The Matchmaker Meets Her Match by Jenny Jacobs Page A

normal. Only he was having trouble adjusting to a normal that didn’t have companionship in it, the kind of companionship he wanted.
    He didn’t know why he went back to Rilka’s. She was not exactly a shoulder to cry on. Although, see, Rilka had never wondered why he didn’t use prosthetics, at least not out loud and within his hearing. She almost certainly didn’t give a rat’s ass why. Or maybe … she knew it was none of her business. Did him the courtesy of assuming he’d fucking heard of prosthetics and had made an informed decision about them.
    He didn’t really think Rilka would find someone for him. The right someone. Someone who treated him like she’d treat anyone. Only not the kind who’d pretend it was all right that he didn’t have legs. It wasn’t all right that he didn’t have legs, that he’d gotten blown up in some stupid Middle Eastern war and then people acted like he deserved a medal for just doing his job. People did their jobs. If he’d known what was coming, he’d have called in sick that day.
    So. It wasn’t that he wanted someone who pretended. Hell, that was half the reason he preferred the wheelchair. No pretending. What he wanted was for someone to like him anyway. For it not to matter.
    He’d gone to Henry’s like Rilka had suggested, and met her friend Marilyn tending bar, and the evening had gone fine. The first time had been harder than the second, and he’d seen Rilka’s point. The more he went the less they stared, and the less uncomfortable he was.
    But so far none of the people he’d met interested him half as much as Rilka did.
    • • •
    “My name is Daphne,” the slender brunette said, her voice tremulous. She stood awkwardly on the other side of Rilka’s door. She fingered her long hair, pulling it across her cheek in an unconsciously defensive gesture. She had startling blue eyes, exotic, romantic, but she hunched her shoulders, trying to hide.
    They’ll find you anyway
, Rilka resisted saying. Although that would be one way to solve her inability to be an effective matchmaker, start running the clients off as soon as they showed up at the door.
    She went with, “That’s a beautiful name,” taking in the scar on the woman’s face but not lingering on it. “I’m Rilka. Please come in.”
    Rilka brought her into the kitchen where Daphne winced at the brightness of the sun. Rilka adjusted the shades, then fumbled with the tea, spilling water across the counter, distracted from what she was trying to do. The woman’s disfiguring scar was obviously the reason she was here. She would want someone who could see past the disfigurement. Honest to God, Rilka had once believed such people existed, but it seemed like society had become so youth-and appearance-obsessed that it was no longer true. The content of your character didn’t matter half as much as —
    Gran would have told her she was being ridiculous, that society had always been appearance-oriented and if finding The One were so easy there would be no need for matchmakers. But it wasn’t wrong for Rilka to wish there were no need for matchmakers, was it? Wouldn’t it be nice if people could manage on their own? And then Rilka would … clean houses for a living. Sack groceries. Something. She brought the tea over to the table.
    “So tell me how it’s going,” she began.
    The young woman gave a shaky smile and accepted the mug of tea Rilka offered, focusing on her mug and not looking at Rilka. Rilka sat down opposite her and gave an encouraging smile. Not that Daphne, head determinedly lowered, could see it. But it was the thought that counted, right?
    “This is hard,” Daphne whispered, still staring at the tea. Rilka was used to people not looking at her when they spoke. Somehow it was easier for them if they acted like she was just another piece of furniture and they just happened to be sharing their thoughts aloud. Sometimes she amused herself by guessing what piece of furniture she would