The Matchmaker

THE MATCHMAKER AN UTTERLY UNPUTDOWNABLE AND HILARIOUS IRISH ROMANTIC COMEDY CATHERINE WALSH BOOKS BY CATHERINE WALSH The Matchmaker Holiday Romance The Rebound One Night Only AVAILABLE IN AUDIO Holiday Romance (Available in the UK and the US) The Rebound (Available in the UK and the US) One Night Only (Available in the UK and the US) CONTENTS Content Note Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue Holiday Romance Prologue Chapter One Hear More from Catherine Books by Catherine Walsh A Letter from Catherine The Rebound One Night Only Acknowledgments This one’s for Rachel CONTENT NOTE This book features parental death (in the past, off-page). If this is potentially sensitive for you, please read with care. CHAPTER ONE I wake at precisely three minutes past seven to the sound of the world exploding. I know the time exactly because that’s what my grandmother’s old alarm clock tells me when my eyes snap open. I know the world is exploding because surely there is nothing else in the history of mankind that could make such a blaring, deafening noise, especially at three minutes past seven in the goddamn morning. For a few moments, I simply lie there, my heart racing as the beeping of a reversing vehicle joins the racket, followed by another bang, one that shudders through the house until I swear the bed vibrates with it. When another one sounds two seconds later, I know there’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. I sit up, plucking my useless earplugs out and throwing the mound of blankets off my bed. My phone clatters to the floor as I do, but I ignore it, my initial shock turning to righteous fury as I grab a sweater from my chairdrobe and pull it over my head. “Granny!” There’s no answer as I march down the stairs, but that’s not surprising. The noise is worse at the front of the house, with loud crashes and pounding drills filling the hallway until it’s all I can hear. By the front door, Plankton, my terminally lazy eight-year-old border collie, beats his tail once on the floor in acknowledgment of my presence and struggles to his feet. He’s not used to me being up this early and gets no rest now he has to guard the two of us all day. “Granny!” I hit the last step and turn left, almost slipping in my haste as I enter the kitchen and find my grandmother sitting at the table. Maeve Collins, my father’s mother, is a tall, thin woman with a thick head of white hair, a bad hip, and a general apathy toward most things in life. She is eighty-two years old and though her body is starting to go, her mind is as sharp as ever. I love her with my whole heart, which is why I choose to ignore the slightly defensive look she gives me when I appear, as well as the distinct smell of tobacco that the open window behind her does nothing to mask. She said she stopped smoking when I moved in with her after my parents died. Or at least she did for about three months until she caved. Now she has one in the morning and one at night and thinks I don’t know about it. It doesn’t bother me, though. I figure if she’s made it this far in life, she might as well do what she likes. “You’re up early,” is all she says when I come to a stop before her. Plankton makes it as far as the kitchen door before collapsing down again with a weary sigh. “Only by four or five hours. Do you not hear that?” “Of course I hear it. I’m old, not deaf.” “And you’re just…” I gesture at the cup of coffee and half-filled crossword beside her. The domestic scene is so normal it’s almost sickening. “Fine with it?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” “Because I can barely hear myself think!” I exclaim, as what sounds like an entire army passes by the end of our lane. She only huffs. “It’s just a few trucks.” “It is not just a few trucks; it’s a punishment.” “A punishment for what? And by who?” “I don’t know! The government?” I wince at another bang and swear I see the door rattle on its hinges. Granny doesn’t seem to notice. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this,” I continue, closing the window behind her. “I have rights.” “Seven a.m. is a perfectly legal and acceptable time to begin a day’s work.” “Not when I work until one a.m.” My hands go to my hips, my mood worsened by her refusal to immediately and unequivocally take my side. I’m so tired I can barely stand up straight. It’s been three days of this. Three days of being woken before dawn, of being pulled from broken sleep to the commotion that surrounds me now. That will surround me for the next eight hours unless I put my foot down. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t. I’m going to go talk to them.” “What do you mean, you— no, Katie.” Granny’s chair scrapes back as she stands, but I’m already spinning away, shoving my feet into a pair of rubber boots. Somewhere in the tiny, still clear-thinking part of my brain, I know the best thing I can do right now is go back to bed, that this is just several days of sleep deprivation talking, but the bigger, angrier part thinks this is a great idea. “I’m going to find the person in charge and I’m going to talk to them,” I say, my