Love Is In the Air Volume 1

by Susan Stoker

  1

  Chloe

  I was over it.

  Swipe-rights that ended up all wrong, liars who looked nothing like their online profile pic, and direct-message pervs who sent dick pics.

  When Bree—my easygoing boss at Hot Shot Magazine—asked me to complete an undercover story about a popular dating app that guaranteed its members a happily ever after, I cheerfully told her, “Fuck, no.”

  “Come on, Chloe,” she persisted. “It’ll be excellent for our Love Is In The Air feature, and you’re the only one here who’s still single, the only one who can join a dating app.”

  Still. Single.

  Ugh.

  I hated that even at work, I’d been placed in the SS category.

  Bad enough, my two best friends, Macy and Sage, married their true NFL hottie loves, leaving me still single in Manhattan—a trend that died with Sex and the City.

  I shook my head and continued to delete old files off my desktop computer. “Elinore’s single. Get her to do it.”

  “Yeah, right.” Bree scoffed. “You suggest that little Spinster Queen write this story—the lady whose idea of a wild night is one spent at home in her snuggie while she watches an old DVD of March of the Penguins?”

  I offered a nonchalant shrug and ignored the desperation in her eyes.

  “Chloe, you have to do this”—she crossed her arms over her chest—“or I’ll withdraw your name from the list of those up for a promotion.”

  That remark drove my narrow-eyed attention straight to her. The nerve. I’d worked my ass off over the past few months—won the esteemed Newbie Award for my articles. “Everyone knows my name deserves to be on that list. Besides, I’m over guys—over time wasted on quests to find Mr. Right—so you, my dear boss babe, have got the wrong girl for this story.”

  “Actually, that’s what makes you the perfect candidate.” She eased onto the chair beside my desk, gray eyes glistened with hope. “You’ll go into this skeptical of all the things, skeptical of an app that guarantees a happily-ever-after.”

  “Fine”—I rolled my eyes—“what’s the name of this app?”

  “Luv Bytes.” Bree blinked.

  “You mean the app Park Avenue Prick created?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Nope.” I pursed my lips. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Chloe…”

  “Seriously, Bree,” I huffed. “You know I want nothing to do with that jerk. Not after the way he treated me when I wanted to make him the subject of my ‘New York’s Most Wealthy and Eligible Bachelor’ piece a few months ago.”

  “Well, you won’t have to deal with Jameson Wright directly.”

  Ugh. The mere sound of that man’s name seemed worse than nails against a chalkboard.

  “You’ll simply create a profile,” she babbled on, “allow the app to find your match, and…”

  “And…what?”

  “When you’re not perfectly matched, as they erroneously guarantee, your story will discredit their, his, ridiculous claim.”

  My heart fluttered, and angels sang a harmonious chorus of Hallelujah in my head at the thought of me being able to discredit anything tied to Jameson Jerk-Off Wright.

  “So, all I’m to do is date some guy their stupid so-called scientific algorithms match me with?”

  “Would you, please”—she pouted, eyes wide and credulous—“then wrap it up and submit it in time for our Love Is In The Air edition.”

  Three days later, I landed on Park Avenue at Wright, Inc—Suite 404, Luv Bytes—miffed that their sign-up process had to be done in person rather than online like every other dating app. They also made me go through an extensive background check as well as blood and drug tests—which bothered me at first until I appreciated the assurance that all members were drug-and-disease-free law-abiding citizens.

  A handsome gum-popping receptionist with spiky blue hair served me a warm, “Welcome to Luv Bytes,” then directed me to wait in a nearby lounge. “Help yourself to water, coffee, hot cocoa, tea, a vitamin-B shot—”

  “Sorry”—I interrupted, lips hiked up in bemusement—“did you say a vitamin-B shot?”

  “Sure did,” he chirped, seemingly unfazed, as if I wasn’t the first one who had ever asked. “Just go on over to the lounge, and one of our profile specialists will be with you shortly.”

  Seated on a white leather sofa inside Luv Bytes’ trendy lounge, I sipped tea and listened to kicked-up beats that blared from overhead speakers. My eyes perused black-and-white checkered walls that showcased photographs of happy couples—pairs brought together by the app.

  Yeah. Right.

  Based on my personal failed experiences, fate, happenstance, or even meddling mamas could matchmake better than some stupid app. In fact, those supposed couples were probably paid for their pictures, much like actors compensated for their part in late-night infomercials.

  The door swung open, and a bright-eyed woman strolled in, her smile noticeably white. “Chloe York?”

  “That’s me.” I tried to hide my discomfort with a grin.

  “Great, I’m Blakely,” she told me, her squeaky voice already a borderline annoyance. “So fab to meet you. Let’s head over to my office and get you all set up with a Luv Bytes profile.”

  Their sign-up process took forever.

  Photo—strictly for their “algorithms.”

  Then a one-hundred-question survey, via a tablet, that probed me about everything.

  Education level, eye and hair color, weight, bra size, height, income range, marital status—what the fuck?

  They even wanted to know the name of my male celebrity crush, whether I prefer coffee or tea, vegan or not, cats or dogs, my shoe size, if I’m lactose intolerant, how many sexual partners I’ve had, and which celebrity I resemble the most.

  Of course, there were detailed questions related to my dream guy, such as personality preference, income status, hair and eye color partiality, and how well endowed I wished Mr. Right to be—six, seven, nine, or twelve inches.

  Truth be told, a devious snicker escaped my lips when I almost chose twelve; surely that guy doesn’t exist, right?

  “So many questions,” I said when I handed the tablet back to Blakely.

  “Yes,” she squeaked, “it’s how we feed Cupid information.”

  “Cupid?”

  “Not the Roman God, honey.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s what we call Luv Bytes’ secret algorithm. Without it, we won’t be able to guarantee the app can find members their perfect match.”

  I couldn’t help but scoff. “Surely, nothing in life is guaranteed.”

  “Honey, all I know is Luv Bytes hooked me up with my dream guy.” She wiggled her fingers to show off the five-carat diamond ring that sparkled on her left hand. “My Danny proposed over Christmas.”

  “Oh my gosh, that’s so sweet.” I just about swooned, moved by her declaration. “Congratulations.”

  “He’s everything I wanted and more.” She swiped a tissue out of a box and dabbed a few tears away. “Anyway, are you ready to process your payment?”

  “Payment?” I stammered. Most apps I’d used in the past were free for the first thirty days.

  Maybe that’s why they sucked shit.

  “Yep.” Head tilted, she blinked. “We charge a one-time membership fee and offer your money back in the unlikely event Luv Bytes fails to find you a match within thirty days.”

  I swallowed. Here I thought this stupid story would be a quickie, ten days tops.

  “Tell me, Blakely, has Luv Bytes issued many refunds?”

  “Oh”—she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—“that information is well above my paygrade. But I can tell you we have a ton of satisfied members. Just check out our Facebook and Instagram pages when you get a chance.” She flashed a reassuring smile. “Now, how would you like to pay the five-hundred-dollar membership fee? Visa, MasterCard, or PayPal?”

  Five. Hundred. Dollars.

  I fished my company-issued cr
edit card out of my purse, then handed it over. “I guess love doesn’t come cheap?”

  “Girl, they say nothing good ever does.”

  2

  Jameson

  “Mr. Wright? You’ve got that thing over at Luv Bytes. Would you like me to move that up to three o’clock?”

  I pressed the intercom and told my assistant Nancy I’d be fifteen minutes late.

  “Okay,” she answered back, “I’ll be sure to let Blakely know.”

  With a sigh, I leaned back in my desk chair while a myriad of doubts raced through my mind.

  Just get it over with, Jameson.

  For months, those words had been my mental nudge, a push to set up a profile on Luv Bytes.

  Members had started to question possible reasons why the app’s CEO and creator didn’t use what everyone else seemed crazy about.

  Especially since I was single, met all the pre-qualifications, and could definitely use Cupid—Luv Bytes’ proprietary algorithm—there was no excuse not to.

  Still, my last relationship left my heart battered, bruised, down for the count. I didn’t want to take a chance and bring it back into the ring before it had time to heal.

  But two years seemed a long enough time, right? I mean, at thirty-five, time wasn’t going to stand still while my fucked-up heart got its shit together.

  Membership sign-ups were down, and the marketing team was itching to use me as the face of the app’s success. It made perfect sense. News that Luv Bytes' creator found his match on the app would, undoubtedly, boost consumer confidence.

  Get it done, Jameson.

  “Is this yours?” I held up the cell phone I found on the chair.

  “Uh, no,” said Blakely, one of Luv Bytes’ profile specialists. “It must belong to the young woman I got signed up a little while ago.” She held out her hand. “I’ll take it over to Charles in Reception once we’re done here. I’m sure she’ll be back to retrieve it.”

  “Let me take it to him on my way out.” I tucked the phone into my pants pocket. “Now, where were we?”

  She passed me the tablet I’d used to answer what felt like a one million-question survey. “You just need to set up your password, create a unique screen name, then choose an avatar.”

  I’d asked Blakely to treat me the same way she did all clients so I’d have a genuine experience. I even took the drug and blood tests and paid the membership fee—five-hundred dollars that goes straight to Hope Floats, a non-profit charity I started two years ago. All in all, the sign-up process wasn’t bad, and even though the survey had too many questions, those questions armed Cupid with the ammo needed to make successful matches. Out of a million members, we’d only issued four refunds—two of which were to a couple Cupid matched who’d been newly divorced. They hated each other's guts, but three months post refund, they invited Luv Bytes staff to their re-nuptial celebration. That feel-good moment made the likes of Good Morning America, which helped increase membership subscriptions. Luv Bytes needed another success story like that.

  “What do you suggest my screen name be since I can’t use my real name?” Unlike other dating apps, our members didn’t see photos of their match or even learn real names until their first in-person meeting. Luv Bytes’ members fell in love before they met—that propensity of mine to do things backward became the app’s recipe for success.

  Blakely peered up from her computer. “Mine was Pastacake89 because I love pasta and cake, then 89 since members are supposed to include their birth year, so the person they’re matched with knows their age.”

  I chuckled at her screen name choice and, five minutes later, handed her the tablet back, satisfied with my choices. “Is that all?”

  “Yep. You’re all set, Mr. Wright. Just download the app, log in, then sit tight and wait for Cupid to work its magic. Once a match is found, you’ll get a notification ping on your phone.”

  I thanked Blakely for her time, then got to my feet, that pain-in-the-ass sense of doubt making my palms sweat.

  I’d just signed up for an app—my app—I knew would find me the perfect woman. But was I ready to be someone’s perfect man?

  God, I hoped so. Fifty shades of loneliness didn’t look good on me.

  On the way back to my office, I remembered to stop at Reception to give Charles the phone I’d found. It wasn’t uncommon for new members to leave shit behind—jackets, credit cards, and such—often so pumped up by the experience, they dashed out. Charles would secure items in a safe housed under his desk until they came in and claimed them.

  Jaw dropped, I stopped in my tracks, my eyes on her: Ms. Hot Shot Magazine journalist from hell.

  “I’m sure I left my phone in her office,” she yapped on and on to Charles. “It’s rose gold with a hot-pink glitter case.”

  Fucking. Great.

  The stupid phone I’d found belonged to the one person I wanted no contact with whatsoever, the bat-shit-crazy woman who smeared my name in a magazine article she wrote months ago.

  Chloe. York.

  One glance at her—regardless of how ridiculously hot she was with those mile-long lashes, ebony locks down to her waist, endless legs, and delicious curves—made my blood boil.

  “I’m sorry,” said Charles, “no one has turned in a phone yet, but let me ring Blakely and—”

  I cleared my throat, and both flicked their attention to me. “I’ve got it right here, Charles.” Lips hiked up to the side, I plucked the phone out of my pants pocket, gaze stuck on the petite, blue-eyed devil in a sexy-as-fuck dress. “Is this what you’re looking for, Ms. York?”

  “Yes.” She stepped closer, hate gleaming in her eyes as she glared up at all six-foot-two of me. In one swift move, she swiped the cell phone out of my hand, then shoved it into her purse. “How did you get it?”

  “You left it in Blakely’s office.” My gaze drank her in, down, then back up, and when my cock twitched, I mentally strangled the traitor for reacting to someone I loathed. “You’ve joined Luv Bytes?”

  “Only to do a story.”

  “A story?” My jaw ticked. “Care to elaborate, Ms. York?”

  “Why do you say my name like that?” She scoffed at my insolent raised-brow reply. “As if you’re dragging it through the mud.”

  “Oh, like the way you dragged my name through the mud, then smeared it all over New York with your last story?”

  She huffed, shaking her head in denial.

  I huffed right back; this woman wasn’t about to win the war that brewed between us. “I’m only going to ask you one more time: What’s your Luv Bytes story about, Ms. York?” My choice to over-enunciate Ms. to annoy the fuck out of her was the highlight of my freaking day.

  “About my experience.” A devious little smirk pulled at her lips. “Does that bother you, Mr. Wright?”

  The unruly spitfire—albeit sexy as all get-out—needed to be spanked; no one, not a single fucking person, spoke to me that way.

  “I stand by my app one-hundred percent, Ms. Wannabe Journalist. In fact,” I added with a sneer, “as of today, I’m also a member. So, no, it doesn’t bother me that you plan to write a story about your experience with my app.” I paused to rub the scruff on my chin. “But I do feel sorry for the guy you’re matched with. Sure hope you’ve disclosed that ill-tempered snark and how your nostrils flare when you’re in the middle of a tantrum. Then again”—I slayed the gap between us, narrow-eyed gaze locked and loaded on hers—“Bitchy Attitude may be a characteristic your would-be match is into.”

  “Fuck off, Jameson Wright,” she said through gritted teeth, then turned on her sky-high heels, click-clacking her way out of Luv Bytes without a single glance back.

  My attention went to Charles, who had a goofy look pinned to his face. Honestly, I was so lost in that brouhaha, I’d forgotten I was in Reception right in front of his desk. “Why do you have a wide smile on your face?”

  Charles pursed his lips. “Hot damn, boss. That was totally like one of those movies where the heroin
e and hero meet, nothing but hate crackling between them.” His brows traveled north, eyes lit with make-me-wanna-gag cheer. “Very similar to a Hallmark movie—sans Bitchy Attitude and Fuck Off of course—and at the end, they fall madly in love.”

  “Trust me, this guy will never fall in love with Chloe York, even if his life depended on it,” I growled, so caught up by what just happened, I referred to myself in the third person.

  “Though, you’ve got to admit”—he folded his arms over his chest— “it would be kind of funny if Cupid matches the two of you together?”

  The glare I fed him was lethal. “If that happens, I promise to come back here and fire you for speaking that disaster into existence.”

  3

  Chloe

  “You already got a match?” Sage asked, her mouth full of salad.

  With a head bob, I shoved a forkful of pasta into my mouth.

  “Wow,” said Macy, a determined gaze fixed on her laptop screen as she typed away, “that sure was fast.”

  We were on the outdoor patio at Mega Eats, our favorite restaurant in SoHo. Life in New York was the bomb. I had a pretty cool apartment in Harlem, access to Broadway shows, shopping, and trendy restaurants. Plus, I was able to hang out with my two besties five days a week because they too worked at Hot Shot Magazine. Friends since college, the three of us were lucky to land internships that led to kickass jobs. Sage ended up in Fashion, Macy got blessed with her column that featured romance book reviews—while I landed in Lifestyle, where we featured stories that appealed to our widely female audience.

  “Faster than I expected. It’s only been a few hours since I signed up and stormed out of there, pissed off at Jameson Fucking Wright.”

  Sage wiped buttermilk ranch dressing off her mouth with a napkin. “I can’t believe you hate someone who’s that freaking hot.”

  I blinked and slurped from my straw. “He’s a tech geek turned hottie billionaire, which is the exact opposite of my type. Also, he’s an arrogant dick.”