Under The Mistletoe: The Matchmaker Series, #1

By M.C. Cerny

Monroe Matches is throwing the hottest holiday mixer for all the sexy singles in Miami. We've got the mistletoe. Come and meet your holiday match…

Carla Monroe has been matching couples for decades, but if there's one match she hasn't gotten right, it's her son, Phineas. No woman has sparked his interest, no matter how many of her top contenders she's secretly paraded in his path…both in and out of the office.

Luckily for Carla, Maxine Mackenzie has finally come back to Miami. Once she pairs her grumpy marketing director son with the free-spirited party planner, sparks fly. Taking a cue from her shaman, Carla hightails it out of town to let the two people who need a match the most fall…Under the Mistletoe.

 

Other stand-alone romcoms in this series can be read in any order!

 

Book 1. Under The Mistletoe (Finn & Maxie)

Book 2. The Naughty List (Rand & Pris)

Book 3. Own The Night (Bruno & Andi)

Book 4. My Dearest Captain (Topher & Genny)

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.C. Cerny
• Release date: Dec 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507062791

Book preview

One

Finn

My phone chirps with an unexpected text message triggering the dull ache in my head after a night of almost debauchery and regret. I rub the crystalline gunk from my eyes ignoring the chirps that sound increasingly like my mum’s shrill voice. Words vibrate along my skull telling me not to touch things that don’t belong to me unless I’m willing to pony up a ring. Mum’s opinion means the world to me even if I deny it to myself.

Glancing at the clock, it’s early. Truth be told, too early for this nonsense. I roll over to stare at the ceiling that doesn’t offer comfort or talk back. I’ve got no one to blame for this except myself. Injecting a woman into my life means she’ll be subjected to my family’s scrutiny and who the hell has time for that? Not this guy.

Will this be the sum total of my future nights?

Alone in bed?

Subjected to the silence in my bloody condo because random chickadees are more trouble than they’re worth, despite the pleasurable outcome? I should consider a pet. Maybe a dog? Too needy. A cat? Too independent. A fish? Oh for fucks sake a fish wasn’t comfy-cozy the way a nice woman’s curvy soft body would be.

The phone chirps again.

I groan aloud thumping my head on the pillow.

I’m hesitant to read it. Extremely hesitant. If I hadn’t been working a meet and greet last night with a few drinks under my belt and some enthusiastic dancing partners, I would have been running at the beach this morning pounding sand. Instead, like a foolhardy frat boy nearly half my age, I hammered drinks, and I’m feeling the unfortunate side effects of my pounding head. Yes, everything is presently pounding, thumping, and aching. A bit hung over and foggier than normal, my finger slides depressingly slow over the sunset screenshot checking messages.

QueenMum: Phineas – I need you in the office.

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Before I can stop myself, I type back belligerently.

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Fin: For what?

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I watch the screen pulse with three dots certain she’s deleted her original message a few times prepared to box my ears.

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QueenMum: Early meeting. Don’t be late.

Well that’s informative. I roll my eyes and toss my phone which skitters off the nightstand hitting the floor bouncing somewhere under the bed. Groaning unintelligible curses, I plunk to the floor on my hands and knees in a pathetic mess searching for the device.

Only three women, not including my pain in the arse sister have ever been allowed to call me by my first name… Phineas. It’s a hell of a burden, a real mouthful when a woman tries screaming it in the throes of passion. I can’t recall the last time I even introduced myself with my full name. My dad Jonathon had little say in the matter. The burdener of my moniker is my mum, who we affectionately call Queenie. Carla Monroe cursed me with my grandfather’s whopper, and if I hadn’t been such a strapping lad I would have had my ass beat every day in school.

I’ll stick with Finn, thank you very much.

Mum’s a third-generation matchmaker of Monroe Matches, whose biggest claim to fame is matching a Persian sheik to a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, and becoming godmother to their twins. Every New Year we get this huge basket of sweets, tea, and Pistachios that last until March. I’ve never seen so many nuts and candied figs in my life. It’s a lovely gesture, but you would hope that after a few years the deliveries would stop. They never stop. The sheik must have us on one those Harry & David auto-shipments, only nicer and costing a bloody fortune in international shipping costs.

The second was my first grade school crush when I realized girls get tits and all kinds of wonderful curves in their mid-twenties. I fondly thought of Ms. Madigan from time to time and wondered how she was doing since marrying the gym teacher Mr. Lodi. She had the best cursive handwriting, the prettiest blonde hair, and smelled like sugar cookies. I found out years later they also had twins and I vowed to avoid whatever water they’d been drinking out of fear for my virility and sanity.

I clutch my rolling stomach and make my way from floor to the bathroom. So much for fond memories laced with last night’s alcohol binge.

There was one other, but I hadn’t seen her in years. Her name a whisper on my lips, forbidden and lost in time. I push those memories away because they only lead to trouble and a punch from my sister anytime I ask about her.

QueenMum: Grab me a frozen skinny latte with extra ice, espresso shot, and two pumps of mocha and hazelnut.

A please would have been nice, but my mum obviously has something on her mind if she’s demanding a Queenly decree for a caffeinated kick start to the day. Coffee runs our office as much as electricity, however, I’ll settle for electrolytes and sunglasses until I feel right again.

Anything else your highness? I mutter stretching my neck until I feel the pop of joints realigning. The phone chirps again with more incoming messages in rapid succession.

QueenMum: Make sure you shower.

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QueenMum: Wear a suit and clean knickers.

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QueenMum: Preferably the Tom Ford.

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QueenMum: You’re a bloody professional for god’s sake.

Mum definitely has a bee in her bonnet considering last night was a success as usual. I hadn’t been on the receiving end of her ire for at least a week. Last month she tried setting me up on a blind date when my sister dumped her last flavor. Whatever happened to ethical rules in matchmaking?

Don’t treat your family like clients?

Don’t poach dates from the same pool?

If my mother could sell my baby batter on the black market I wouldn’t put it past her in her quest for grandchildren before I’m thirty.

QueenMum: If you’re not here in twenty minutes I’m sending Priscilla to pick you up.

And maybe something else like, don’t torture your hung over children?

Alright, I’m bloody moving, Queenie.

Good God, the last thing I need is reinforcements in the form of my overbearing pain in the arse sister. She’ll probably go on a skank search and rescue mission of my condo. Sadly she’d be disappointed.

I lumber off the floor shamelessly crawling to my loo using the wall as God intended for leverage. A quick peek over the edge of the bed confirms it’s blissfully empty. As I said, I don’t usually bring the chickadees home, but I had been fairly lit at the time last night.

Lisa, Lorna, Ashley… whoever she was must have gotten the hint. I made it a practice to employ non-cuddle behavior at the end of the evening with girls I’ve only got a passing fancy for, otherwise I have to peel the girls off like gum from my shoe. I could only take so much Finn…oh, Finn. I love your crazy accent at odd hours of the night. That’s the fun of being a British transplant in Miami–I attract all the wacky anglophiles.

The cool tile walls of the bathroom invigorate me to move from the floor righting myself. I scroll through the evening’s bevy of text messages while I piss in the toilet multi-tasking. Hey, at least my aim is true while hung over. Messages from girls I don’t know get deleted, a job hazard with perks… just not today. The ones from my mum in capitals get prioritized into my daily calendar seeing as how she’s also my boss.

QueenMum: PHINEAS CHARLES MONROE – GET YOUR ARSE TO THE OFFICE, PRONTO!

Well, mum isn’t one to mince words when the middle name comes out in boldfaced type, and I’m not a disrespectful runt.

Most of the time.

A jiffy pit stop at Starbucks and I purchase a plethora of baked goods including vanilla iced scones, Danishes, bagels, and coffee–plenty of coffee for each woman in my life. A skinny latte for mum, hot caramel mocha for my sister, and a spiced chai