“You met Patrick in person, and you’re not even a thing yet,” I say, mentioning the guy she’s been keen on for some time.
She shakes her head at me, her eyes turning to slits. “You know that’s not the reason we’re not a thing.”
I wave a hand. “Too many nots in that sentence.”
“Just wait and see if I cover for you in today’s game.”
“You will. Because you’re just as competitive as I am. And speaking of, let’s wager. If I don’t find Mrs. Right waiting for me on my phone at the end of this game, I’ll buy drinks tonight for the whole crew.”
She offers a hand to shake. “Deal.”
Then I race through the darkened cityscape, ducking behind cardboard buildings, hiding behind cutouts of bridges as I mow down a pack of app-making CEOs. We emerge victorious at the end of our hour-long session. I’m both ready for a round of drinks, no matter who’s treating, and prepared to check out the bounty of beautiful, brilliant babes who are also eager to find true love.
I turn my phone on as I leave with Mia, ready to meet up with our buddies. “What do you think? Will we find the next Mrs. Parker here?” I ask, tapping the screen.
“Oh yeah. Absolutely. She’ll be the one wearing an apron and waving to you from in front of a white picket fence.”
I stop in my tracks when I open the inbox on the dating site. It’s clogged. I stare at my phone, as if something’s wrong with it. “It’s like it’s all backed up,” I say, as if this is a math problem I can’t solve.
Mia tugs her blond hair out of her ponytail holder. “Oh, really? I’m so shocked. Do you mean ten thousand women answered your ad?”
My jaw comes unhinged as I stare at the cornu-un-copia of messages. Men, women, mail-order brides, women with teeth, women without teeth, thrice-divorced ladies, women in knee-high socks and short shorts with breasts the size of potted plants, as well as girls who look like they haven’t even graduated high school.
I swallow and gulp. Maybe I was a little off with my prediction. “It’s like it’s teeming with the masses.”
Mia sighs and smiles. “That’s the problem.”
Chapter Two
Evie
You just know when some things go together.
And I know this adorable and badass teal leather skirt will pair perfectly with my friend Olivia’s scarf. Plus, hello. This skirt is less than forty dollars. Can you say deal? Come to Mama.
I zoom in on the skirt, snatching it from the shelves and wielding it like a prize. “Olivia, this would go amazingly with your coral scarf,” I tell my client and friend. “The light silky one.”
She gives me a quizzical look from across the rack at the consignment shop in the Village I’ve scoured today. “Are you sure, Evie?”
“Have I ever led you astray?” I ask, eyeing her engagement ring. It’s a stunning emerald cut, and I helped her fiancé, a deliciously hot vet—meow—pick it out for her.
“Never, ever. But are you sure? Turquoise and coral?”
I count off on my fingers. “Turquoise and coral. Purple and gray. Pink and yellow. They’re beyond blue and orange, and red and black. They’re unexpected combos. Like a hacker and a vet.”
I could color match by the time I was six. I could pick outfits with an uncanny ease and sense of fashion. Over the years, that keen sense of pairing evolved from the chocolate-goes-with-strawberry variety to this-man-will-fall-madly-for-this-woman.
Olivia is one of my people, a brunette, green-eyed, blissfully-in-love ethical hacker who’s paid gobs to break into bank security. Earlier this year, I linked her up with a smoldering and ridiculously fit vet on the Upper East Side who handles all the teacup chihuahuas and poodles in the city, it seems.
“I’m buying the skirt as a gift. Wear it to the upcoming gallery opening.”
“Herb and I can’t wait for the event,” she says.
See? That’s one of the ways I knew she and her beau would be perfect together. They share a deep and abiding passion for art installations—the weirder the better—and that’s what I’ve found the online dating sites of the world disregard. What’s under the surface in a match. Like his name. His parents saddled him with one of the worst names in the world to give a modern man. Herbert is just, well, it’s a turn-off. But I knew Olivia would look beneath the surface. That’s what she does for a living. That’s what she does with people, too, and now they’re slated to marry in a few more months.
She grabs a trucker hat from a shelf, the mesh variety with a silhouette of a woman on the front. She positions it jauntily mere inches above her pretty brown hair. “Perfect for my next business meeting?”
My blue eyes turn to daggers. “Don’t. Lower. Your. Arms.”
She laughs. “I wasn’t going to actually put it on.”
I breathe again. “Good. I can’t help myself, though. I see a hat near a friend’s head, and all my training kicks into gear.”
“Anti-lice training?”
“Yes. Exactly,” I say, as if it’s a joke, though truth be told, it is not a joke. I wear a scarf on my head at theaters to protect my blond locks, I travel on planes wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and I never, ever rest my head on anyone else’s pillow.
It’s just better to be safe than scratchy-headed.
“I should get this for my brother, though. Once, you know, I’ve sanitized it in a vat of color-safe bleach.”
“Does he like mesh trucker hats with hot chicks on them?”
She eyes the hat suspiciously and sets it down. “Come to think of it, no. I’m just tired of seeing a New York Yankees hat on him all the time.”
I point at the mesh hat as I consider a black lace vintage skirt. “I’m not sure that’s an improvement, though. Wait. Which brother are we talking about? The hot nerd or the hotter nerd?”
She laughs, then sticks out her tongue. “Can we please not refer to any of my brothers as hot?”
“Even though that’s what half of New York City calls them?”
Olivia’s brothers are gorgeous identical-twin tech multimillionaires. I know them both from the softball league my brother, Patrick, convinced me to join. Though, to be fair, join is a euphemism for my role. Due to an extreme allergy to competitive sports in any way, shape, or form, I don’t actually play softball. Instead, I manage the team. But that suits my organizational heart much better than digging my heels in at home plate and trying to whack a ball whizzing too fast near my face.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, I still think of my brothers—both of them—as complete and utter ding-dongs,” she says as we walk to the counter. “Case in point. Dylan put an ad online yesterday, looking for his soulmate. He’s such a doofus.”
My skin prickles, like spiders are crawling down my spine. “LIKE ON TINDER?”
Oops. I think I just spoke in shouty caps.
Look, I’m not technically opposed to hookup sites. I get that they fill a certain human need. A primal urge, you might say. But the problem is, they’ve numbed men and women from taking their time to get to know someone and finding real love.
“It was something else. I’m trying to remember.”
“Please say it was an elite matchmaking online site where the registrants need to pay fees in the triple digits at least,” I add, worry in my tone. Even though I’m a professional matchmaker, I can coexist quite nicely with my online counterparts that actually require a certain degree of vetting.
Olivia winces, and a heavy sigh follows. “It was one of those plenty-of-sharks-in-the-sea places.”
“No!” I am the Wicked Witch, melting. I snap my gaze from the rack of vintage skirts on my right to the cute Peter Pan dresses on my left, hoping I didn’t actually scream that out loud.
“’Fraid so,” Olivia says, confirming my worst professional fears.
I press my hands together in prayer. “Say it isn’t so. Say you’re teasing. Say you’re pulling my leg.”
Olivia grabs her phone and shows me the ad.
With each
“Why?” Her voice seems laced with genuine surprise. “Dylan is a master at all things online. He lives and dies by the Web.”
“Two words. Gold digger. He’s going to be besieged with women, and he’s too sweet to know what hit him. He’ll be like a puppy dog. You see what it’s like at softball games. Sometimes women are there checking out both of your brothers.”
She sneers. “And he still thinks the women at softball are cheering him on for hitting a home run. He’s competitive like that.”
“My point precisely. He’ll be swarmed with catfishers. Your brother is ridiculously rich and completely clueless and adorably hot.”
She screws up the corner of her mouth. “That does kind of describe Dylan to a T, minus the adorably hot part. But what are we supposed to do?”
“Help him,” I say, pleading. “This is like Wonder Woman walking past the wounded. She can’t leave them behind.”
She blinks. “But your clientele is women. You’re the Stud Finder.”
“My clientele is mostly women,” I correct. “Because that’s who usually comes to a matchmaker. But darling, I have to know the men, too. How else would I have paired you with Herb the hot vet?”
She smiles, her straight white teeth gleaming. “I do love my Herb.”
As the Stud Finder, I help well-off single women in Manhattan find men who won’t fleece them—men who will love and cherish them. I’ve made a fantastic living, thank you very much, with my eyes. That sense of color matching? My fashion skills? My knowledge of personalities? I parlayed that into a psychology degree, a career as an executive recruiter, and now I use it as the head of an elite matchmaking business. I’m outgoing, I speak my mind, and I know nearly everyone in New York City. I’ve become the shield, the sword, and the lubricant for dozens of women to find their Mr. Right.
That’s because I don’t go for the obvious matches.
Forget the football player and the cheerleader, the beauty and the beast, the virgin and the billionaire. My skills lie in finding subtler combinations and unexpected pairings. The philanthropist and the man who photographs dogs for rescue organizations, the magazine editor and the venture capitalist, the best-selling romance novelist and the hot, young comedian who makes her laugh.
Those are my couplings.
While I have very little in common with Dylan Parker, I can appreciate all he brings to the table. And that’s why, even though my clients are usually women, I know I have to help him. I simply can’t let a man who’s that much of a catch take this sort of risk.
“I volunteer as tribute.” I raise a hand high. “I will find the perfect woman for your brother.” The Stud Finder will become a Studette Searcher.
“I’ll run it past him to make sure he’s game, and I’d love to pay for your services.”
I furrow my brow and shake my head. “Your money is no good here. It’s my gift to you. An engagement gift,” I say with a wink.
She drops her hand to my arm. “Evie, you don’t have to do that. I’m more than happy to pay. He’s my brother, after all, no matter how challenging the case is.”
I laugh. “All the more reason for me to do it pro bono. It’ll sharpen my skills to handle tough cases.”
“Then I suspect he’ll have an even harder time saying no. He can’t turn down a deal.”
Nor can I when it comes to clothes. I buy the skirt for Olivia, and that cute black one? I grab it on the way out, and plunk down twenty-two dollars. That is one hell of a steal.
Chapter Three
Dylan
Dylan: Yo.
Ryder: What’s up?
Dylan: My sister wants me to use a matchmaker.
Ryder: Your sister is brilliant.
Dylan: That’s it? That’s all?
Ryder: Did you want a lengthy explanation? Or should I let you know I’m still laughing at the ad you posted?
Ryder: Did you post it for my amusement? If so, well done.
Ryder: Also, seriously. I feel responsible for this. Have I not done my best to train you and your brother in the ways of being rich, single, and in demand in New York City?
Dylan: Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sarcasm and mockery.
Ryder: I only mock you because you’re mockable.
Dylan: And I thought my sister was mean…
Ryder: You ain’t seen nothing yet.
Ryder: But seriously, man. I get it. I understand where you’re coming from. I also agree that you might benefit from someone to separate the wheat from the chaff. Do what Olivia says.
Dylan: All right. The master has spoken.
Ryder: Orders straight from the Consummate Wingman.
* * * *
I move the knight two squares over, then up. “So she’s doing this out of the goodness of her heart?”
Olivia peers at the chessboard in front of us in Washington Square Park. Without raising her gaze from the board, she answers, “She likes me, and she also sees it as her civic duty to help you.”
I laugh as I run a hand through hair that’s in need of a trim. “I’m her charity case?”
Olivia raises her face and winks, her green eyes the same shade as mine. “Dylan, don’t you know? You’re always the charity case. Comes with being the youngest.” She moves her rook.
“But I’m also the smartest,” I say as I capture her rook on my next move. I dangle the chess piece in the warm summer air. “Ha!”
“Foiled again,” she says, cursing.
“Anyway, you really think I should use a matchmaker? I’ll admit I considered it briefly when you used one, but it just seemed like the Internet had to be a better solution.”
“Can we agree now that the Internet wasn’t the better solution for you?”
I take a beat, reflecting back on the responses I received from my ad. None were from women who were “interested in new experiences and sharing all the good things,” but rather those who wanted to experience my bank account and share my wallet.
“Fine. At first glance, the ad didn’t entirely pan out. But you think this woman can find the one?”
Olivia shrugs casually. “I do think she can. I found Herb through her,” she says, wagging her left hand at me.
A cone of light from her diamond nearly blinds me. “I can’t see anymore!”
She laughs. “Exactly. Listen, to use your favorite analogy—it’s a no-harm, no-foul situation.”
I mime dunking a basketball.
“If you had any athletic talent, you’d have been dangerous,” she says.
“Ah, but I bet I would have made an excellent polo player,” I say, adopting a snooty accent.
She snorts. “Oh, too right. You’d have been bloody brilliant on a horse.”
“Also, don’t forget, I’m still fast, and I’m excellent at softball.”
She nods slowly. “Right. Slow-pitch softball. We’re all good at that, Dylan.”
I toss my hands up, exasperated. “And why do I listen to you?”
She stretches her arm to pinch my cheek. “Because you’re adorable, and you need help. Evie will help you. She’s sharp, direct, and fun. And listen, I wouldn’t feel right letting you go out on dates with women you meet from an ad. I know your friend Ryder would say the same thing.”
I nod. “True, that. In fact, he already did. So did Mia. The level of mockery she put me through was pretty intense on the Sarcasm Scale.”
“What are we waiting for then?”
“For me to win this game,” I say, sliding my queen toward her king at the edge of the board. “Checkmate.”
She scowls.
I park my hands behind my head. “It’s so satisfying beating you. Like, incredibly, absolutely, fantastically satisfying.”
“It was satisfying when I beat you up when you were a scrawny kid, too.”
“You never beat me up. Not once.”
She glances at her watch. “So much for me helping you find the woman of your dreams,” she says, and rises as if she’s about to dart off.
I grab her wrist. “Liv, you gave the most painful noogies when you were a kid, and I still have bruises on my skull to prove your strength.”
She smiles wickedly. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, why don’t you and Evie meet tomorrow? She has a tight schedule, but I can probably convince her to fit you in to grab a coffee and chat. She likes coffee. Correction—she loves coffee.”
I groan. “She’s one of those coffee snobs? They’re so hard to take.”
“You’re a tea snob.”
“Because tea is awesome. It’s classy. It’s unconventional. But everyone likes coffee.”
She flings her hands in the air. “Fine. How about boba tea?”
I crinkle my nose. “I’m a tea lover. Boba tea is like an affront to my senses, whether someone calls it boba tea or bubble tea.” I shudder.
“Perhaps try it then, snob. There’s a boba tea shop that makes the drinks by machine. You place an order and these robotic arms make it.”
My eyes widen. “I like the sound of that.”
“I thought you might. You guys can review all the details over your robotically-crafted tea balls.”
Chapter Four
Evie
Quickie.
I’m meeting him at a place called Quickie.
I shake my head, amused and baffled that a store would choose such a name. I stare at the orange sign and squint as if the letters will rearrange themselves into something that doesn’t suggest an afternoon romp.
Not that I have anything against afternoon romps. Though, truth be told, it’s been a while since I had a romp at any hour of the day. Afternoon, evening, or morning.
I’m a big fan of romping, but the sad reality is I’ve been too busy with building my business to have time.
Ironic, because I tell my clients we always make time for the things we want. Lord knows, I make plenty of time to hunt out bargains at the best vintage and consignment shops all around Manhattan, and I post them on my blog for fun.
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