Page 2 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

MIA

T here’s something sacred about mornings in Bardstown, Kentucky. The way the sunlight catches on dew-damp rooftops. The smell of fresh biscuits drifts from Miss Mabel’s diner two streets over. The quiet hum of a town not in a hurry to wake up.

And then there’s my mother.

Now that I live alone, I’m mostly by myself, which is awesome because I love my privacy.

But on mornings like this—when she shows up unannounced with a bag of fruit and a pile of stories I didn’t ask for—I find myself tired before the day even begins.

Still, there’s something oddly comforting about her chaos.

“Mia Elise Davis, are you ignoring me again?”

I blink up from my mascara wand, nearly poking myself in the eye. “No, Mom. I’m just attempting to make myself look less like a sleep-deprived raccoon.”

She huffs from the hallway, the kind of long-suffering sigh only a retired Southern mother can master. “I’m just saying, Cora Bennett’s daughter is newly single and very lonely. All she needs is a good match, and who better than the world’s most successful unofficial matchmaker?”

“World’s most successful florist,” I mutter, blotting lipstick on a tissue. “Let’s not confuse flower arrangements with being a fairy godmother, Mom. Besides, I’ve told you a million times that I can’t do it.”

“You got Sophie married to royalty, for heaven’s sake!”

“That was—” I sigh, grabbing my bag. “That was an accident. I didn’t even know Graham was a prince.”

She appears in the doorway of my bedroom, arms folded and displaying a determined mischief expression.

“You can’t keep denying that you’ve got a gift,” she says. “Three matches in the past year. All of them are married or engaged. That’s not a coincidence.”

“Or it’s just small-town probability,” I counter, stepping into my flats. “This was cute when I did it for Sophie, Emma, and Riley, but that’s about it. I don’t know why I’ve been getting so many DMs and emails asking me to find a match for them. I’m a florist, not some matchmaker.”

Mom tuts and follows me into the kitchen. “But Cora is my best friend. She wants me to talk you into helping Lily. Lily is sweet. She just needs the right kind of guy.”

“She’s allergic to dogs. She nearly fainted when the last ‘right guy’ brought out his Shih Tzu in a sweater.”

“He probably didn’t mention the dog would be dining with them.”

“He did. Multiple times. Lily said she thought he was joking. Who would joke about something like that?”

“Well, maybe?—”

“She refused to speak to the ‘right guy’ before that unless it was in Game of Thrones quotes.”

Mom grins. “She’s passionate.”

“She’s unhinged.”

“You know you love helping people find love. You’re such a hopeless romantic.”

Okay. My mom is right about one thing: I love helping people find love. The joy of seeing two people you’ve pushed together take the bold leap, holding each other’s hands, is indescribable. I felt it with Emma and Sam. With Riley and Ethan. With Sophie and Graham.

But the part about being a hopeless romantic? Well, I’m not so sure. Maybe once in the past, I used to be. I was madly in love with Ryan, my high school sweetheart. But he moved out of Bardstown and shattered my heart. I’ve been a little guarded since then.

“See? You’re smiling!” Mom laughs.

“Fine. Maybe I do love matching couples, but not when one party is uninterested.”

“Lily is interested now, I promise.” She hands me a travel mug of coffee. “So, you’ll try again?”

I groan but take the cup. “Fine. But this is the last time I try to set her up with someone. She better be ready.”

Mom kisses my cheek. “That’s my girl. Love always finds a way.”

“Sometimes love needs to be left on read.” I grab my bag and head out for the new day.

M y flower shop is my favorite place in the world. It smells like lavender, roses, and possibility. The painted bell over the door jingles as I unlock it, and the morning light spills in through the wide front windows and falls across rows of cheerful tulips and hydrangeas.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” I greet the hanging fern above the register.

Okay, so I talk to my plants. They listen better than people.

By ten a.m., I’ve taken three delivery orders, arranged a bridal bouquet, and dodged two more matchmaking requests—one from Mrs. Greene (trying to marry off her forty-year-old son who still lives in her basement) and another from a very serious-looking man who wants “a wife with strong faith, no tattoos, and a practical understanding of goat farming.”

I’m half-considering printing a sign that says: “Florist First. Cupid on Occasional Contract.”

The worst part? I kind of love it. Listen, it’s a love-hate relationship, okay? Don’t judge me.

Seeing two people connect, even when they’re awkward or overly enthusiastic about weird values… feels like putting something good into the world—like planting something and watching it bloom.

At precisely noon, the shop bell jingles again, and my best friend Emma breezes in like a walking ray of sunshine, clutching two takeout lattes.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I ask, reaching for the cup labeled Mia —extra vanilla, extra caffeine, no regrets.

She sets the bag down. “Yes, but I like to hear it weekly.”

“Fine. Here’s my weekly submission. I love you.”

She laughs and kisses my cheek before settling down beside me.

I grin. “What’s the gossip? You look like you’re about to burst.”

She practically vibrates as she leans against the counter. “Have you seen what Jack Calloway got himself into this time?”

Emma’s obsession with entertainment and celebrity gossip is one of the many things people don’t know about her.

In public, she gives off a composed, boss woman aura.

But in private, she eats up tabloid news and gossip columns like her life depends on it.

She knows everything and anything about celebrities, especially Jack Calloway.

Jack Calloway. One of the most famous actors in the world. Tall. Handsome. Wealthy. The whole shebang. But I don’t like him. He has the looks; I mean, no matter how much I dislike him, anytime he shows up on my screen, I swoon for a second before catching myself.

The reason I don’t like him? His character. Nah. He’s a playboy and a flirt. Every time I see him on the news, it’s with a different girl. I’m surprised by how much love he’s constantly receiving from women. Don’t they see that he doesn’t respect them?

“What did he do this time?” I groan and move to fluff a bouquet.

“He was caught with Vanessa Howard.”

“So?” I shrug. “Come on, guys, why do we keep acting surprised whenever we see Jack Calloway with a new woman? At this point, we should expect it.”

“No. It’s different.” Emma grabs my hand. “He was caught with Vanessa Howard. As in—Frank Howard’s wife.”

I blink. “Wait, married Vanessa Howard?”

Emma nods, eyes wide. “The internet is losing it. Frank’s pulled funding from Jack’s film. They say Jack might get dropped as the lead.”

I set down the pruning shears. “Well, maybe that’s karma.”

Emma gives me a look. “You don’t think that’s a little harsh?”

“I think Jack Calloway has made a career out of charming women and setting fire to his reputation every six months.”

“He’s a good actor.”

“No doubt. But he’s a reckless person.”

Emma sips her drink. “You’re awfully judgmental for someone who’s never met him.”

“I’m just saying,” I reply, moving to the register, “some people set out to create chaos and call it charisma.”

“Okay, but you gotta admit—he’s charming.”

“He’s exhausting,” I say. “With a great jawline. And amazing gray eyes. And great bone structure, but that’s it.”

Emma grins. “Aha. So you do see him.”

“Even tornadoes can be photogenic.” I roll my eyes.

She laughs and reaches for her phone. “Well, it might just be the end for him. No one can help him now; he needs a miracle. People are angry. Producers are talking. Investors are pulling out. He’s managed to make the biggest mess of his career.”

“Boo-hoo.”

“Not nice, Mia. Not nice at all.”

“Whatever. He literally doesn’t know you. For all we know, he might only exist on the internet. I don’t care.”

Emma sets down her phone. “So, Sam forgot our anniversary last night,” she says, switching topics as easily as only she knows how.

I gasp. “No!”

“Oh, yeah. Dead to rights. Came home with a plunger from the hardware store.”

I blink. “Was it romantic at least?”

“It was a deluxe model. With an ergonomic grip. I forgave him.”

“What?” I snort. “Well, clearly he’s a keeper.”

Emma laughs. “He was so proud. Said it was for our home maintenance needs.”

“Sam has always been like that,” I chuckle. “He’s very bad with dates.”

Emma scoffs. “It’s been what? About two years? You’d think he remembers by now.”

“Right? But he loves you.”

“I know that, duh.” Emma huffs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “That man may love me more than he loves himself.”

“Well, he needs not worry; you love him more than enough.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “You probably fell first.”

“You should never let him hear that,” Emma commands playfully.

“My mouth is sealed.”

“Like your dating life.”

“Oh, wow,” I gasp. “Emma!”

“What? I’m not lying.”

“Yeah.” I sigh dramatically, pulling my phone from my apron. “No wonder people keep asking me to find love for them. I’m better at matchmaking than I am at dating.”

I open Instagram and groan as my inbox floods with DMs.

“Speaking of matchmaking…” I tilt my phone toward Emma. “That’s fifteen requests since this morning. One wants me to match her daughter, another says she’s praying for divine intervention and thinks I’m it, and—oh, look—someone sent me their resume like I’m running a dating agency.”

Emma peers over. “At least they spelled your name right this time.”

I scroll down, yawning until something bright blue catches my eye.

A check mark.

I freeze.

Wait.

“Okay, either I’m losing my mind or…” I tap the message and squint. “Nova just messaged me?”

Emma pauses mid-sip. “Who’s Nova?”

“Jack Calloway’s manager.”

Her eyes go wide. “Nova Chambers. Wait. What?!”

I spin the phone around. “It says—‘Hi Mia, I represent Jack Calloway. I’d love to speak with you about a potential partnership. Please let me know when you’re free to chat.’”

Emma snatches the phone. “Blue check. Verified. Oh my gosh, this is real. Mia. This is actual Hollywood.”

“I thought it was spam!”

Emma scrolls quickly. “Look! She even said they’ll cover your flight and hotel.”

My stomach flips. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

Emma lowers the phone with a frown. “What do you mean nope?”

“I mean, I’m not flying to L.A.”

“Why not?” She looks like she’ll cry. “This is an amazing opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?” I ask. “I’m a florist. I sell flowers. What partnership could she possibly want from me? They’re in freaking Hollywood, Emma. Are you saying there are no florists over there? Does she want flowers? What?”

“It clearly says she’d like to discuss this partnership with you. You won’t know what she wants until you go there.”

“What if they kill me? Or kidnap me?”

“Sure. The famous Nova Chambers is a serial killer,” she answers sarcastically.

“Emma, I’m serious!”

“She’s not,” Emma laughs. “She has a reputation to protect.”

“Sure. Like she’s protecting Jack’s reputation.”

“Low blow, Mia,” Emma huffs. “What’s with you this morning? Jack’s reputation has nothing to do with Nova. She’s a great woman. Besides, this partnership will surely come with a lot of money. I know you need money…”

She stares pointedly at me, and I know she’s referring to the charity organization that I’m passionate about. The one very dear to my heart because I’ve lived it. Lately, we’ve been low on funds, and it’s not funny. The kids need us. The kids need me .

I stare at the message again. That blue check might as well be a portal to another universe. A glamorous, expensive, probably chaotic one I have no business stepping into.

Still…

“They said everything’s covered?” I ask cautiously.

Emma grins. “Flight. Hotel. Probably room service, too.”

I sigh. “This better not end with me on a magazine cover.”

She raises her tea in salute. “If it does, you better save me a signed copy. Sam and I will pore over it while we eat dinner.”

“You’re insane.”

“And if, by any chance, you run into Jack, can you please get me an autograph? Or a picture? Or maybe a video shoutout?” She grins. “I want it to say, ‘Thank you, Emma, for being a longstanding fan. I appreciate your support.’ Simple and short.”

“Yeah, right.”

With Emma breathing down my neck, I text Nova Chambers back.