Harte Strings: The Billionaire Matchmaker, Part Two by Gina Robinson Page A

have.
    Lottie and I had decided beforehand to divide and conquer. We separated the minute we hit the patio, and began mingling. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Social awkwardness and shyness, maybe. I shouldn’t have worried. I was immediately waylaid by Austin near the bar. He already had a half-empty beer in his hand.
    “Austin,” he said, as if not expecting me to remember his name.
    I liked it. It was both humble and socially graceful to make sure the other person wasn’t wildly grasping for his name and too embarrassed to ask.
    “Lazer should have given us nametags.” He grinned. “They’re standard at corporate events, right? I’ll have to give him hell for putting the ladies at a disadvantage. I’ve known the rest of these boneheads for years. The question is—how have we put up with each other for so long?”
    I laughed. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good with names. I remembered yours. It’s hard to forget such a tall, broad-shouldered man and that luscious mane of red hair.” I caressed my words, trying to draw him out. See how he reacted to being flirted with.
    He ran a hand through his hair self-consciously, caught himself, and dropped his hand by his side. He laughed nervously. “Red hair is the curse of my family. It’s supposed to be recessive, but it’s dominant in mine. Any woman who marries me is going to have to accept that her kids will be carrot tops. And teased mercilessly about it.”
    “Well I like it. It’s a beautiful auburn.” I studied him closely. His beard was much brighter red than his hair. “If you shaved your beard, no one would be likely to call you carrot top.”
    He stroked his beard. After the initial horrified look at the thought of losing his facial hair passed, he seemed to consider it.
    “Anyway,” I said. “Shave or not, red and green are the rarest colors for hair and eyes.”
    “True. But they aren’t to everyone’s tastes, either.” He grinned, obviously pleased.
    I let silence follow, waiting for him to fill in the gaps. I wanted to see how he did with small talk. There was an awkward pause where I kept smiling at him, waiting for him to take the lead.
    “So how does this matchmaking work?” He glanced at my empty hands and looked like he realized he’d made a social mistake. “Sorry. Where are my manners? What can I get you? Beer? Wine? Hard cider? Hard lemonade? Hard root beer? A mixed drink? Something nonalcoholic? Lazer has it all.”
    “A beer sounds good.” Mirroring. It made people feel comfortable. He was having a beer. I would have a beer. It helped that I liked beer, especially on warm evenings like this one.
    Austin stepped behind the bar, opened the fridge, and laughed to himself, shaking his head. “Do you want me to run through the list of choices? Lazer has dozens. We could be here all night.”
    “I like ale, if that narrows the field.”
    “Only slightly.” He rummaged around the fridge. “Damn, Laze!”
    Austin laughed and pulled a bottle of beer with a girlie, scroll-y purple label from the fridge, shaking his head. “This must be meant for you. Honey-lavender ale. Lazer likes to impress women with flowers in every form possible. It’s his ‘thing.’” He made air quotes and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Sooner or later he’ll offer to make you his lavender martini. If you turn it down, he’ll decide you’re more of a beer girl. This is his backup drink. Ten to one there’s a lavender lemonade in that fridge somewhere, too. In case you’re not a drinker.” He held the beer bottle out for me to inspect like a fine bottle of wine. “Drink this now and we throw his game off.”
    I smiled, too, liking Austin more and more. Delighted to have a conspirator. “You’re positively diabolical.” I tapped the bottle and studied the label. “Is this any good?”
    He shrugged. “Decent. Summery and fresh is how they market it. It’s made by a buddy’s brew house.”
    “Sold.”
    He opened it