Mr. Accidental Hero: Jet City Matchmaker Series: Jeremy

  He was a good hundred, hundred and fifty pounds heavier than I was. Even pumped up and fueled by adrenaline, I almost dropped him as he came free from the seat. She moved in unison with me. Anticipating the needs of the situation, she wedged herself beneath one of his arms, catching him, staggering beneath his weight even though I had most of it.

  You know how it is at the gym when you're trying to bench-press a new personal best? And you're almost there. Your arms are shaking. You're sure you can't do it, that you don't have the strength? Your spotter puts two fingers beneath the bar and "helps" you lift it. Suddenly the bar shoots up. This was like that. With her balancing some of his weight, I was able to take most of it as I half carried him out of the cloud of smoke enveloping us.

  The heat was intense. Several kegs of fine IPA had spilled. I could tell it was IPA by the smell. The heat evaporated the beer, making a beer cloud. All I could say was that I was glad beer wasn't eighty proof or better. Below-eighty-proof alcohol doesn't burn.

  Take it from a guy who brews beer in his bathtub from time to time—beer is twenty proof at best, and that's for a strong stout. IPA tops out at about fourteen proof. All this beer had a chance of doing was acting a little like throwing a few glasses of water on the flames. In theory, a retardant. But only in theory.

  What the foaming beer did do was make the road and sidewalk slick and treacherous, slowing me down dangerously. The area smelled like a frat party gone wrong. We were dripping and coughing, choking on the thick smoke, as we carried the driver from the truck toward fresh air. The smoke was so dense that we couldn't see. We had to trust our noses and lungs to lead us out.

  "There!" someone shouted as we emerged from the cloud of beer and smoke. "They're alive."

  A group of men who'd come to help surrounded us. Two of them relieved me of most of the weight of the driver as we carried him farther away from the fire. She let go and backed away.

  When we were out of the thick of the smoke, the truck burst into full flame, sending a searing blast of heat all the way to us. Someone swore. The guys and I carrying the driver shielded our eyes and shivered in the heat, realizing what had almost become of us. I let the others take over and handed the driver off entirely to their care.

  I was breathing hard and so was she when I found her waving people away from her. "I'm fine. Fine," she said over and over.

  "I'll take care of her. I'll make sure she's okay." I must have sounded authoritative enough. They backed off and left us alone.

  We leaned against the wall of a dry-cleaning store. People were streaming out of the businesses and gathering to point at the accident. Traffic was stopped.

  She and I grinned at each other like we'd just saved the world, not one truck driver.

  Her mascara was smudged. The heat had frizzed her formerly beautifully straight hair. Her sandals were covered in beer foam. She smelled of smoke and barbecued India pale ale with overtones of expensive perfume, which wasn't an altogether bad aroma.

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, dragging a trace of soot across her pert nose and cheek. Her dress was soiled and pitted out. She was completely, utterly adorable, and gorgeous. The best-looking, hottest woman I had ever seen.

  Staring at her, grinning at her, I fell in love. Seriously. I fell seriously in love.

  The sound of sirens approaching filled the air, growing louder by the moment. The crowd made way for the approaching fire and police crews and ambulances.

  Crazily, her cross-body purse was still slung, but skewed, over her shoulder. She straightened it.

  "Nice work," I said. "Quick thinking getting the jelly out."

  She shrugged. "My friends always say I carry too much in my purse. That it's too heavy and will ruin my shoulders someday. This proves you never know what you'll need, and when." She ran her fingers through her hair.

  I caught myself staring at her lips.

  She took my face gently in her hands, went up on her toes, closed her eyes, and kissed me lightly on the lips. "That was fun."

  I had merely been in love before. Now I was in way too deep to ever imagine surfacing. This woman was my soul mate. Love at first rescue—wow. Who needed an adventurous wedding when you had a first meet like this? Wait until I told this story to the guys and our grandchildren.

  A firm hand clasped my shoulder. I turned to see who was there. Cody, the head baker from the Blackberry, a big, burly guy with arms as thick as an old-growth Douglas fir.

  "You okay, buddy?" he said as the first of several fire trucks and a paramedic squad pulled up. He looked like he was ready to throw me over his shoulder and carry me to the hospital if he needed to.

  I nodded. "Yeah. Fine." I coughed.

  I heard her whisper, "You can handle this." She patted me on the other shoulder and lightly touched my arm.

  Ashley appeared, pushing her way through the crowd, calling my name, and waving over the heads of the people. She distracted me momentarily.

  Before I could turn back to my accomplice in rescue, a paramedic beat Ashley to me. "Are you okay, sir? Let's check you out."

  "Never mind me. You'd better help her. She breathed in a lot of smoke—" I turned to pull her forward. She was gone. "What the hell? Where'd she go?"

  The paramedic frowned. "Who?"

  "The woman," I said. What the hell was her name? I hadn't even gotten her first name.

  I looked to Cody for confirmation. He shook his head and held his hands up as if he had no clue. "Sorry, buddy." He wandered back into the crowd.

  Ashley came up beside me and took my arm. "Jeremy. Thank God you're okay. I heard the whole thing from the bakery. The sound of the collision was horrifying." She shuddered. "It rocked the entire bakery and rattled all the cups. All I could think about was you walking to your appointment with me right at that moment."

  I turned to Ashley, desperate. "You saw her." I ran my hand over my lips where, a moment ago, the woman had kissed them. "You saw the woman who helped me pull the driver out."

  Ashley frowned and shook her head. "I didn't see anyone. Just you."

  I grabbed Ashley's hand. "She was here." I pointed down the street. "She's the one. She can't have gone far. You're the matchmaker. Go find her."

  Ashley glanced at the paramedic.

  He gave her a sympathetic, knowing nod, and took me by the hand. "You need to come with me, sir. You've taken in toxic smoke. That's a nasty bump you have on the back of your head. Let's get you in the ambulance and get you to the hospital to have it looked at. The police will want to talk to you and get your statement. But first you need a clear head."

  What nasty bump? I reached up and felt the back of my head. My fingers came away sticky with blood. Until he mentioned it, I hadn't felt a thing. Thanks a lot for pointing out my pain, buddy. Suddenly I felt lightheaded.

  Ashley nodded. "You're pale. A head injury is nothing to mess with. And all that smoke you breathed in. Get yourself checked out, Jeremy. I'll call Lazer." She asked the paramedic what hospital they were taking me to. She turned back to me. "We'll work everything out." Her voice was calm and soothing as she looped her arm through mine and began leading me toward an ambulance.

  "The driver needs an ambulance more than I do," I said.

  "They're taking care of him," she said. "Don't worry."

  I pointed down the street again. "You'll find her? She needs to be checked out, too. She helped me save him."

  A news crew showed up.

  "I can't guarantee I'll find her, but I'll look," Ashley said. "I promise."

  * * *

  Crystal

  That guy was hot. So completely adorable. How could I not kiss him?

  All right. That was probably dumb. Maybe? Possibly? I wasn't usually so forward. There was something about him…

  I felt like…like Cupid had cut right to my heart. We had a moment, he and I. We definitely had a moment. Maybe even a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Now I was kicking myself—why hadn't I given him my card? Or my number? Or gotte
n his? I wasn't usually so bumbling. I panicked when all the news crews showed up, and didn't think, just escaped before my face showed up on the evening news.

  I was protecting my business, a reaction that had become instinctive. I'd been in the area meeting with a top-secret client. The client didn't want it known they'd hired me to help them flesh out a new business plan and capture a new market segment. They were in an exceptionally competitive market and going against giants in the industry. There was enough industrial espionage as it was.

  Because they were paying me big bucks, I wasn't about to take any chance of word getting out and ruining my relationship with them. Being the heroine at the scene and surrounded by news crews was a little too high-profile for me just now.

  I was still coughing when I got to my car. A friend of mine was a doctor at a walk-in urgent care clinic. I called her as soon as I slid in to the driver's seat, glad I got a signal in the bowels of the parking garage. She told me to come in and get checked out right away. She'd be waiting for me. And not to worry, she'd keep things quiet, like always. She was used to my emergencies.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and shook my head at my mangy reflection. I was a mess. My hair was frizzy and needed a trim. I was tired of being a blond. Time for a change. Yes, definitely time for a change. I'd call my stylist and get the latest cut and color.

  I glanced down at my dress and beer-soaked sandals. Both were ruined. The dress had been one of my favorites and the sandals one of my most comfortable pairs. I didn't know what I'd been thinking going out in a summer outfit.

  Actually, that was a lie—I did. Dressing out of season was my simple way of going out a little incognito. The unicorn hunter, the cool hunter, the trend spotter was always the height of fashion and immaculately turned out for the season. That was my reputation—when I wanted to be seen. The unicorn hunter certainly wouldn't still be wearing a summer dress. Unless she didn't want to be spotted. My little incognito twist.

  And, all right, maybe I still wasn't telling myself the whole truth. Maybe this was simple rebellion. My way of hanging on to summer.

  It's fall now, baby, I reminded myself. Time to get into my new fall clothes. Why was I so humdrum about the season change this year? Time to ditch the light, natural makeup of summer, the tinted moisturizer and lip gloss, and put on the heavier, more dramatic makeup of fall. Time to switch gears and switch seasons. Time to dive into the most current fall fashions. I had a closetful already, just waiting for the change of seasons.

  I pressed the ignition button, shaking. The shock and adrenaline were wearing off. I was coming down off the high. Reality was setting in, just like it did every time I put myself in danger. The knowledge of how close I'd come to being a casualty rocked me. I was always charging into danger without thinking. Until later.

  I took a deep breath and released the emergency brake. I glanced in the mirror again and realized I was smiling. Yeah, saving someone's life was a rush. But that trucker wasn't the source of this smile.

  I couldn't get that guy out of my head. He was adorably hot, just the kind of cute, lean guy I was inevitably attracted to. And rarely had time for. Too many of my relationships had crashed and burned because I was a workaholic. Yes, guilty as charged. Most of the guys I'd dated were workaholics, too.

  I mentally kicked myself again for not getting that guy's number. That instant chemistry between us was so powerful that it couldn't have been real. I tried to convince myself it was only a fleeting thing caused by heightened awareness and danger. More like a flash fad than a trend. Definitely not a classic. I'd never find out now.

  There was something else I knew from experience—being pumped with adrenaline was almost like being drunk and wearing beer goggles. Adrenaline rushes mess with perception. And that was without inhaling all that evaporated beer. Yeah, those were some beer goggles. When I saw him all calm and unaided by an adrenaline rush, in normal life, he wouldn't be nearly so hot, just an ordinary guy. Or so I convinced myself.

  The incident, however, cemented one thing for me—I wanted that rush and connection with a guy in regular life, in the mundane, everyday world we all usually live in. I wanted to go on a date and feel the rush over and over like an addict. I wanted it every day until it faded into something cozy and well-worn and comforting. I wanted to wake up to a smile that lit up my world the way his grin had as he pressed me against that wall. And damn it, I wanted a guy who could make quips in the face of danger. I wanted a hero, a man who would jump to a stranger's aid without thinking.

  I smiled to myself as I remembered him fighting me for the lead in that rescue. Didn't he know this wasn't my first rescue? I was one of those people who practically seemed to cause accidents to happen around me. I was like a disaster magnet. As a result, I'd done more than my share of rescuing. Did that make my life worthwhile? Did saving others give my life meaning?

  I made a mental note to add "hero" to my wish list. Why not? I was looking for a unicorn anyway. Why not shoot for the moon?

  I kept smiling as I checked the reverse camera and pulled out of the spot. He'd been so adorable trying to protect me. I could handle myself. Guys found that out soon enough. I was no damsel in distress, no shrinking violet.

  I made a snap decision—that matchmaker who'd given me her card? I was going to take her up on her offer. I was going to give her a call. Maybe she could find me a man who wasn't high maintenance. Show me what you got, matchmaker. Do you have a hero for me? My hero?

  4

  Crystal

  I met the matchmaker in a trendy coffee shop known for its velvet foam not far from my house in West Seattle. I walked to meet her—that was how close the coffee shop was.

  Ashley Harte didn't recognize me when I walked up to her. I had to introduce myself. "Crystal Pruitt. From the steakhouse? I threw a glass of water at a drunk. You gave me your card? We have an appointment."

  "Ah!" Recognition lit her face. She got a sheepish look. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I'm usually better with faces. I was looking for a blonde."

  "I probably should have warned you. I like to mix my look and hair color up," I said. "Summer's over. It was time for my annual fall color job, something with autumn warmth to combat the gray, rainy days."

  She looked me over critically, but not uncomfortably so. "I like the cut and color. And the new makeup. Love that shade of lipstick."

  I sensed she was impressed with my style and measuring me to see what, if anything, needed improving before she threw me out into the dating arena. And yet, despite the approval, she seemed just the tiniest bit hesitant and maybe a bit disappointed. Gentlemen prefer blondes, isn't that the common mythology?

  "Thank you. This shade is the hot new color for the season," I said. "I consulted on the development of it. I have connections. I can hook you up with a tube of it if you like."

  I'd spotted the trend toward this color family a year ago, and helped a local subscription cosmetic company develop their fall line around this group of shades and the market messaging that went with it. To date, it had been their most successful product launch yet. As a thank you, they gave me a first run of the entire fall line.

  "How can I turn an offer like that down?" Ashley said. "I'd love one."

  Our conversation turned to small talk. We ordered coffee at the counter. I splurged and ordered an orange mocha with a good head of that lovely, velvety foam. My mocha came complete with strips of real syrup-soaked orange peel. You had to be careful to pick the strips out as you drank or you risked inadvertently swallowing them. I almost instantly regretted the decision. The drink was delicious, but pulling orange peel out of either my mouth or the drink wasn't elegant. I made a mental note not to order one on a date.

  The coffee shop was large and open, with many mismatched tables and chairs. It was busy this time of day, but we found an available four-top table by the wall.

  Ashley got right down to business. "Before we get started, you have to know that I only take on clients who are serious ab
out, and dedicated to, finding their match, someone who could be a future spouse. It takes a time commitment as much as a monetary and emotional commitment. If you're not sure that's you, I can add you to the member roster, but you won't get my personal attention. On the upside, the fee is a lot less."

  I hesitated.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  I laughed. "I'm serious, all right. Dead serious about finding a husband. It's the time commitment that makes me hesitate. My job is demanding and requires a fair amount of travel. In the past, that's been an issue in my relationships. I need a man who understands the pressures I'm under and the hours my job requires. Find me that man and I'm all in."

  "You think I'm a miracle worker?" She was smiling.

  "That's what your press says."

  "Then it must be true. I can find you that man." She pulled out a tablet. "I hope you don't mind if I take notes?"

  "Go right ahead."

  "Let's get started." She walked me through the process and asked a series of questions about me.

  I told her what I did for a living, describing myself as a unicorn hunter. I hadn't realized just how nervous I'd been until I found myself relaxing and enjoying our conversation. And less and less subtly pulling strips of orange peel out of my drink.

  Ashley's coffee sat mostly untouched as she typed away on her tablet. She was a quick typist and good at focusing on me while she took her notes. "What are you looking for in a man? Describe your perfect guy."

  "You want me to describe a mythical beast?" I laughed. "Perfect guys don't exist."

  "No, they don't," she said. "For the sake of this exercise, assume this is an ideal world. What would this unicorn guy of yours look like if you could create him from scratch?"

  Unbidden, an image of the heroic guy from the accident came to mind. "You mean physically?"

  "Physically, personality-wise, temperament—the gamut."

  I found myself describing him in detail—all of his physical attributes, from the color of his hair and the way it flopped over his eyes to the way he could actually laugh and quip in the face of danger, the way he tried, would try, to protect me.