Perfect Match

by Lila Monroe

  She makes a fair point. I did actually check the numbers for the dating industry the day after her first pitch. Just for my own curiosity. And yes, the numbers were huge. It’s a billion-dollar market—if you have the right product.

  “And you’re sure your app has what it takes?” I ask.

  “I’ve got stats galore for the data-minded. And for everyone else, I already have hundreds of successful matches. We’ve worked out all the kinks in the software. The last round of recruits reported a completely smooth and satisfying experience.”

  Kinks. Smooth and satisfying experiences. My mind is going places it shouldn’t be—yet. There’s still plenty of time for that. She’s covered her bases, I’ll give her that.

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” I say, still watching her. She doesn’t flinch from the eye contact, just holds it with a shrug.

  “I’ve put in the work. If you invest in us, you’ll see that I don’t do anything half-assed. This is the project I’ve been wanting to launch for years, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to see it succeed.”

  She’s matter-of-fact, and I believe her.

  “Look,” I sigh, almost not believing I’m even thinking about this. “I invest in people. I absolutely believe in taking risks. But that’s because I want to see the companies I fund go big. I don’t care about the next ten-million-dollar company, I want the next billion-dollar one.”

  “And you think you’ll find that with sportswear? Publishing? Subscription coffee companies?” she says, naming my last few investments. Sure, I have a diverse portfolio, and my level of success means I can take a chance on some long shots, but they all have one thing in common: vision from the founders, and a total drive to succeed.

  Check, and check.

  “You’ve done your research,” I allow.

  She smiles. “How do you think I got even this far? Developing a business isn’t for the faint-hearted.”

  Especially when you’re a woman.

  She doesn’t say it, but it’s not as if I don’t know that every person I shook hands with on our way through the VIP section was a man. If she knew a little more about me, she’d realize I know a little something about being the underdog. Having to work twice as hard as the people around you to get the same result. Knowing one little slip could set you back a year when for someone else in the same position it’d get brushed off. All because of circumstances you were born into through no choice of your own.

  I don’t talk about my background, though. It is history, and I’d rather it stayed there—while I enjoy the luxurious present I’ve built. But the thought does give me pause.

  McKenna seems to take that moment as a hesitation. “This is what I’m thinking,” she says, leaning forwards. Her brown eyes gleam gold in the candlelight, lighting up her whole face. “You like taking risks? Give the app a whirl for yourself. See if I can prove you wrong about the formula. I dare you.”

  Does she now? “Those are fighting words. What exactly are you proposing?”

  “I use Perfect Match to find your perfect woman. You can test the app for yourself—as a user. I guarantee, I can do it.”

  “I don’t believe you will.”

  “That’s why it’s a dare,” she says. “What have you got to lose? Either you prove me wrong, or you’ve found the love of your life. Unless you’re afraid of losing a bet …”

  She gives me a teasing smile. The competitor in me is already rising to the challenge. “And what do you want if you ‘win’?”

  She straightens up. “You agree to fund the app. One million in investment, in exchange for a minority equity stake. And the full weight of Maverick Capital, with all your connections.”

  A million is nothing to me, but my time? That’s a pretty valuable commodity.

  I pause, thinking it over.

  What do I have to lose? If she knocks this out of the park, then we both win. I don’t believe for a second she’ll find me my soulmate, I don’t believe in that romantic bullshit, but it might be fun watching her try.

  I hold out my hand to her. “All right, Ms. Delaney. Sixty days to find me my soulmate. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  5

  McKenna

  My excitement at landing the deal lasts about as long as my subway ride home.

  Sixty days to find Callahan the love of his life?

  Shit.

  I’ve never had a ticking clock hanging over any of my matches: they log onto the app and use it until they click with someone—which for our users is anywhere from one date to six months! But there’s no time to waste now, and I’m not going back on our agreement, so the moment I get home, I spring into action: sending Callahan a message with the most current version of the app, telling him to set up his profile and answer the questions that will help the algorithm do its thing. Then I sit back and wait for his response.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  “No offense, Mac, but are you sure this guy isn’t just messing us around?” Warren asks Monday morning.

  I grimace. It’s been a whole week since Jack and I shook on our deal. I was ready to get going last Monday. But I can’t start the program crunching the data for Jack until he tells it what he’s looking for. I might have a pretty good read on his cavalier playboy type, but I still need him to click the choices before we can show him some matches.

  “He sounded like he meant it,” I say. “I’m sure as hell not letting him back out of it.”

  Warren grins. “Of course you won’t. Just let me know what we should be doing in the meantime.”

  “Just keep troubleshooting the existing users,” I sigh. “And put together your proposal for what additional equipment and employees you’ll need when we get the funding.”

  “When?” he echoes.

  “When,” I say, determined. I check my phone just in case he’s magically replied to me sometime in the half hour since I last called. No dice. All right then. I grit my teeth and dial his office.

  “Maverick Capital. How can I help you today?”

  “Hi,” I say. “This is McKenna Delaney. Again. Were you able to pass my messages to Mr. Callahan?”

  “Yes.” The voice on the other end sounds amused. “I told him you called. Ten times.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really need to speak to him. And you can tell him I’m going to keep calling every hour on the hour until he bothers to pick up.”

  I hear a muffled giggle. “I’ll try him again for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I wait on hold, and a moment later, Jack’s voice sounds on the line.

  Finally!

  “I hear you’re harassing my staff again,” Jack says, teasing.

  “I wouldn’t have to, if you would fill out that profile,” I say, trying to keep cool.

  “It’s a dozen pages,” he complains. “Who has the time?”

  “People who are serious about finding love,” I retort. “Or people who are serious about living up to their commitments. We have a deal.”

  “A fact you make it impossible to forget.” Jack chuckles. “Fine. I’m just heading into an appointment right now, but I can multitask. Bring your questions, and we’ll get down to it.”

  He hangs up without saying goodbye. A moment later, a text arrives with an address across town.

  Time is money. Don’t be late.

  I take a deep breath, and then another, reminding myself that Jack Callahan is a necessary evil.

  Don’t get mad—get matching.

  I hurry out of the subway station and down the street, checking the address he sent in confusion. It’s a small storefront on the Upper East Side, nestled between a pet store and a tea shop, with an understated green awning and gold lettering on the window.

  Turnball & Sons, Fine Tailoring.

  Inside, the bell over the door announces my presence, but the shop is empty. I follow voices into the back, then stop.

  Jack is naked in his briefs in the middle of the room, standing on a small platfor
m while a balding tailor measures his chest.

  His broad, bronzed, muscular chest.

  “Do you ever put your clothes on?” I complain, hoping my blush hasn’t taken over my whole face. There’s a bank of mirrors behind him, so I get the view of Naked Jack from every angle.

  Jack smirks. “Do you ever set a proper meeting?”

  “I’ve been trying!” I exclaim. “Did you tell your assistant to block my calls?”

  “No, but I should give her a raise for having to deal with your incessant demands.” Jack sounds remarkably unconcerned. The tailor finishes measuring his chest, and moves onto his arms.

  His taut, muscular arms.

  “Well? You wanted me, and now you have me. Naked and vulnerable, no less.” Jack winks, and I have to snort with laughter. This man is about as far from vulnerable as you can get. “What about this profile of yours?”

  I pull out my tablet and go perch on a seat in the corner as the tailor continues his work. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can let the algorithm do the work—and leave Naked Jack to his prospective matches.

  “OK, I was able to pull the basic background details from interviews: age, background, occupation, education, etc.,” I say, scrolling through. “But I need the more specific things. What are the five most important characteristics you’re looking for in a woman?”

  “That’s easy,” Jack says without hesitating. “Beautiful, charming, good-natured, easy to talk to, and … flexible.”

  I give him a look. “Gymnast-flexible?”

  He laughs. “Ideally, yes. But what I mean is, my schedule is pretty hectic. I travel a lot, get called away on business. She has to understand the demands on my time.”

  “OK …” I enter the info. “Physically speaking … do you prefer blondes or brunettes?”

  “I’m an equal-opportunity date,” he replies. “But I do have a thing for blondes.”

  Quelle surprise.

  “Tall or short?”

  “Hmm, petite is nice.”

  “Breasts or ass?”

  “Excuse me?” Jack’s eyebrows shoot up, and even the tailor pauses a moment.

  “It’s right here in the profile,” I show him. “And where would you say you fall on the kink spectrum, with one being vanilla, and ten being hardcore BDSM?”

  Jack splutters in surprise, and I grin. “Well?” I ask sunnily.

  “If you must know, I’m more of an ass man,” he says finally. “And as for tastes … well, I like to be adventurous.”

  “So, maybe a six …” I tap the screen.

  “What about you?” he asks. “What’s your number?”

  There’s no way I’m telling him that, so I just smile. “Oh, you can’t handle my number.”

  He laughs. “I don’t doubt it. I can just picture you with a whip and chains …”

  I try not to laugh—or blush.

  Is it hot in here, or is it just him?

  Definitely him.

  The bell outside goes, and the tailor puts down the tape measure, looking relieved. “I’ll be right back.” He hurries out, and Jack grins.

  “Poor Albert. You’ll get me in trouble.”

  “I think you can get in trouble all on your own,” I reply.

  He laughs. “Anything else?” he asks. “Want to know if I sleep naked, or how many threesomes I’ve had?”

  “No need.” I fight the mental images—and the image right in front of me. “But I do need your deal-breakers.”

  “My what?”

  “You know, the little things that absolutely spell the end of a relationship. And don’t be shy,” I add. “Most people try to be polite about this stuff, but we need to cut through appearances if we’re going to find the right match.”

  Jack thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “I’m a pretty easy guy,” he says.

  “You mean, easy-going.”

  “That too. Tell me yours,” he says suddenly. “Give me some examples, so I know the kind of things you mean.”

  “Well …” I think back. “Cheating, obviously. Guys who are rude to waiters or service staff … Stand-up comedians …” I continue, warming up now. “Oh, guys who put photos on their profile of them posing with kids in third-world countries, like they have a white savior complex. Guys posing with tigers. Anyone who says they’re looking for a ‘feminine’ woman. Or for a woman who ‘takes care of herself.’ I mean, please, we all know that means ‘skinny.’ Men who chew with their mouths open,” I continue, ticking them off on my fingers, “men who make a fuss over watching rom coms, like their balls are going to shrivel up the minute Kate Hudson appears on-screen. Men who ride motorcycles—it’s not sexy, it’s stupid. And anyone who talks about their ‘crazy’ ex. She was probably crazy because you’re an ass.”

  I come to a stop and realize Jack is staring at me.

  “Wow. I guess we don’t need to ask why you’re still single.” He grins.

  “I’m single because I haven’t met the right guy,” I reply, refusing to let the biggest playboy in town single-shame me. “People break up for a reason. The key is not getting involved with someone who’s doomed to fail in the end. Hence the deal-breaker section. Come on, there must be something you hate. What about your last few relationships—why did they end?”

  He pauses. “Well, I was dating a Swedish model for a while, Anya … She was definitely a ten on your scale,” he adds with a smirk.

  “So why did you break up?”

  “It just fizzled out,” he says. “And then …”

  “Aha! What?”

  “She said she didn’t want kids,” he continues.

  I make a note. “Kids are a common deal-breaker.” I nod. “So you definitely want them?”

  “Eventually. So I guess I’m not looking for someone obsessed with their career,” he continues, looking thoughtful. “Like I said, mine is demanding enough, and I want someone to support me in that. Host parties for my business associates, travel with me at a moment’s notice … Besides, she doesn’t need to work. Money won’t be a problem for us.” He flashes me a smile, and I have to look away to keep from scowling back.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say, tapping away. “You want what you want.”

  Even if it sounds like he wants to time-travel back to 1952.

  “Is that everything?” he asks. “If the coast is clear, I can tell poor Albert to return. Unless you want to take over?” Jack gives me a suggestive grin.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You want to take the measurements of me, isn’t that what all this is about?”

  I refrain from telling him where he can shove that tape measure. “I have everything I need, thanks. Except one last question: do you like horror movies?”

  Jack looks confused. “Sure, they’re great. Why is that important?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s a prime indicator if two people will be compatible,” I say, getting to my feet.

  “Huh.” Jack looks surprised. “Do you like them?”

  “Nope. I hate being scared, I have to hide my eyes if even a trailer comes on.” I head for the door. “And Jack? No need to get the large-sized pants,” I tell him with an innocent smile. “It looks like a medium will be more than enough.”

  I walk out before he can reply, but his laughter echoes behind me all the way to the street.

  Real professional, McKenna.

  I stifle a groan. What is it about this guy that pushes all my buttons? There’s a huge investment on the line, and instead, I’m letting him wind me up. At least I managed to get the info I need to get the program started. With any luck, I’ll have his first date lined up for the weekend—and his wedding following soon after.

  6

  McKenna

  Sure enough, my program turns up a list of prospective matches right away. Usually, there are only a handful for any of our test subjects. I’m adding new sign-ups to my database every day, but it’s still in the early stages. Part of the investment from
Maverick will pay for marketing to get the word out, so we can expand our pool of potential matches, but even now, I find there are dozens of women who fit Jack’s criteria.

  I skim through the list. All other things being equal, I think I can make a few assumptions. Like that he’d prefer Never Previously Married over Twice-Divorced with Two Kids. And also Knows How to Smile For a Photo over Ready to Crawl Out of Her Skin In Front of The Camera.

  Still, I need to hand-pick a few of them for the pool, and they need to be the right ones. It would just show him if I managed to hit the jackpot on his very first date. He’d have to eat his words—and sign me that massive check.

  My stomach grumbles. It’s three o’clock, and, sure, I should probably eat lunch at some point. I leave my computer reluctantly and head down to the bodega on the corner for a sandwich. Their Philly cheesesteaks are almost as good as the ones back home. I’m heading back with my first bite melting in my mouth when I find Barb, my landlady, on the front steps of the building. “McKenna! How are you doing, sweetheart?”

  I stop and smile. “Not too bad. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, you know, keeping an eye on things, keeping Marv on his toes.” She winks at me and smooths her hand over her cloud of blue-white hair. I hope mine’s half as thick as hers when I hit seventy.

  “What’s new with the kids?” I ask.

  She lights up like I knew she would. “Oh, Bernard just moved into his new house with the family. I’m so glad they’re closer now. And Cynthia was here with her wife for dinner just yesterday. They’re talking about adopting. Isn’t that lovely? Of course, I have to thank you for that.”

  “No need,” I say. “It’s great to hear they’re doing so well.” Until a couple years ago, Barb was always fretting about her “spinster” daughter, as if being single at thirty-five made her a lost cause. I offered Cynthia a trial run of Perfect Match, and a year later she was getting married. I don’t think Barb will ever stop thanking me.

  “Now how about you?” She shakes a finger at me. “I haven’t seen any young men coming courting lately. You can’t neglect your own happiness while you’re looking after everyone else’s, you know.”