Chapter 1

Roy Burke had just sat down with his second coffee of the morning when the door to his office clicked open.

“Morning, darling,” came the familiar voice of his mother, breezing in with a Tupperware container and an agenda.

“Mum.” Roy didn’t look up from his screen. “You don’t need to keep feeding me. I have an entire café next door.”

“Yes, and it serves overpriced cardboard. Now, be grateful. Banana walnut loaf, no sugar, wholemeal flour — exactly how you used to like it before your arteries became a business write-off.”

He sighed, pushed his keyboard aside, and took the offering with a muttered thanks. Celia Burke took the seat across from him, adjusted the collar of his crumpled shirt with a frown, and launched straight in. “So, Roy. Any romantic developments I should know about?”

He groaned. “Mum, not this again.”

“I worry about you. Thirty-four and still no one to share your banana loaf with. It’s unnatural.”

“I’m busy. I have twenty-four employees and a backlog of consents the size of Lake Tekapo.”

“You make time for jet skis.”

“Jet skis don’t talk back.”

“That’s exactly your problem.”

At that moment, Anne, his long-suffering office manager, appeared in the doorway with a sheaf of invoices. She paused, reading the room like a weather forecaster spotting a brewing storm.

“Should I come back in five?” she asked.

“You might want to,” Roy muttered.

“No, no,” Celia said brightly, “stay, Anne. You’re part of this now.”

“Oh, good,” Anne deadpanned. “What is it this time? Intervention? Blind date? Arranged marriage?”

“I’m suggesting,” Celia said with impeccable calm, “that he advertise.”

Anne blinked. “Advertise?”

“For a wife,” Celia said. “Obviously.”

There was a beat of silence.

Roy turned slowly to face her. “You want me to advertise for a wife?”

“Well, why not? You’ve advertised for foremen, project managers, surveyors...”

“None of whom have had to share my toothpaste.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “Frankly, Roy, I’d pay good money to see that ad.”

Celia didn’t miss a beat. “I’m quite serious. I read an article about a man in Wellington who did just that. Got fifty replies. Married one of them within six months.”

Anne leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, eyes narrowing with mischief. “Do we get to write the ad together? Because I have notes.”

Roy shook his head in disbelief. “Absolutely not. This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is doing nothing and expecting your life to change,” Celia snapped, then softened her tone. “Roy, I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy,” he said, not quite convincingly. “Business is good. The team’s solid. I’ve got a house, my health—”

“A jet ski,” Anne added helpfully.

“And still no one to share it with.” Celia gave him a meaningful look. “You’re not getting any younger, dear.”

Roy opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. He rubbed his temples. “What would you have me do — advertise for a bride?”

“That’s what I just said.” Celia beamed. “At least it would be some kind of move. You’ve not done anything else.”

“I don’t have time,” he muttered.

“Then do yourself a favour and make time.”

Roy exhaled, long and slow. “Okay then,” he said, with the fatal tone of someone hoping to end the conversation, “I will.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to hang a nail in.

Celia’s eyes gleamed. “Anne. Laptop. Now. Before he changes his mind.”

Anne disappeared and returned almost instantly, clutching her sleek silver weapon of choice. She set it on Roy’s desk with reverence, opened a new document, and grinned. “Right. Let’s write you into matrimonial history.”

“I was joking,” Roy said quickly.

“Too late,” Anne replied, already typing. “You made the classic mistake of offering a sarcastic solution in front of two determined women. Now get out of this.”

Roy buried his face in his hands. “Where on earth do I start?”

“Try the beginning,” Anne said, fingers poised. “Name, age, occupation. You know — the usual suspects.”

“But what do I say?”

“For goodness’ sake,” she said, already exasperated. “How about starting with: Would you marry this man?”

She hit return, then in large, bold font, typed it out across the top of the page.

Celia clapped her hands. “Perfect. Now, let’s list the reasons someone should say yes. Roy, give us a few of your best points.”

He stared at them both in mute despair.

“Well, for a start,” Celia offered, “he’s not bad looking.”

“In a bloke-ish sort of way,” Anne said. “Still, some girls go for that.”

“He’s running a successful business,” Celia continued. “So he can afford to keep a wife.”

“Let’s hope he won’t harangue her like he does me,” Anne murmured, mostly to herself.

“He owns his own home,” Celia said.

“Not into wild parties and only occasional fancy toys,” Anne added.

“Hey—!” Roy raised a hand. “I own one jet ski.”

“Which you named.”

“It’s not a toy. It’s stress relief.”

Anne glanced at him. “I suppose that’s better than taking it out on a poor woman.”

“And she’d better be a good housekeeper,” Celia added, nodding firmly.

“Running this business gives me no time for housekeeping,” Roy said. “That’s why I pay a housekeeper.”

Celia’s eyebrows went up. “What’s she like?”

“She’s forty, married, and bosses me around something awful. Talking of bossing me around...,” he added, shooting a look at Anne.

“You need it,” Celia said without a trace of apology.

By the time the bickering was halfway through, Anne had compiled a bullet-point list under the bold heading:

WOULD YOU MARRY THIS MAN?
Age 34. Business owner. Domestic disaster. Jet ski enthusiast. Apply within.