by Monroe, Lila
“Trust me, I’ve done the research on this April chick. I know what she’s looking for in a guy. The next time she runs into you—pun intended—you’re already set up to work that bashful magic. She knows you have a job, are charming, and a gentleman. We’re laying groundwork. Rome wasn’t built in a day—even by a professional Romeo,” I add with a grin.
“OK, we’ll give it another try.” James looks more enthusiastic this time. “You’re going to make it happen though, right? From the second I saw her, up to her elbows in floral wreaths, at my cousin’s wedding, I knew she was the one.”
Bless.
I’m not the kind of guy who believes in love at first sight. Lust, yes. Intrigue? Absolutely. But it’s what happens next that makes all the difference . . . which is why I’ve made a career out of engineering that “next” to give my clients their maximum shot of turning a great first impression into something more.
Because it all comes down to good planning.
Screw fate, ignore destiny, try some expert research instead. The way we feel about someone is all just chemical reactions in the brain. Chemicals that can be manipulated—I mean, encouraged, given just the right setting. From finding out people’s interests and secret passions to setting the scene with just the right music, ambiance, and—sometimes—hormones, I do it all. For a handy fee. It’s not exactly matchmaking or relationship coaching. I like to think of it more as directing the perfect romantic production.
Where only one half of the couple knows the whole thing is staged.
“It will happen,” I tell James, confident. “The spilled coffee routine should have worked. Something was off. I’ll get her next time for sure. I mean, you will.”
James gets a text. “My surgery just got moved up. I need to go scrub in.”
“Go, save lives,” I tell him. “I’ll text you the details of the next setup. Don’t worry,” I add. “This time, she won’t be able to resist.”
“I’m counting on it!”
After I finish up with James, I head out across town. I’ve got a dinner meeting with my boss to update him on my latest clients. I was hoping to be able to report back another stunning success with James and April, but it looks like this one is going to take a little more work.
Why didn’t April take the handsome pediatric doctor bait?
I figured he’d be just her type—which is useful. Sometimes, I have to do a total 180 on my clients to whip them into eligible shape, but James didn’t need any makeover at all. From scoping out April at her shop the other day, I figured she’d be all about getting rescued by a cute stranger. The “coffee trip” is a classic in my book, and great for getting a conversation started.
At least, it normally is. But April bolted before James even stood a chance.
I go over some ideas in my head, looking for inspiration for Round Two, because I’m not ready to concede defeat. The scene today should have worked. I staged it perfectly. The smell of warm cinnamon rolls wafting, making her feel homey and safe. “Jolene” on the stereo, reminding her of true love. A helpful stranger, coming to her rescue . . .
Nope. Clearly, it’s time to take things up a level. I need to learn more about April to make it personal. No, not just personal, irresistible.
They don’t call me the King of Meet-Cutes for nothing. And I’m not giving up my crown without a fight.
I reach the restaurant where my boss, Winston, likes to meet, and I head inside. It’s an old-school Italian place, with faded red leather banquettes and black-and-white photos of Sinatra and co. on the walls.
“Hey Seth,” Gino greets me in the lobby. “Winston says he’s running five behind. Go on back and have a drink, and he’ll catch up.”
“Thanks.” I tip my hat and head to our usual booth. Winston doesn’t go for anything as basic as an office; he runs Romeo, Inc. out of half the classy cocktail bars in the city. I had my doubts to begin with—when he first tried to recruit me, I thought he was running some kind of weird escort service—but I learned soon enough that the Romeos don’t do the dating, we just make sure everybody else does.
I’d been chasing after my latest crush at the time, a PR girl for a fashion magazine who liked to grab lunch at a Chinese place around the corner. I slipped the guy behind the counter twenty dollars to give her a special fortune cookie telling her that love was right in front of her, and then I “accidentally” lost her umbrella in the pile. A “casual” introduction later, I walked her back to the magazine under my umbrella big enough for two, and just like that, I was all set for a date Friday night—and Winston (who’d been at the next table) had offered me a job, using my skills of romantic staging to help the lovelorn folks of New York connect with the partners of their dreams.
The girl is ancient history, but I’ve been working for Winston ever since. And loving it. He started out behind the scenes on Broadway, and has been a romance pro for thirty years. He’s taught me everything he knows. How to create atmosphere, to read people and figure out what they want more than anything. And then how make it happen, using every trick in the book.
“We’re running the biggest production around,” he likes to say. “What’s a stage show without music, costume, dialog? Love is just like that. You’ve got to wow them from the start!”
So, I treat every job like its own production: orchestrating every moment so people can’t help but swoon. Some people are looking for excitement and daring; others like to feel they’ve known someone for years.
And, yes, most of them want to believe in soulmates. That fate has delivered the perfect person right to their door.
They just don’t realize there’s someone giving fate a helping hand.
“Ah, Seth, there you are.” Winston arrives, looking dapper as ever in a three-piece suit. He’s just like the restaurant: a New York classic, through and through. He slides into the seat opposite me, and immediately, Gino materializes with two dirty Martinis and a basket of bread.
“The usual?” Gino asks.
“You got it.”
Winston turns to me and raises his glass. “Congratulations are in order. I just got another wedding invitation. Thanks to you.”
“Laura and Carlos?” I ask, smiling. I already got mine in the mail.
“Indeed. To another happy couple.”
I toast him and take a drink, glad at least my skills have worked for some people.
“What was the magic trick for them?” Winston asks.
“Laura came to me last year,” I recall. “Carlos worked in another office in her building, but she never got a chance to get talking to him. So, I got her a seat at the Knicks game right next to his season tickets, and I paid off the Kiss-Cam to focus on them at halftime. The two of them took it from there!”
“A job well done.” Winston gives an approving nod. “Now, how are your latest clients getting on?”
I fill Winston in on the James situation. “Clearly, I need to take things up a level. The coffee spill is a good classic, but someone who cares about romance and symbolism like this florist might need something more dramatic.”
Winston nods. “You said James is a doctor? How about a minor medical emergency on the C train? Nothing like a little drama to get the adrenaline pumping. If they band together to save a dying passenger, that’s a story she won’t forget. And the human body can’t distinguish between the oxytocin released by panic, and the stuff released by lust.”
I pause. Staging a heart attack just to impress April might be going too far, but Winston is the expert . . .
Maybe.
“Either way, I have every confidence in you, boy. Next thing you know, we’ll be at their wedding, toasting my retirement.”
I nearly choke on my Martini. “Retirement?”
He chuckles. “Not yet, but someday. These winters are getting to me. Maybe I’ll get a yacht, cruise around the Med for a while. Enjoy the scenery,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.
I grin. Winston is a die-hard bachelor, and pretty much my role
model when it comes to enjoying himself without getting tied down.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I tell him. “You love this city.”
“That, I do,” he agrees, and he raises his glass in another toast. “To New York . . . and all her lovelorn inhabitants.”
“And their checking accounts,” I add with a grin.
“I’ll drink to that.”
I stay for dinner with Winston, soaking up his stories about his bachelor days—and a bottle of wine. I’m just about ready to crash by the time we’re finished eating Gino’s finest spaghetti carbonara, but I’m not done yet. I need to do more recon on April so I can figure out the best way for James to sweep her off her feet. She’s clearly a romantic, so it’s just a matter of setting the stage and getting her to realize that James could be The One.
I detour via her neighborhood to get inspired and see what raw material I’m working with. But I can’t risk her recognizing me, so I keep a low profile: staying low behind my scarf and coat collar. Luckily, the weather is still so bad that everyone’s bundled up, and it’s hard to make out anyone, but as I’m strolling towards her street, I see her coming straight for me!
Damn.
I duck back into an alleyway, out of sight.
Luckily, April is walking fast, wearing an adorable pair of fluffy earmuffs against the wind. I have to admit, I understand why James fell for her. She’s definitely cute, and from our flower shop conversation, I also know she’s smart and funny . . .
And a challenge.
So how can I engineer the perfect meet-cute for them?
I step out from the alley and carefully trail her down the street. I’m not exactly stalking her; research is a vital part of my job. You know when you meet someone, and they magically like all the same movies and books as you, and you wind up talking for hours, feeling like you’re on the same wavelength?
Well, let’s just say that kind of connection doesn’t come without some serious research.
I follow her past the bodega and back to that coffee shop on the corner, the site of her failed meet-cute with James. They’re just closing up for the night, and it’s kind of late for coffee, but as I watch through the window, April doesn’t go to the counter. Instead, she pins something up on the community bulletin board, waves goodbye to the barista, and heads out again.
I wait until she’s gone before ducking inside.
“We’re closing.”
“I know, I won’t be a minute.”
I hurry over to the noticeboard, and look to see what April just posted.
It’s an ad: ROOMMATE WANTED - 2 bedroom. Please be neat, responsible, no death metal fans. First/last, bonus points for cooking skills.
There are tabs at the bottom of the sheet that have April’s name and number listed, so I tear one off.
Perfect.
Something tells me she’s about to find her dream roommate.
4
April
“If you keep scrubbing like a maniac, your new roommate is going to assume you love to clean,” Natalie scolds as I wipe down the counters. For the third time. “Do you want them thinking they can put their feet up and let you take care of everything?”
“I can’t help it!” I exclaim. “I clean when I’m nervous. Or restless. Or agitated.”
“Or happy, horny, or it’s a day that ends with a Y,” Natalie laughs.
I stick out my tongue at her.
“You’re adorable. But you know . . .” She narrows her eyes. “Your cleaning skills will come in handy when you have to clean up after the bodies.”
“What?” I freeze. “What bodies?”
“Oh, you know,” she drawls, mischievous. “Because your new roommate has a one in ten chance of being a sociopath. Well, they say one in ten. I think in this town it skews higher. Like, seven-point-nine out of ten.”
“Shut up.” I spritz some Windex in her direction. “I have Remy for the doom and gloom. I invited you here for positive vibes!”
Natalie drifts into the kitchen after me. “Did I tell you about the story I read the other day? Some guy set up hidden pinhole cameras in this sorority house without anyone realizing. Made zillions in pay-per-view livestreams.”
I gulp.
“I know, right?” Natalie continues. “These days, cameras can be literally the size of a . . . well . . . pinhole. Not that you have to worry about the livestream sex-tape thing since . . .” She pauses. “You’re in a dry season.”
I aim the bottle of Windex at her again. “If you don’t shut up about sociopaths and cameras and worst of all, my dry season, I’m going to streak-free your ass!”
Natalie laughs. “What does that even mean?”
I grin. “I have no idea. But it will be no less than you deserve!”
She opens the fridge, helping herself to the pitcher of mint hibiscus iced tea I just made. “Hey, that’s to impress my potential new roomies,” I protest.
“You’re delightful, you’ll impress them all on your own. Mmm, this is really good,” she adds.
“I made it with fresh mint from the roof,” I say. I have a little garden up there where I grow some flowers and herbs.
“See? Who wouldn’t want to live with you. No, your problem is going to be sussing out the freaks and weirdos,” Natalie says, looking serious. “Lucky for you, I’ve got my laptop. I’ll use my superior investigative skills to make sure you don’t actually let a sociopath move in. Or a Scientologist, which is just as bad.”
A knock at the door interrupts us. I glance at the clock on the microwave. My first potential roommate has arrived, right on time. “Punctual. That’s a good sign, right?”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Natalie reassures me. “And if they’re not, just use the code word hibiscus and I’ll fake an asthma attack and get them out of here.”
“Well, as long as we have a plan.”
I brace myself, and go open the door.
It turns out, a good sign would actually have been one with giant neon letters that quoted Natalie’s sociopath statistic. Although I’m starting to think it’s higher than she’d said: like, nine out of ten. Because holy moly, is everyone in this town a nutjob?
“It is a good apartment with excellent feng shui,” my fifth prospective roommate of the day says haughtily. “But if you’re going to continue to be a murderer, I just couldn’t possibly.”
Murderer. Yep, that’s me. Because I’m a florist. And cutting flowers is murder. This woman is so vegan that she asks vegetables their forgiveness before she eats them and immediately plants or composts anything leftover so it can all return to the earth. Speaking of returning stuff to the earth, she scolded me for not using a composting toilet to make my own fertilizer to spread on my plants.
I mean, I love my little greenhouse, but even I have limits.
And forget plants—if she knew about the leftover barbecue that’s in my fridge, she’d call the freaking PETA SWAT team on me.
“We’re so sorry it’s not going to work out,” Natalie says, taking charge. She opens the door and crowds the woman through it.
“We just really love killing living things, don’t we April? Flowers, puppies, hopes and dreams. You name it, we murder it. Hey, did you know nearly eighty percent of people in New York are sociopaths?”
The woman clucks and hurries down the hall.
Nat slams the door.
We look at each other for a beat. And then burst out laughing.
“Oh my fucking God,” she says. “Was that woman for real?”
“No,” I splutter. “She couldn’t be. Because she was the best of the five so far! I mean, that guy who wa—”
“I told you.” Natalie pokes a finger right into my face. “If you bring up toe-picking guy ever again, we will cease to be friends. That was fucking heinous. I knew it was weird that he wore flip flops in winter.”
“Ugh,” I say with a (barely) fake gag. “So gross. I think I can still see his toenails on the rug. But seriously, I’m going
to end up dead or normalizing some really, really disgusting personal hygiene practices if I don’t get better applicants soon.”
“Where did you put up the ad?” Natalie asks.
“Just at the coffee shop around the corner.”
“Uh-oh, that was your first mistake,” Natalie says. “You might as well have hung it outside a therapist’s office! You need somewhere full of normal people. Like a bookstore, or outside a meeting for Cleaners Anonymous.”
Another knock comes.
“This is the last one,” I sigh, turning back to the door. “But knowing my luck, this one will be Pennywise fresh out of the sewers. Maybe he’ll put me out of my misery, and then I won’t need a roommate.”
Natalie chuckles. “Let’s get this over with.”
Pasting a smile on my face, I open the door. It’s a normal-looking woman in jeans, a North Face jacket, cute knitted beanie, and matching mittens. “Oh, hey,” she says with a smile. “I’m here about the apartment?”
“Sure,” I say, cautiously optimistic. She doesn’t look vegan. I point toward the couch. “Come on in and have a seat. I’m April—this is my place. And this is my friend Natalie. She’s helping me scope out applicants.”
“Thanks,” the woman says, unzipping her coat as she sits on the couch. “I’m Penny. Penny Wise. Nice to meet you both.”
I choke.
The woman laughs. “I’m just kidding. My name’s Dahlia Preston. You can hear everything in the hallway, by the way.”
“Oh, I like you,” Natalie grins.
“So, tell us about yourself, Penny . . . er . . . Dahlia.”
She grins. “Well, I came here for college from Pittsburgh and never left. I majored in film, so I should move to the West Coast, but I fell in love with NYC. I waitress to pay the bills and make small indie art films as passion projects.”
“Oh cool,” I say as Natalie begins to type away at her computer.
“Want a tour?” I offer, because not only does Dahlia seem normal, she has gainful employment, and actual hobbies, too.
