4. Jeremy, Dating Her Brother’s Best Friend (Silver Spoon Single Serve)

4. Jeremy

CHAPTER 4

JEREMY

It's one of those days where the universe is conspiring against me. I'm sitting in my living room, staring at my phone as if sheer willpower could make it buzz with a message from Caroline. No such luck. It lies there, frustratingly unbothered by my disquiet, casting silent judgment over my latest attempt to untangle this mess I've made.

Why didn't I see it before? It's a question that gnaws at me like a persistent itch I can't quite reach. I've been blind, stumbling through our friendship like a moron, utterly oblivious to the signals Caroline's been sending. And now, I'm facing the cold, hard truth: I've wasted so much time. Time I could have spent doing more than just being her friend. Time I could have spent knocking her gorgeous little ass up.

I need to kick my own ass for not recognizing the obvious, for letting my fear of damaging my friendship with Asa override the intense feelings I’ve had for Caroline. And fear, after all this time, really does feel like a weak excuse. I replay our moments together—every teasing conversation, every shared laugh—and all those scenes are colored differently now. In hindsight, it all seems so clear, and yet, here I am, a day late and a lot of time with Caroline short.

I’m pissed at myself, brooding more than I probably have a right to as I flick through the messages I sent her, each one more desperate and hopeful than the last. The ticking clock mocks me with each second that passes without a response.

8:35 AM

Hey, can we talk? I know things are awkward, but I really want to clear the air.

10:02 AM

Sweets, I'm really sorry for everything. You have it all wrong though.

12:47 PM

I miss our chats. Please don’t shut me out.

And the kicker, my crowning plea at 2:30 PM:

Look, I realize I've been blind, like next-level, dufus with his head up his ass blind, but I don't want to be anymore. Just talk to me, please?

I groan, tossing the phone aside and flopping back on the couch, one arm draped dramatically over my eyes like I’m some kind of tragic romantic hero. At least the couch cushions don’t laugh at my pitiful state. I desperately need a way to reach her, a strategy to undo the damage of my own making. But so far, all I’ve wrangled is a batch of wishful thinking strong enough to ferment on its own.

Lying on my couch with a carton of half-eaten takeout balanced precariously on my knee, I’m staring at my phone, willing it to light up with a message from Caroline. The silence around me is deafening, punctuated only by the occasional car driving by outside. I’ve sent my heart out in a text, and now I’m waiting for the verdict. The anticipation is a live wire stretching my nerves thin.

Then it fucking finally happens. My phone buzzes, and I pounce on it with the grace of a cat spotting a laser dot, my heart doing its best impersonation of a jazz drummer on speed. But instead of Caroline’s name, an unknown number stares back at me. I hesitate for just a millisecond before opening the message.

Unknown

You’re an idiot.

Well, that’s not exactly reassuring. I feel my brow furrow as I type back a quick inquiry.

Who is this?

The response is almost instant.

Unknown

The matchmaker who tried to help you, but you’re too far gone for anyone to help.

Now I’m genuinely intrigued, my pulse ticking like a metronome set too fast. I pause, racking my brain. I’ve heard rumors around Silver Spoon Falls about an anonymous matchmaker, but I never paid much attention to them since I already know who my soulmate is.

I search my mind for everything I’ve heard. I know this mysterious matchmaker is supposed to be some kind of love guru, mixing up romantic potions and pairing couples left and right. I always thought it was just a local myth, kinda like the magic water that supposedly assists in love matches.

You’re involved in this?

I type back, a mix of skepticism and curiosity making my fingers tremble slightly on the keys.

Her reply is quick, laced with a distinct tone of exasperation.

Unknown

Who do you think told Caroline to send the email?

This revelation lands like a bolt out of the blue. My mind spins with the implications. So, there really is a matchmaker, and Caroline must’ve asked her for help. Strangely, a flicker of hope emerges. If she helped other clueless assholes, maybe she can help me.

I need your help.

I fire back a quick text, hoping this doesn’t come off as desperate as it feels.

Unknown

Not in this freaking lifetime. You hurt that wonderful girl and ruined my perfect record. Jerkwad.

The insult stabs me right in the center of my chest. Goddamnit. The thought of hurting Caroline sends pain lancing through my entire body.

Please.

I beg, because at this point, what do I have to lose?

There’s a moment of overwhelming silence while I watch the three little buttons dance and stop. They dance a little more, and I’m starting to get hopeful until the final response ends that glimmer of hope.

Unknown

Drop dead.

I sigh heavily, a kind of resigned amusement edging into the corners of my mood. Whoever this matchmaker is, she’s certainly got flair. But her rejection hangs heavier than the previous ones, because if anyone can see where I went wrong, surely, it's be her. It’s easy to see, whoever she is, she’s part Cupid, part drill sergeant, running her matchmaking empire with cunning strategies and a no-nonsense attitude.

Armed with the fire of determination and a plan that's as foolproof as a sieve, I decide to solve my own problem now that the matchmaker has turned me down flat. If she won’t help me, then dammit, I’ll just have to unmask this elusive Cupid and reason with her directly. As schemes go, it feels like one of my grander ones—but hey, what’s life without a bit of an audacious spirit?

First things first, I need to enlist the help of someone who knows their way around confidential information. Giant Carmichael, owner of Carmichael Security, is fortuitously known for having inside information on everything that happens in this small Texas town. If anyone can help me track down this mysterious puppet master of love, it’s him.

I grab my phone and dial his number, pacing my living room while the ring tone drones on. For all my cocky confidence, there's a nervous tick in my step. Finally, his voice crackles through the line, gritty but warm.

“Jeremy,” he greets, already knowing I wouldn’t be calling on a lazy day unless I need something. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I’ve got a job for you, kind of off-the-record.”

There’s a pause, the low buzz of consideration. “I don’t do any off-the-record shit that will come back to bite me in the ass,” he warns.

Not beating around the bush, I tell him, “Don’t worry, this won’t get you in any trouble. I’m just trying to track down the town matchmaker. I could use some help persuading her to do me a personal favor.”

Giant’s tone shifts, losing a bit of its humor. “The matchmaker, huh? Damn, Jeremy, everyone in this town respects her. Plus, she’s got this whole ‘invisible’ set-up that no one quite cracks. I’m not brave enough to fuck with her again. My ass is still doing penance for the last time I got involved when someone asked for help. I wouldn’t wade back into this mess even if I didn’t like my job. Which I very much do.”

“Yeah, but,” I start, willing Giant to understand the urgency of my situation, “can’t you help me out a little bit? Anything? I’m fucking desperate.”

“Look, there’s no bulletproof way to trace her without getting my ass caught up in it,” Giant explains, his words slowing as he weighs his next thought. “But the gossip column, Silver Spoons Single Serve, has all the info on her former clients.”

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” I grumble.

“See if her past clients can help you out. I’m staying out of this shit. I’m not gonna risk pissing her off,” he chuckles, resigning me to my quest. “Good luck,” he adds before hanging up.

I let out a sigh and dive into research mode, scrolling through past editions of the Silver Spoons Single Serve, hoping for a wink or nod in the text that might give me a new direction. It’s like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle with mismatched edges, but eventually, I stumble across a list of names that reads like the who’s-who of local legends. These people are the ones the matchmaker has supposedly helped find love.

Undeterred, I start with the most well-known name on the list. Sterling Midnight is a billionaire from Midnight Falls who’s used to getting what he wants. I dial, half-expecting the call to end as soon as someone picks up. Surprisingly, Sterling answers, his drawl oozing through the receiver like warm molasses.

“Sterling here. Who’s this?”

“Hi, Sterling, it’s Jeremy Head. I’m calling to see if you could help me out with identifying the mysterious matchmaker in Silver Spoon Falls.”

“Oh, fuck no,” he says, humor coloring his voice. “Count me out. I’m not doing anything that could piss her off. My wife would have my ass.”

“Please,” I beg, but he’s resolved, ready to invest in my predicament with platitudes rather than actionable intel.

“Sorry, man. You’re on your own,” comes his final, unhelpful declaration before turning me loose. Dead end. “Good luck.”

Asshole. I hang up and scratch his name off the list before dialing the next one. Josh Brunts, another insanely rich resident and another alleged beneficiary of the matchmaker's uncanny skills. His laughter booms down the line, sardonic and unfeigned.

“Good luck wrapping that mystery up, Jeremy. You’ll need it,” Josh quips before hanging up, leaving me with more frustration. See if I give any of these fuckers tickets to the playoffs next time they ask. Not many people know I’m part owner of the Houston Riggers, but all these men have called in favors in the past to secure tickets from me. Not happening again, assholes.

Finally, I take a shot with Hunt Sola, a former athlete whose golden years generated stories and fans across the nation. Hunt, too, offers little more than a friendly chuckle at my naive endeavor, dropping a, “Sorry, can’t help,” before sending me packing back to square one.

After my last call with Hunt Sola fizzles like a dud firecracker, I slump back against the couch. My spirit, which once felt indomitable, is starting to feel stretched thin over the loom of this matchmaking mystery. The who’s who of Silver Spoon Falls haven’t proven as helpful as I hoped, and I’m teetering on the precipice of desperation.

My phone vibrates like an insistent bumblebee on caffeine, jolting me from my brooding reverie. I glance at the screen, and my heart does a funny little hop-skip maneuver.

Unknown

Leave my clients alone, jerkwad.

Apparently, my persistent calls have finally struck a nerve.

I stare at the message, letting its sheer straightforwardness settle in. Instead of discouraging me, it’s like fuel to an already roaring fire. I don’t bother crafting a diplomatic response. This is one of those moments where you play all-in or fold, and I’m not the folding type.

Then help me out or I’ll spend every goddamn last dollar I have finding out who you are.

I press ‘send’ before second-guessing myself can take root. Not my best threat, sure, but I’m working with the stubbornness of a guy who’s put everything on the line.

The pause that follows is interminable, stretching enough to make me sweat. I leave my phone on the table, its silence an editorial on my dubious choices, before pacing around the room like a caged animal searching for an inevitable escape.

As I wait, time slinks by, testing my patience. I imagine the matchmaker somewhere out there, considering whether she’ll throw me a lifeline or leave me flailing in the lovesick waters I’ve managed to navigate myself into.

Finally, my phone buzzes again. I snatch it up, squinting at the screen as anxiety dances a tango in my chest.

Unknown

If you screw this up, I’m going to make sure you suffer in ways you’ve never even imagined possible.

You’re fucking vicious for a love guru. I’ll suffer for all eternity if I don’t win my girl.

Silence unfolds like a shroud, yet this time my apprehension is tempered with an edge of determined hope. Caroline is worth every effort, no matter how grand or small, and I won't let fear or an unhelpful matchmaker deter my path.

Unknown

Here’s what you’re going to do. Take notes.

VOTE

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