Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
His eyes fix on mine. His posture firms. He’s sure. He’s strong. He’s proud. “What about the magic?”
“What magic?”
“Tell me you don’t feel anything and I’ll walk away, now,” he says. “Tell me you aren’t drawn to me. Tell me you don’t feel sparks when we’re together. Tell me you don’t picture a future. Tell me that, any of it, and I’ll leave. No questions. No argument.”
I can’t tell him that.
There is something here. I am drawn to him. I do want him to stay. I want it so badly, but it doesn’t make sense.
“I’m sorry, River,” I say.
“Tell me you don’t feel anything,” he repeats. “Then I’ll leave.”
“I feel something.” That’s true. But this is true, too. “An infatuation. A crush. Good sex.” It takes all my strength to say the words. “We’re caught up in that.” That’s the only thing that makes sense. We’re having fun. Because how could it be more? No. My feelings are misfiring. Everything is off. This is the only thing that makes sense. “I’m sorry, but it’s not enough.”
He shakes his head, but he accepts it.
I offer him the room.
And he packs and leaves.
And I don’t feel any better. I feel empty and miserable.
Maybe that’s love. Letting someone go, even though it hurts, even though you’d rather hold on.
…
After a few hours of crying, I do what I always do at times like these.
I go to the place where the world makes sense. Only it doesn’t, not anymore.
Work is supposed to be the one place I’m in control. Instead, I don’t have a clue what any of it means.
For hours, I go through the code. I look at recent matches. I read testimonials. People love the app. Sure, there are users who don’t manage to find someone, but they’re few and far between. They’re people like me.
Too picky, too difficult, too cold.
They just aren’t cut out for love.
We’re the problem, not the app.
I stare all afternoon. Into the evening. Until my cell buzzes with an alarm. Fifteen minutes until dinner.
Right.
I dress and do my makeup as quickly as possible. My teal sheath is a little too formal for the resort, a little too wrinkled to look professional, and without my usual hair dryer, my bob isn’t in straight-line shape. But I have wine-colored lipstick and dark eyeliner, and are there any problems that can’t be solved by thick eyeliner and lace-up boots?
Well, anything besides the one-hundred-degree afternoon temperatures.
Despite the heat, I don the boots. I even grab a leather jacket. I’m staying in the air-conditioned hotel anyway.
Around the corner, down the elevator, to the lobby bar where Willa and Mr. Perfect, Willa’s boyfriend, are waiting.
Willa greets me with an extremely professional handshake. She introduces her boyfriend with the same business-like demeanor. This is Xavier, he’s a great deal. Let’s start the bidding at a hundred thousand dollars.
He is handsome. I’ll give her that much. He’s the kind of guy I normally date. He’s tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, and smart-hot glasses that fit Willa’s nerdy energy. Unlike the guys I normally date, he’s wearing his suit. A subtle navy with a beautiful, vibrant magenta tie.
To match our app.
Because, according to Willa, he’s a match.
A perfect match.
For me. My only perfect match.
Xavier isn’t her boyfriend. We were wrong about that.
He’s her brother. And this isn’t just a business meeting.
It’s a setup.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Deanna
After a few minutes of small talk, Jake and Lexi join. They say goodbye quickly and go off to some other restaurant in Palm Springs. Willa leaves for her room. It’s been a long day. She’s done with business. Whatever.
The Wilder siblings whisper about something, then Xavier reintroduces himself, and he leads me to the restaurant.
It’s a perfect spot for a date. A wide-open room with round, linen-covered, candlelit tables. A romantic atmosphere, scored by classical music and quiet conversation.
He’s a perfect gentleman every step of the way. He pulls out my chair, he lays his napkin on his lap, he suggests a dish but doesn’t press when I order something else.
He smiles with the perfect amount of warmth. Enough to invite me. Not so much as to overwhelm me.
Practically speaking, the guy is doing all the right things. He’s putting in effort for a medium-stakes situation. He’s well dressed and groomed, friendly and flirty without overdoing it. He’s asking questions and taking my one-word turned one-sentence responses and running with them.
And I’m sitting here, empty and numb and utterly unable to latch onto a single word.
He’s from California, too. San Diego. How nice. It is warm there, too. And the beaches are also beautiful. And the food here is good. Sure, I barely taste my white fish and grilled vegetables, and I barely smell his Bolognese, and I don’t think about the taste of wine on his lips, or the hint of lime on mine.