“Sure.”
“Heart Makers is a pretty new company, just over two years old. We’re focused on creating lasting romantic partnerships for people in their twenties and thirties. We started the company as a way to fight back against the hook-up culture and the way most dating sites are simply becoming unusable. So here, we strive to make lasting connections using the typical things like personality and temperament, but also expectations, timing, industry, and phase of life.”
“That sounds really great,” I say. Because it does. Given my experience, I’d do almost anything not to have one more guy message me that I have nice tits.
“We’ve been successful so far, and I think it’s only going to get better. But because of the personalized nature of our service, we’re expensive. I don’t want our expertise to be limited to the people who can afford our matchmaking services, and that’s where you come in.”
Shock rolls through me. “Really? I don’t know anything about matchmaking.”
Chance laughs. “I don’t know if I’d agree with that. I’ve seen your blog, and I think you know plenty about the perils of bad dating. Matchmaking is just one step further.”
He’s read my blog. Oh my God. Oh. My. God.
“I’d like you to come on and write articles for our website about dating, matchmaking, romantic advice. We’ll give you some things to write about, but you’d also have some creative room. From what I’ve seen of your writing, your voice and sense of humor are a perfect match for what we’re looking for. If you’re interested, that is.”
“I am, of course. But…you don’t know anything about me. You’re just willing to have my writing up on your site?”
“I read a good deal of your blog, and I’ve shared the relevant posts with my COO and CFO. They all agree that you’re perfect.”
There aren’t any words I can say. Can it really be that easy?
He laughs again. “Tell you what. Why don’t you stay here till the end of business? I’ll show you where you’d be working, and you can see what working on an article would be like. Then you can let me know.”
“Okay.” The word is out of my mouth before I’m even realizing that I’m saying it. How in the world would I ever be able to say no to this?
He stands and comes around the desk until he’s standing right in front of me. I have to lean back to look at him and damn if this isn’t the best view I’ve had in my life for a long, long time. Chance reaches out a hand to me, and I take it, letting him lift me to my feet like I weigh nothing.
“Come with me, I’ll show you your office.”
He walks out of the room and all I can do is gape after him.
Three
“Ladies, the walk of shame is over. You looked fabulous when you went out last night and that dress looks just as good on you the next morning. There’s nothing shameful about choosing to have a good time and owning it. So own it, and soon enough we’ll be calling it the walk of victory.”
—How to have a Fantastic One-Night-Stand as a Successful, Independent Woman, Heartmakers.com
This isn’t possible. It’s not real. Things like this don’t happen in real life, except maybe they do, because I’m standing in what might be the most gorgeous office I’ve ever seen. It’s not huge like Chance’s office. It’s the perfect size: cozy, with a desk and a floor to ceiling window and another wall that’s painted a shade of teal that makes me feel like I’m in the Mediterranean.
In the corner, there’s a chair that looks like you could sink into it with a cup of tea. I don’t think I could have designed a better office for myself if they had asked me to. It’s like they read my mind. Which is kind of freaky and kind of awesome.
“This would be my office?” I feel like I need to ask because I’m still not entirely convinced that this whole morning hasn’t been a fever dream brought on by Noodle’s horrible dog breath.
Chance gestures to the desk. “Sit.”
I do.
He leans over me and moves the computer mouse. Dear God, he smells good. Like water and pine and soap and something else that makes me want to take a bite out of his arm. “Since you’re not officially on the payroll, you don’t have a log-in. I’m going to let you use mine.”