When she finished with the African violets, she sat down to pay bills. Thanks to Heath’s check, she’d settled the worst of them. Yesterday she’d called Melanie to see if she’d be interested in signing on as a client, which had meant coming clean about her real occupation. Fortunately, Melanie had a sense of humor, and she’d seemed interested. Things were looking up.

The Little Mermaid clock on her desk ticked away. Heath would be picking up Rachel about now. They were going to Tru, where caviar appeared at the table in a miniature glass staircase and dinner for two could easily run four hundred dollars. Not that she’d ever been there herself, but she’d read about it.

She considered visiting a couple of local coffee shops to pass out her business card, but she didn’t have enough energy to change clothes. Friday night. No hot date. No prospects for a hot date. The matchmaker needed a matchmaker. She wanted to get married, wanted a family, a job she loved …Was that too much to ask out of life? But how would she ever find a man of her own if she had to keep giving the best ones away? Not that Heath was the best. He was husband material only in his own mind. No, that wasn’t entirely fair. Whatever he did, he did well, and he’d give marriage his best effort. Whether or not that would prove good enough remained to be seen. Fortunately, not her problem.

She pulled out a DVD of Waiting for Guffman, then remembered it belonged to Rob and chose Freaky Friday instead. She’d just gotten to the part where Jamie Lee Curtis and her daughter switch bodies when the phone rang.

“Annabelle, it’s Rachel.”

She hit the Stop button. “How’s it going?”

“I’m out of my league.”

“What do you mean? Where are you calling from?”

“The ladies’ room at Tru. The date’s not working. I can’t understand it. Heath and I had so much fun together the night you introduced us—you remember—but now everything feels flat.”

“I knew he’d do this. He’s been on his cell all night, hasn’t he?”

“He hasn’t taken a single call. In fact, he’s been a perfect gentleman. But we’re both working too hard to keep the conversation going.”

“He’s been traveling all week. He might be tired.”

“I don’t think it’s that. It’s just—Nothing’s happening. I’m really disappointed. I felt sparks that first time. Didn’t you?”

“Definitely. Ask him about his work. Or about baseball. He’s a Sox fan. Just keep trying.”

Rachel said she would, but she didn’t seem optimistic, and when Annabelle hung up, she felt deflated …and relieved.

One more reason to be depressed.

Chapter Eight

Moths swarmed in the caged lights over the doors. The bar, located in a former warehouse just off North Avenue, was named Suey, and the sign featured a giant red pig wearing a trucker’s cap. “Charming,” Portia drawled.

Bodie gave her a dumb, cocky grin, which went right along with his menacing shaved head, intimidating tattoos, and hit man’s muscles. “I knew you’d like it.”