an ominous slant. “I don’t touch married women.”
His protest only charmed her more.
“That’s admirable.” She rose to her feet, hoping to clear the air with him so they could get down to business. “I wouldn’t expect you to touch me either way, Mr. Murphy. Do you have a moment to speak somewhere privately? I only need a moment of your time.”
The sharp angle to those eyebrows lifted. Arched. He seemed to consider stepping outside with her. Then his frown became more marked. He slammed her drink on the table she’d just vacated.
“Absolutely not. I’m flattered, but I take wedding vows seriously, and so should you.” He folded his arms and made like an immovable wall, possibly to show her that she had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting him to go anywhere with her.
Absurdly, her wayward gaze fell to the pronounced line of strong biceps and square shoulders, his body a gorgeous testament to the results of hard work. And she’d bet her open ogling would not help her cause. Where the heck was her usual reserve?
The last person she’d ever get involved with romantically was someone in the public eye. She’d taken a backseat to her mother’s career forever. She knew better than to put herself in that same position with a man.
“That’s fine.” She spied a handful of guests headed their way, giveaway hats and Sharpie markers in hand. “But I really would like to just speak with you. No touching. Do you think we could step into the hall for a minute?”
His eyes darted to the oncoming group. It was clear they hadn’t identified him yet, but his size had drawn their attention and they craned their necks for a better view.
“This way.” He tucked her under his arm, surprising her with his sudden proximity. “We can sit out on the terrace.”
One hand gripping her shoulder, he steered her through the crowd, using his body to clear a path. The warmth of his fingers drifted through the silk of her evening wrap, soaking into her skin and making her feel … too many things to count. Secure. Aroused. Vibrantly alive.
Dragging in a deep breath as her feet stepped faster to keep up, Marissa inhaled the scent of him—she detected a slight hint of spicy aftershave, the starch in his tuxedo shirt and the undiluted masculine musk of the skin beneath.
The ballroom trappings disappeared, the light brightening and then darkening again as he pushed open a door to the outside. Cold spring air rushed over her skin and she welcomed the way it cleared her head even as goose bumps covered her arms.
An unused terrace ringed with a low stucco wall held outdoor couches and chairs. A few cast-iron sconces on the walls illuminated the space, but they seemed to flicker at half power.
“Here.” He gestured toward a moss-colored love seat. “Will you be warm enough?”
He pulled his arm away now that they’d ditched the crowds. And no matter that it was wrong of her to notice, she felt a sharp pang of loss at the disappearance of his touch.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling an attraction this tangible, let alone this ill-advised. Dropping into a cushioned chair, she planned to make sure they didn’t touch again. She’d learned the hard way that a lack of objectivity with men could have devastating consequences. If her mom’s relationships hadn’t proven it—Marissa had never even met her birth father, a European tenor who’d fled the scene after a torrid affair with her mom—then her own experience should have sealed the deal. The one time she’d fallen head over heels, she’d been taken for a ride by a guy who’d only wanted to cash in on her mother’s music industry connections.
That’s why she preferred matchmaking others to romance for herself. All the fun of playing Cupid, none of the heartache. Besides, this way she helped other people avoid the mistakes she’d made. Her service ensured prospective daters looked beyond the physical.
“This is fine.” The nip in the air would help keep her thoughts from overheating. She finally had Kyle Murphy all to herself. It was go-time to pitch her business. “I won’t keep you for long—”
He waved away the concern as he took a seat on the cast-iron coffee table across from her. Removing his baseball cap, he tossed it on the couch nearby.
“I’ll stick around the fundraiser late and meet with fans. It’s not a problem. But I’ll admit you’ve got me curious since you don’t look like the kind of person to—you know—mess around behind someone’s back.”
It bothered her that he would think for a moment she was. He seemed to study her expression, as if he could gauge whether she had lied to him.
“I’m not.” Before she could launch into her explanation, however, he continued.
“I guess that’s a superficial judgment, though. Just because you dress like a sixties librarian doesn’t mean you’re necessarily the conservative type.”
“Excuse me?” She straightened, her fingers clutching her shawl tighter to her shoulders.
“It’s the clothes, I guess. Or maybe the glasses.” He