Katy Berritt

     “Amy, Claire can’t talk to this guy,” Jen, her assistant, said. “She and Jeremy eloped on Saturday and flew to Mexico for their honeymoon. So unless you talk to him, he’s gonna want a refund.” 

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     “No. Absolutely not. My matches are always total disasters,” Amy told Jen. 

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     “Well, even if you’re...” Jen gulped. “...lousy at it, you need to take care of this guy or he’ll want his money back.”

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     Amy let loose a sigh. Giving the guy a refund would be like her walking a tightrope twenty feet off the ground; terrifying and impossible. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I’m making a prediction right now; it’ll be a catastrophe of biblical proportions.” Rising, she went to the door, Jen on her heels. She strode towards the tall, broad-shouldered man, head bent over the magazine he was thumbing through. 

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     “Sorry I was so long, Mr...”

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      The man turned and eerily familiar blue eyes met Amy’s. “Dennison, Nicholas Dennison,” he said with a crooked smile. “Nick to my friends.”

 

     The blood drained from Amy’s head. In her mind, she heard the sharp crack of the tree limb she’d been perched on as it broke under her chubby adolescent body, and the look of horror on Nick’s face when Amy plummeted onto the windshield of his Mustang convertible, her nearly-full cherry Big Gulp still clenched in her hand. His date’s white prom dress was never the same. Neither was their relationship.

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     “Uh... uh... Hi.” Amy shook herself back to the present and prayed for help. Of course, there was no answer. Why should there be; God obviously hated her. 

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     He quirked an eyebrow. “Um, hi back, Miss…?” he murmured, his blue eyes betraying not a hint of recognition. 

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     OMG. He didn’t remember her. Not that Amy expected him to since back then she’d been an awkward thirteen-year-old hiding behind conveniently placed azalea bushes, and her hideous glasses, and he’d been eighteen, gorgeous and a senior in high school. 

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     Swallowing, she managed to croak, “I’m... I’m... I’m...” Oh, shit, who was she? Not Amy Novak, that was for sure. He may not recognize the face, but he would surely remember the name. How could he not when it had been on the bottom of the numerous perfume-drenched love letters she’d snuck into his mailbox in the middle of the night. 

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     Well, geez, she’d been thirteen. What the heck did she know?

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     “You’re...?” he prompted, pulling a business card from his shirt pocket and glancing at it. “Miss Robbins? Right?”

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     Maybe God didn’t hate her so much after all. “Right,” she said, taking a deep breath to slow her rampaging heartbeat. “But you can call me... er, Claire.” She stuck out a hand.  “Welcome to Heart-2-Heart.”