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I smirk. “That just proves what you know—nothing about me.”
“Oh, I know something,” he murmurs, in a way that sends a shiver cartwheeling down my spine.
Before there’s a chance to argue, Mina’s face pops back up on the screen.
“Here come the names,” she announces, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s see who the quilt picked. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that there’s at least one perfect match in Mystic Meadows!”
“I’ve got mine crossed,” the reporter confirms, fingers wound tight.
I roll my eyes. “Please. This isn’t for real. Some quilt can’t match people together.”
“Now, don’t be such a sourpuss,” Rhett reprimands in a flirty voice that makes my head spin. Who is this man—an emotional fortress or an easygoing player?
“Me! Pick me,” Clarice Sinclair yells from one corner of the bar where she sits with Thelma and Betty, all of whom have their hands together like they’re praying for God to grant them just this one favor—it’s the only one they’ll ever ask!
Back on the screen, the quilt pulses with light, and then, dark swirls appear in the middle, like seaweed floating to the top of a lake. As I watch in disbelief, the swirls become words.
Air locks in my chest.
Mina says with a smile, “Our first couple is . . . Jace Hendricks and Holly Blankenship.”
My stomach flips. Jace? My ex entered the contest? He has a soulmate? And she’s here in Mystic Meadows?
I’m not jealous or anything. I mean, I’m glad his soulmate isn’t me. I could’ve predicted that I wouldn’t be chosen as his match. Besides, I’m over him.
Over him.
“Congratulations.” Mina gives a little clap. Another set of names surfaces on the quilt. “Our next pair is Clarice Sinclair and Beau Collins.”
My knees quake. Clarice got in? And with a Collins boy? Holy crap.
“Good for Clarice,” Rhett says, smiling. “She deserves some happiness.”
“Do you know how old Beau Collins is?”
“No, why?”
“He’s eighteen. Maybe nineteen. He’s a spring chicken compared to her . . . non–spring chicken.”
Rhett’s hand drops to his hip. “Now, whoever said age played a factor in love?”
“Me. I say that.”
“You’re just a cynic, Cristina.”
I cross my arms and scowl. “And you aren’t?”
“Oh, I am. Don’t get me wrong.”
“And the next couple—”
“Shh”—I tap Rhett on the shoulder—“she’s back on.”
“Is Callie Youngblood and Jeff Puryear.”
While the bar erupts in applause, Rhett leans over. “Do you know them?”
“No.”
