by Emily Bishop
God, Kieran can be so dense sometimes. I rub my fingertips along my eyes as I force myself to stay calm with him. When I look up, his blue-eyed gaze is expectant, as ever.
“Kieran, there are a million dating apps out there that do exactly what you’re talking about. We need to be ahead of the curve. We need to offer something no one else has: the chance to make a real connection through a dating app. Haven’t you ever heard that a person can become more attractive when they’re someone you already like? This app allows for that. Someone who may have been rejected suddenly becomes a viable contender for a relationship. It’s unlike anything else out there.”
“And how do you know? Have you even tried your own product?”
That takes me aback.
“Well, no,” I admit.
“Ah ha!” Kieran says, victorious. “See? You can’t even enter into this conversation without trying it. I have, and I’ve met some nasty-looking women. Trust me, knowing they’re nice didn’t help. Beta testers or not.”
“Grow up, Kieran.”
“You grow up. If I can’t get a decent match on this, who’s to say anyone else will?”
“Fine. I’ll open up an account and do some research, OK? Will that get you to leave me alone?”
Kieran chuckles. “For now, yes. Hopefully, you’ll see that we need to remove that aspect, immediately.”
“The app is great as it is. It’s testing very well with everyone but you, and with Valentine’s Day coming up, it’s going to have perfect timing.”
“Whatever you say, Booker. I’m off to play some golf for the day. What are you doing?”
“Working. Like you should be,” I reply, evenly.
“I have been working. You’re the one not testing the product to make sure we don’t fail. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Do that. I hope you lose.”
“No one loses when playing golf. It’s too relaxing and fun.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Bye, bud. Happy dating!”
“Get out,” I say between clenched teeth. Kieran simply laughs and saunters back out of the office. I don’t bother giving him a second glance. Instead, I open up the app on my computer and click the button to open an account.
I read instructions that tell me to pick a username that “defines who I am” or some nonsense. We really need to reword that. But since that’s the rule of the game at present, I don’t hesitate to put in my nickname.
Master.
I reach a page with some questions to answer about myself when there is a gentle knock on the door. When I glance up, Sasha walks in with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.
“Black, from Buckley’s, with one sugar put in at two hundred degrees and another just before I walked in here. Is there anything else I can get you this morning, Mr. Knight?”
There’s a challenge in her eyes as she holds out the cup of coffee. I want to grin at her, which is a ridiculous notion, because she’s done nothing but her job. I pulled that order totally out of my ass, though, and she still filled it, exactly as prescribed.
“No. That will be all.”
I take the cup from her, and our fingers brush in the exchange. White heat pulses through me, but I repress the sensation. She nods and turns on her heel. Her peach-shaped ass is encased perfectly in her skirt, and I can’t help but sneak a small glimpse before I turn back to my screen.
That peach is too tempting. I have more important things to focus on, like making money from the false idea of love.
Chapter Three
Sasha
My printer might start steaming, but I can’t help it. I like having physical copies to highlight and take notes on. I’ve printed out a series of pages on the app, including all of the text. I want to go through it and make some changes tonight, so I can really have something good to bring to Booker in the morning.
Booker. Ugh.
When our fingers touched this morning, my heart stopped. It was electric, that connection, and I hate it. Of all the men in all the cities in all the world, Booker Knight is literally the last man on Earth I should be interested in. Not only is he my boss, but he is one arrogant SOB.
I really need to find a boyfriend, and fast.
I think back to my high-school sweetheart, good old Jimmy Swanson. He was so cute, and so nice. Maybe a little too nice. Before I left high school, I thought about asking him to come to the city with me, but I knew he never would. Last I heard, he was engaged to another girl from my graduating class. Another really, really nice person.
I wonder if nice is what I really need, though. Maybe a little bit of sass has been missing from my life. Maybe a man like Booker could teach me something about myself.
Why am I still harping on this? Why!?
I huff as I slide the warm papers from the printer into a manila folder. At least the man didn’t ask me to get him another freaking coffee. I knew he was testing me. I also know I have to start at the bottom and work my way back up. I’m already lower on the totem pole than I want to be, and I need to be in that man’s good graces if I want to have a future here that isn’t just getting coffee and making printouts.
I want to be someone. I want to be a success. I know I can do it. I just have to bear down and do the grunt work to get there. Rome wasn’t built overnight. Hmm, any other generic inspirational phrases in my repertoire?
Nope.
I sling my work bag over my shoulder and cradle my manila folder to my chest. I plan on doing some light reading on the subway on my way home. Perhaps I’ll get a little pizza on the way. Pizza sounds amazing.
New York pizza is even better.
I step outside the office and turn to lock it behind me. Another boulder crashes into me, and all my papers scatter to the ground.
“Seriously?” I’m tired of running into people around here! It’s a big office. Learn to walk.
When I look up, Booker stares down at me with wide eyes. Tonight they look even greener, and I’m surprised when he bends down and shuffles the papers back into the folder.
“My mistake. I’m sorry.”
I stare at him in abject disbelief. “Did you just… apologize to me?”
My tone clearly doesn’t sit well with him. His shoulders tense, and he stands above me, towering as he normally does. I rise to meet him, and he shoves the documents into my hands.
“Maybe you should learn how to pay attention when you walk,” I joke.
“Maybe you should learn to respect your superiors,” he counters, without humor.
He’s so close to me. I think he’s trying to intimidate me, but all I can feel is arousal. My gaze darts to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. I moisten my lips with my tongue, then glance down. If I keep looking at him, I might kiss him, and then I really will lose this job.
Distance. I need distance.
“Perhaps I should. Goodnight, Mr. Knight,” I say, and I turn on a heel. I wonder if he’s going to follow me. After all, there’s only one elevator. Are we going to have to ride it all the way down together?
I press the button without looking back. When I step inside and turn, Booker is gone. The doors close on the office, and I am left in silence with my thoughts.
I think I’ll get pepperoni. Mmm. Pepperoni.
Mmm. Booker.
Nope. Focus on pizza. Pizza.
I imagine taking a bite of pizza, then kissing Booker while he smiles. The image warms my heart, and I admonish myself immediately for it. That Booker doesn’t exist. He is a figment of my girlish imagination. The real man is a coldhearted, calculating businessman with no soul to speak of. He’s like the CW version of Scrooge—nasty, but so damn attractive.
I pick up my food and take the train home. Instead of looking over documents, I enjoy my meal while watching the other passengers around me. There are so many different people here. I’m so often in awe of how small my world was before.
I’m glad it’s bigger now.
The train stops a few blocks away from my apa
rtment, and I toss the small pizza box in a trashcan on the way. My gaze drifts up to the skyscrapers all around me. Even in residential areas, the buildings tower, and I’m not convinced I’ll ever get bored with the millions of different views available here.
I enter my own tall building and ride the elevator up to my apartment once more. It’s not exactly grand. Honestly, the couch is the second largest piece of furniture besides my bed, which is small and visible from the living room of my studio-sized space. I saved up enough to afford the first few months’ rent here, but I’m glad to have a job to keep it up now.
That is, if I can keep said job, I’ll be able to make some real progress here in the Big Apple.
I set my work bag down by my couch and slide the folder onto my tiny coffee table. Around the windows I have a series of small plants I keep forgetting to water now that my mind is occupied with work. I kick off my black heels and head to the kitchen and fill a small pitcher. I caress the leaves of my plants as I water them, silently apologizing for being such a bad plant mom.
And here I am, wishing I had a cat. Like this is much bigger than a kennel, anyway. Also, I can barely take care of my plants. How am I going to handle a living creature?
I finish pouring cool water into my plants’ pots, then walk over to my closet, where I find a comfortable pair of leggings and a long T-shirt. I make quick work of sliding out of my work clothes and into my comfy clothes. From across the room, my phone dings.
It’s not a sound I recognize. Huh.
I pad over on bare feet and pull my phone out of my bag. The notification comes from the dating app.
I have been matched.
My heart skips a beat. I laugh, because there’s no reason to be excited about a match on a dating app. I’m surprised I wasn’t matched up sooner, frankly. I watched a friend join a dating site once, and she was bombarded with “matches” who were the biggest creeps the internet could offer.
She terminated her account within the hour.
I have to remember that this isn’t actually dating, though. This is work. I need to see how this app functions, and if it will be user-friendly enough to sell. I have to prove my worth to Booker. This can be a part of that, too. I click on the icon, and the screen opens up to the blurred out face of what may or may not be a man.
I did specify my interest in men, didn’t I?
I narrow my eyes so my vision goes blurry, like maybe I can see through this using a magic-eye trick or something. That doesn’t work. In front of the picture, boxes with his profile information grab my attention.
The guy calls himself Master.
Oh dear lord.
I can’t help but be intrigued, though. Why was I matched with this person, and what does he look like? I’ll have to tell Booker that the intrigue is enticing. From what I’ve read in the instructions, the only way to see someone clearly is to ask and answer a series of questions. Only then can you get access to the picture.
What if this man is… um… not attractive?
Not a dating app. Work. Read on.
I scroll through the questions he’s answered about himself.
What is your favorite food?
“Something high class, with rich taste. Nothing unhealthy or unsavory. Also, pizza.”
I laugh at his response. It’s equal parts arrogant and funny. I move on to the next one.
What are you looking for in a partner?
“Someone who isn’t an idiot.”
OK, fair enough. I’m starting to see why we might have been matched, though I make a note to ask how the algorithm works as far as pairing people goes. I scan through some of his other answers and laugh again.
He’s funny. I like funny.
I tap over to the chat area and take a look. There’s a chat room, and then there’s the main question area. The dater is meant to put in five big-ticket questions, and if they’re willing to answer them, the picture gets revealed. I believe it’s meant to encourage serious relationships. If one is willing to share private information, perhaps the connection will be deep enough to last.
Could work. Who am I not to explore? It’s an interesting new take on online dating, but is it too complicated? Perhaps that will deter a less desirable pool of candidates from creating an account?
I click into the chat area. My finger hovers over the keyboard as I consider what to say.
“Hi. I’m Angel.”
I tap send, then cringe. Seriously? How awkward can I be? A little icon pops up to let me know he’s typing, and I squeal and flop onto my couch as I wait for his response.
“Yes, I gathered as much. It appears we are a match, Angel. Does your name sum up who you are?”
I ponder that one, then type out my answer. “Not really. I mean, I think I’m a pretty good person, but generally, I just like the idea of angels. Perfect beings filled with love and light that help people when they need it the most. It’s a nice thought.”
He types back. “It is a nice thought. I myself find that I rescue people when they need it the most on a regular basis. Just the other day, I saved a woman from stepping into a particularly dirty puddle. I found that to be quite the hero moment.” Heavily sarcastic, my my.
I smile as I type. “I’m sure to her it was. That is a very nice thing to do for someone. And why do you call yourself Master? Are you an expert in something?”
“Yes. Life.”
I laugh. “And humility, it appears.”
“Yes. I excel at being humble as well. I am the absolute best at being humble. No one is as humble as I am, in the history of humility.”
“Well, I’m glad to see I’ve been matched with such a down-to-earth, humble guy,” I say.
There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s going to say anything. The symbol appears, and my heart leaps a little at the sight.
This app is fun.
“Well, you appear to be a rational, nice human being. Should we have a go at this online dating thing? See how many questions we make it through?”
My belly churns with nerves at the thought. What if he gets to my picture, and realizes he’s made a huge mistake? Fear of rejection doesn’t go away just because the personal encounter is removed.
I hesitate, then type in my answer. “I think it’s worth exploring. Let’s see how far we get, Master.”
“Happy to go on this journey with you, Angel. I’m out of time tonight, but let’s pick up again later. I look forward to getting to know you.”
“You too. Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” he types.
Oh my. A little pop up tells me he’s left the chat room, which is convenient. Now I don’t have to sit and wonder why he isn’t saying anything. I’ll have to let Booker know that’s a great feature. I suppress a yawn as I set my phone down. I’m too tired to look at anything else tonight. Instead, I slide into bed, with images of what Master might look like.
I bet he’s way cuter than Booker Knight.
Chapter Four
Booker
I stare at my phone sitting there on my desk, begging to be checked.
Has she written anything?
I’m a complete idiot for caring, of course. I want to tell myself it’s just about the work, the research of the product, but over the past few days, I’ve found that speaking with Angel has become a bit of a highlight to my day.
She might be the first human connection I’ve ever made. And I’ve never met her.
I’m not sure it’s possible for me to be any more pathetic. The phone dings, and I nearly jump out of my seat.
Get it the fuck together, man.
I lift my phone and open the app. There, beautiful in all its glory, is a fresh message from Angel.
“Do you ever feel alone even when you’re in a crowd?”
I wonder where she is. Is she at the theater? A party? It’s a Friday night, so it makes perfect sense that she would be out on the town. Most normal people are. Those people don’t work day in and day out, but they also don’t have a billi
on dollars.
I do.
I tap on the chat box and start typing. “Depends. When one is in a roomful of friends, it can be the most fulfilling experience in the world. When one is surrounded by strangers with no one to talk to, then absolutely. I make it a point not to put myself in the latter situation.”
“You’re smart,” she writes back.
I try and imagine what she looks like. With a name like Angel, I can’t help but conjure up an image of a petite blonde, her long hair streaming down her shoulders, clad all in white. Based on our conversations, Angel seems like an innocent woman, a kind woman. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met, but I realize on some level it’s because she has no idea who I am either. If she knew, would she treat me the same?
My office door opens. “Are you seriously working on a Friday night?” Kieran plops on my sofa and lifts his eyebrows at me. I set my phone on the desk and cross my arms.
“Are you seriously questioning my work ethic, after everything we’ve been through?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Kieran grabs a pen from my desk and toys with it. He’s always been fidgety. I learned a while ago how to avoid being affected by his shifty energy, but when I’m tired or annoyed, it’s harder to ignore.
“Well, I’m a company owner. That’s why. You don’t need any other answer.”
“Bo, you’ve already made your billion dollars. You know what the point of making money is?”
“To be able to pay assassins so they can knock off annoying friends?”
“To enjoy your life, pal.” Kieran leans forward and glances at my computer.
“You’re not even doing anything important. Let’s go to the bar down the street. Let loose a little. Have some fun. Have a drink near other human beings. Maybe even talk to one!”
“I don’t bother speaking with other human beings. They are a waste of my time.”
Except for Angel. For some reason, I can talk with her. Angel is never a burden and always an excitement. This is a new concept for me, and I’m the first to admit I enjoy it.
