LITMIR.BIZ

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And it didn’t make any difference that he’s older than me. Or that he’s in college and I’m only in seventh grade. Our hearts were made to beat as one. It’s like we knew each other in another life! And when I had to go upstairs to do my homework—I’ll never forgive Miranda for being so bossy!!!—Ivan said in his deep, wonderful voice, “I can’t tell you how glad I am finally to have met you, Ainsley.” Finally. He said it just like that. Like he knew it was our destiny to meet. Like he’d expected us to fall in love at first sight. Like it was kismet or something. Like he recognized that I was his destiny, just as I know he is mine.

      I hope he comes home with Matt next weekend, too. And every weekend from now on. By the time they graduate from college, I’ll be almost sixteen. Old enough to date. Old enough to be taken seriously. Old enough to marry Ivan and live happily ever after! Forever and ever and ever….

      Mrs. Ivan Donovan. Ainsley Elizabeth Donovan.

      Ainsley Danville Donovan.

      Ainsley loves Ivan. Ivan loves Ainsley.

      Ainsley and Ivan forever.

      October 31

      Dear Diary,

      I can’t believe I just found this old diary again. And on Halloween, too! Spooky, huh? I thought I’d lost it forever, but there it was in my closet, stuck in that stupid Cinderella backpack I used to carry in junior high. I can’t believe I was such a total airhead back then. Cinderella!!! Can you believe I was ever so drop-dead dumber than dumb? The backpack was probably Miranda’s idea of a great birthday gift. Or Matt’s. They’d like to think of me as a little girl forever and ever and ever. They hate the fact that I’m a grown-up. But I’m in high school now and Andrew and I will be fifteen on our next birthday. Sooner or later, Miranda and Matt will have to stop treating me like such a baby. They don’t do that to Andrew…and he’s only an hour and twenty minutes older than me. When he says he’s going to be a professional photographer, they fall all over themselves to encourage him. Of course, he’s talented. I’m not saying he isn’t or that he shouldn’t be a photographer because he’ll be really, really good at that. I’m his twin. I know these things. It’s just that when I say I’ve decided I’m going to be a professional matchmaker everybody just laughs and reminds me that I said I wanted to be an astronaut when I was thirteen and an engineer when I was eleven, and a fairy godmother when I was six. Miranda likes to points out that I’m not really suited to any of those positions, although a lot she knows about it. I could be suited to be an engineer or an astronaut if I wanted to. But I want to be a matchmaker! Which is the same as a fairy godmother, when you think about it, and that’s what I’ve really always wanted to be. I just said I wanted to be other things so Matt and Miranda wouldn’t tease me, so they’d encourage me like they do Andrew. But they never take me seriously, no matter what I do. And the thing is, I know I’ll be good at being a matchmaker. I just know it! Matt says I shouldn’t worry about a career, that I’ll have plenty of time to decide once I get to college. I’m not even sure I want to go to college. I already know the important things about being a matchmaker. I believe in Love and Romance and Happily Ever After. All my friends ask me for advice about their romantic interests. I’m good at giving advice. I really, really am. I’ll be a great matchmaker and someday I’ll have my own office—with a view—and the business will be called F.G. (short for Fairy Godmother, except I won’t tell Miranda and Matt what it stands for!) Matchmaking. Then they’ll think twice about calling me “Baby.” Ugh.

      I used to be able to talk to Ivan about stuff like this, but he’s gotten so serious since he’s in med school and he never has time to play Ping-Pong with me when he does come to Danfair…which is not very often anymore. I don’t know why I thought I was in love with him, anyway. He’s just like a brother and teases me almost as much as Matt and Andrew. And he looks at Miranda like she’s ice cream. Maybe I’ll make them my first assignment as a matchmaker. Ivan and Miranda. Ha! It would serve them right if I got them together and they ended up married. Then they’d have to stop teasing me about wanting to be Cinderella’s fairy godmother. Then they’d have to admit I know what I’m doing. Then I’ll find somebody for Matt and he’ll have to admit I’m a good matchmaker. And Andrew…well, he is my twin. He may not need much help.

      Oops, gotta go. A whole group of us are going trick-or-treating and then to a party at Sabrina’s house and I think Collier might try to kiss me tonight. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll let him. I’m off….

      P.S. Don’t get lost again, okay?

      Chapter One

      Discretion was not Ainsley Danville’s strong suit.

      Which was why she was standing at the back of the Newport Presbyterian Church—the second of three bridesmaids who were all wearing silky poufs of lavender organza—and waiting for the wedding coordinator to cue her entrance. Ahead of her, a bower of roses lined the doorway like a dowager’s perfume, thick and thorny with fragrance. Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” gushed from the pipe organ in a waterfall of chords, beckoning the bridesmaids forward and down the aisle. The flames of a hundred candles lent an eerie glow to the dark interior of the old church, lighting a sure path to disaster.

      Ainsley clenched the nosegay of pink rosebuds in her hands and watched as her elder sister, Miranda, the first bridesmaid, started down the aisle. Ainsley craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the groom. If he had any sense, he’d be halfway to Canada by now. But no. There he was, her cousin Scott, looking slightly less geeky than usual, so hopeful and eager to see Molly, his bride, it was heartrending. He was about to make a terrible mistake. Ainsley knew it in the depths of her matchmaker’s soul. And it was her fault.

      She had wanted to be a matchmaker for as long as she could remember. Well, actually, she’d started out wanting to be everyone’s fairy godmother. While other little girls dreamed of being Cinderella, Ainsley had practiced waving her sparkly plastic wand and sending the transformed Ella off to the ball, where she would meet the man of her dreams…a prince who would fall madly, instantly in love because he’d been cunningly placed in her path by her wise fairy godmother. That was the way happily ever afters really happened.

      Ainsley had suspected it for years, long before she began reading everything—nonfiction, fiction, biographies, cultural histories—anything with even a slight relevance to the art of courtship and marriages. She’d weathered her family’s teasing and a lot of snickering from friends. But a matchmaker is what she wanted to be and, as if her own fairy godmother had arranged it, she had discovered a mentor in Ilsa Fairchild of IF Enterprises, an elite, very selective matchmaking service located in Providence. Just a hop, skip and jump from Newport. Ainsley had invested her considerable energy into lobbying for a position at IF, and to everyone’s amazement—even a little to her own surprise—Ilsa had taken her on as an apprentice.

      Ainsley couldn’t have been more excited. Or more enthusiastic. Finally, she was going to have a career of her own. Finally, she was going to be a bona fide matchmaker. Finally, her overprotective brothers and sister would have to stop treating her like a baby and admit she was capable of so much more than being “cute.” The position with IF Enterprises was perfect in every way and it suited her to a tee.

      Except for her ongoing struggle to keep a lid on her enthusiasm.

      If only she’d been discreet and told people her job was in personal relations, as Ilsa had advised her to do. If only she hadn’t informed the family, bragged, in fact, that she’d taken an apprenticeship with the most exclusive matchmaker in New England. If only she’d kept her mouth shut about IF Enterprises and her dream-come-true job, then she wouldn’t be standing at the back of a church right now watching her cousin prepare to marry the wrong woman.

      “Ainsley…?” The wedding coordinator—a largish woman in a purple smock—hissed at her to get her attention. “You’re next. Remember…left foot first. Count your steps just as we practiced.”

      But Ainsley had no recollection of last night’s rehearsal. She’d been too busy trying to think of some way to sabotage the wedding and stop the marriage from taking place. Obviously,

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