Perfect Match

by J. Minter

  PERFECT MATCH

  inside girl

  a novel by J. MINTER

  author of the insiders

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 Out of range

  Chapter 2 Don’t knock it till you mocket

  Chapter 3 Sweet misfortune

  Chapter 4 Three scoops, two spoons, one shocker

  Chapter 5 A latte with a shot of attitude

  Chapter 6 Under cover … or over the top?

  Chapter 7 The seaweed sessions

  Chapter 8 Music to her ears

  Chapter 9 Wandering eyes

  Chapter 10 Two cupids are better than one

  Chapter 11 The plan goes public

  Chapter 12 Look what blew in from the windy city

  Chapter 13 If you can’t date him, trade him

  Chapter 14 What we call a power lunch

  Chapter 15 The matchmaker’s tangled web

  Chapter 16 Journey to a faraway palace

  Chapter 17 Prescription: the epic date

  Chapter 18 Club fof loses a founding member

  Chapter 19 If the valentine fits …

  Chapter 20 Bippity boppity ball gowns

  Chapter 21 Sometimes it takes three to tango

  Chapter 22 Do a little dance, shed a little tear, storm out tonight

  Chapter 23 What’s a pity party without pizza?

  Chapter 24 The matchmaker grovels

  Chapter 25 Consider this your lovefest

  Chapter 26 Snowed out

  Chapter 27 Flying high

  Also by J. Minter

  Imprint

  for Jordan, future heartbreaker

  Chapter 1

  OUT OF RANGE

  Outside, behind the velvet rope on Houston Street, the winding crowd I’d just zipped past looked cold. But inside, at a private Screen Actors Guild party in the famously mod Angelika theater, things were getting hot, hot, hot.

  “I want you to meet my girlfriend, Flan.”

  I know, I know, these words have been said about me before. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends. But truthfully, the introduction had never sounded so sweet as it did when it was uttered by Alex Altfest, the Prince of New York, whose arm was lovingly curved around my waist.

  We were standing in the glittering atrium of the theater, all dressed up to attend this very choice Hollywood-style event—made even more choice by the fact that it was hosted by one of Alex’s friends to celebrate the premiere of his new film, Cache Creek.

  The Angelika is most Manhattanites’ destination for taking in classic artsy flicks—from foreign shorts to Woody Allen revivals. I loved seeing movies there, but until tonight I’d never thought about it as a hot spot for Hollywood types. With its high glass ceilings, multilevel cocktail bar, and black-tie waiter service, the Angelika really felt like a place to see and be seen. Which is why I was glad I’d decided to wear my new sapphire Tory Burch heels—and why I was even gladder to have the Prince of New York on my arm. I sighed contentedly and leaned into Alex.

  “Flan?” Alex said, giving me a sideways grin.

  Oh, right, introductions. I probably wasn’t making a dazzling first impression by gazing off introspectively.

  “This is my old crew from lacrosse camp—Brady, Saxton, and Phil. Brady’s the one I told you about, the producer for Cache Creek.” Alex moved his arm to my shoulders. “Guys, this is her.”

  The way he said it—this is her—like he’d spent enough time talking about me that his friends could now put my face to the girl in his stories—well, it sort of made me glow inside. I mean, I talked about Alex all the time to my friends, but until then, I hadn’t considered that he might do the same thing.

  Brady stuck out his hand. He was almost as tall as Alex, with curly dark hair and dimples. “We’ve heard lots about you.” He nodded at Alex. “In fact, it’s kinda hard to get this guy to stop talking about you.”

  I could feel myself blushing. “I’ve heard good things about you, too,” I said, taking a flute of acai spritzer from a passing waiter’s tray. “Alex says the movie’s getting lots of buzz.”

  “Nah,” Saxton piped in, shrugging dramatically. He was blond and muscular with intense green eyes. “It was only the movie at Sundance last month, no big deal.”

  “And Brady only has Scorsese on his knees to direct his next film,” Phil said, punching Brady’s shoulder. “When are you going to break the news that you cast me as the lead?”

  “Maybe when I find an actress worthy of your Yale drama school degree.” Brady laughed. “Or at least one the studio can bank on, considering you’re not exactly a household name.” Brady shrugged apologetically as Phil feigned offense.

  I was pretty impressed that Alex was friends with such a talented, artsy group of guys. Of course, I did have my token film-star best friend, Sara-Beth Benny. But SBB’s movies weren’t exactly the kind that got airtime at the Angelika. Although she had been moaning to me lately about her agent wanting her to do a project to up her dramatic cred—i.e., not another of her famous teenybopper blockbusters.

  Hmm … If Brady was already working on another film, maybe I could find a way to introduce them? Not that SBB didn’t already have an agent and a PR team and four personal assistants … but it’d be so cool to hook her up with a connection who could help her career. I’d mention it to Alex later.

  Alex squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, I want to show you around.”

  As we mingled throughout the cocktail hour, I was struck by how great and attentive Alex was being. Even though he seemed to know everyone, he never left my side. As he spun me around the room for introductions, I got the feeling that a lot of people were sizing me—and my Tory Burch heels—up.

  I’d been to enough parties and premieres to handle the scrutinizing gazes of the rich and fashion-conscious. Even so, there was something new about being introduced as one half of a couple. I wasn’t used to it—my boy life and my socialite life had always been kind of separate entities in the past. But with Alex periodically planting his lips on my cheek and whispering funny details about all the people I was meeting—“that guy makes his driver take him to McDonald’s in the Bronx so his nutritionist wife won’t find out he eats meat”—I realized I was totally into being his other half.

  “This is amazing.” I turned to Alex, after I’d met more people than I could remember. “I’m so glad you invited me.”

  He smiled. “You’re going to be even more glad when I tell you who else I invited.”

  I must have looked confused, because Alex spun me toward the entryway. My best friend, Camille, and her new boyfriend, Xander, were walking up the steps, hand in hand!

  “Brady gave me two extra tickets to the screening at the last minute,” Alex said. “Thought you might like to see a familiar face in the crowd.”

  “Hey, lovebirds,” Camille called, flipping her trademark long gold hair. “Swank party, Alex. Ooh, swankier shoes, Flan. Bendel’s?” she asked.

  “Scoop,” I corrected.

  “Well, now that that important matter’s settled,” Xander joked, “should we watch this movie or what?”

  The boys put their arms around us and our foursome joined the glittering, black-clad crowd at the doors to the theater. The only thing better than Xander finally asking Camille out was the fact that Xander and Alex went way back to their days at Little Red Schoolhouse, so they were almost as tight as Camille and me.

  “We definitely have to start double-dating more often,” I whispered to Camille as we entered the theater.

  “I know,” Camille said. “Friend time and boy time at the same time. What’s better?”

  The theater was already packed, and everyon
e was rushing to claim seats. As a friend of the producer, Alex had a group of reserved seats right in the middle. The four of us were able to sit down and relax with no problem, just in time to catch the scene unfolding in the row ahead of us.

  A barrel-chested, bald man in Prada shoes and a tight pink T-shirt that read Don’t Mess with the Diva had spread out his winter gear across four empty seats and was watching over them like a hawk.

  “Um, excuse me,” an equally muscular bald guy said to him in a huffy voice. “Where do you think you are, the high school lunchroom? You can’t save seats in a New York City movie theater.”

  “I can if you knew who my friends are,” Muscles Number One said defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “That doesn’t even make any sense,” Muscles Two scoffed.

  Camille and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and I bit my lip to keep from laughing. It was a favorite secret pastime of ours—eavesdropping on Chelsea boys in catfights. Sometimes we staked out the back table at the Pinkberry on Eighth Avenue just to see what kind of drama we could witness.

  But these two dudes were getting serious about the seats. One of them was rolling up his sleeves like he was about to throw a punch. That only happened at Pinkberry when they ran out of mochi. Just when I thought things were going to get ugly, Muscles Two said: “Wait a minute—you look familiar.” He squinted at his opponent. “Did you do that Calvin Klein ad on the back of the M16 bus?”

  Muscles One shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Ohmigod, huge fan,” Muscles Two said, making the I’m-not-worthy motion with his arms. Changing his tack, he sized up his opponent. “How about if I agree to find another seat, you agree to give me your number?”

  Next to Camille, Xander leaned in to whisper, “You guys are so eating this up, aren’t you?”

  I giggled under my breath.

  “Like it’s Pinkberry,” Camille replied.

  “I guess love is in the air,” Alex said, squeezing my hand.

  He was right. Valentine’s Day was a little over a week away. Even though I had a boyfriend, and so should probably have given the holiday some thought, I was mostly aware of how close it was because of my single friends at Thoney. They were already complaining about how depressing the whole month of February was unless you had a valentine.

  I’d thought my friends were being dramatic, but maybe it was exactly this fear of spending February fourteenth alone that stopped the guys in front of us from clocking each other. Maybe Cupid made them take out their Palms to exchange numbers instead.

  Just before the lights dimmed, Muscles Two snapped a photo of Muscles One on his phone. “Text me!” he grinned, before shuffling off to his seat.

  “Classic New York,” Camille said, whipping her hair into a giant bun and putting on her glasses to assume her I’m-watching-a-movie pose.

  From the opening scene of the film, I was hooked—and even more impressed by Brady. It was the story of two star-crossed lovers, separated by distance, and family obligations, and some really incredible costume changes. Hmm, I wonder where the lead actress got that belt. …

  But after a few minutes, I found myself distracted by a faint blue light in front of me. When I leaned forward, I realized that it was the glowing cell phone of Muscles One. How rude. Was he already texting Muscles Two? Maybe if I leaned forward just a little bit more, I could make out what they were saying. It was bound to be hilariously racy. A little further … a little further … oooph! Before I realized what was happening, I’d fallen out of my seat. Everyone around us turned to look at me and held their fingers up to their lips.

  “Shhhhhh,” Muscles One said to me brusquely. Like he was paying so much attention to the movie!

  Oh well, it served me right. I looked at Alex, who was shaking his head with a knowing smirk. I shrugged in apology, took his hand, and vowed to get back into watching the movie. No more spying!

  But a few minutes later, I was distracted again by the distinct buzz of a vibrating cell phone. Now this guy was really being rude! But when the buzzing didn’t stop, I realized that I was the culprit this time. Whoops.

  In an attempt to be smooth, I reached down to turn it off. But before the screen went black, I noticed that I had four missed calls and three text messages from the girls in my Thoney clique. I couldn’t help taking a quick glance.

  From Harper: PARTY AT VANS. WE’RE ALL GOING.

  From Amory: I’M GOING TO RICKY’S FOR PRIMPING PROPS. WHO WANTS GLITTER EYE SHADOW?

  From Morgan: MEET ON THE CORNER OF PERRY AND WEST FOURTH. I HAVE THE CODE TO GET UPSTAIRS.

  I looked over at Camille; I was sure the girls would have texted her as well. But she didn’t seem to know or care about it. I kind of envied that she was able to focus on the movie. I was having a great time too, but now that I knew that all my friends were heading out to a party and assuming that I’d meet them there … well, my mind was sort of wandering. Should I let them know where I was? Would they be bummed that I couldn’t make it? Could I make it, if we went right after the movie?

  Wait, what was I thinking? It was just a party. I’d missed parties before and survived to tell about it. And here I was, at this amazingly fun event, with Alex, who I adored and who’d been cool enough to invite my best friend to join us.

  Come on, Flan. Everyone in New York was looking for love and Cupid was actively smiling down on me. What more could I ask for?

  Chapter 2

  DON’T KNOCK IT TILL YOU MOCKET

  Early the next morning, I met Camille and SBB for brunch at a tiny East Village restaurant called Prune. They don’t take reservations, so you have to get there right when the doors open at ten o’clock if you want to avoid standing in line for an hour. But they do have the best breakfast BLTs in the city, so it’s definitely worth the early rising.

  Luckily, all three of us arrived at the same time and SBB only had to sign three autographs and pose for two photographers on the way in, so we were able to snag our favorite sunny table under the hanging ivy plant by the window. The crowd was young and beautiful, mostly couples or small groups of girls. Each place setting contained the classic brunch trifecta: a frothy cappuccino, a pair of aviator sunglasses, and a PDA. The other groups of girls were all laughing as they dished out their tales of the weekend’s adventures, but I noticed that the vibe at most of the couples’ tables was decidedly lower key.

  “Is it me,” I asked, smearing some of Prune’s signature blood orange marmalade on a hunk of wholegrain toast, “or do the girls-only cliques seem to be having way more fun than the girls who are here with their boyfriends?”

  “Probably because it’s more fun to talk smack about your boyfriend to your friends than it is to actually hang out with him,” SBB said thoughtfully, biting into her black bean flapjacks.

  “Whoa, where did that come from?” Camille asked. “Is something going on between you and JR?”

  SBB threw her head back in a laugh. “Not even. Jake Riverdale and I are more in love than ever. It’s called empathy,” she said, sounding out each syllable. Camille and I shared a secret smirk as SBB continued her explanation. “It’s an acting term where you put yourself in someone else’s shoes. I’ve been working on it recently at my agent’s suggestion.” She glanced around the room. “Take that couple over there.” SBB nodded to her left at a couple so lifeless, they practically looked asleep. “Wouldn’t you be Somber Sally if you were dating that dude? Wouldn’t you rather be hanging with …” She scanned the room until her eyes landed on a group of girls practically falling out of their chairs with that laugh specific to inside jokes. “Them?”

  I was used to SBB’s “acting” terms and techniques, having been BFFs with the teen actress Rolling Stone had recently called “an intergalactic star” since we were both wearing training bras. But today, SBB’s professional lingo made me wonder about life off-screen.

  “Isn’t it possible,” I asked the girls, “to have as much fun with your boyfriend as with your friends?�
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  “Sometimes it seems like a lot more is at stake with boys,” Camille said, looking down at her plate. “Like every word you say to each other means something, you know? It’s easier to navigate when things happen with your girlfriends than with your boyfriend.”

  “Okay, your turn,” I said to Camille. “I know you don’t have SBB’s excuse that your working on your act. Is everything okay with Xander? You guys seemed so good last night.”

  “We were. We are,” she sighed, popping the last bite of her asparagus quiche in her mouth. “But after we left you guys at the movie, we both had messages from our friends to go to separate parties. And he wanted to go meet up with them and I didn’t. I just got scared that I might be more into him than he is into me.” She looked at me. “Do you know what I mean?”

  The truth was, Alex and I had had the exact opposite conversation last night after the movie. But I knew that just because I thought it would be fun to meet up with friends after the movie, it didn’t mean that I wasn’t totally into Alex—and looking at Camille now, I was sure that the case was the same for Xander.

  “Oh, you girls and your little worries!” SBB laughed, picking up the check. “I won’t hear any more of it. You’re beautiful and adored by your men, capisce?”

  “Nice empathy, SBB,” I joked.

  “Empathize this: what we need is some retail therapy. Now, who knows what she’s getting her man for Valentine’s Day? That, ladies, is something worth stressing over.”

  As we stepped out of the warm, cozy restaurant into the harsh reality of February in New York, all three of us hustled into our hats and mittens. SBB whistled for a cab.

  “Bloomingdale’s on Broadway,” she told the driver. Then she pulled out a thick packet of paper bound like a screenplay with three golden brads. But I doubted that anyone would title a script SHOPPING LIST. “What?” She shrugged at us. “I don’t mess around with it comes to retail therapy.”

  When the cab pulled up to the great white building, SBB got out first and started calling out a breakdown of the floor plan. “Boys first. We’ll start at the third floor and move through the fifth. Then, once we’ve gotten the gift-buying work out of the way, we can reward ourselves with spa treatments on six and shoes on four.”