“You can always come home,” Mom says gently.
Dad nods. “You can always come home,” he echoes. “Always, Cliff.” He smiles at me sadly, like he thinks this crazy plan has to be done and is the solution to all the world’s problems.
The shit pile I sensed waiting for me the minute I walked in the door for my parent’s invite to ‘dinner’—and instead, got sat down here—is now more like a landslide. I can feel myself drowning in it. I can feel the crap avalanche filling up my nose, my mouth, my eyes…
Death by crap.
That’s what I’m going to write on my headstone because I’m sure as all heck that this is going to kill me. Hey, at least if I died trying, then I might not have to go through with all three dates. I suppose there is a silver lining to every shit cloud.
CHAPTER 2
Rowan
Most days, I rock at my job. Most days, I actually like it too. I mean, what could be better, in a digital age, than helping people make meaningful and lasting connections. Sometimes that means romance. Sometimes it means friendship. Okay, so sometimes it doesn’t work out, but I have to admit, I have a pretty good track record as far as matching people go. Yeah, my job is actually pretty fun.
Until it’s not.
Like today.
Everything usually goes pretty smoothly, but lately, my boss has been even worse than normal. Chris Normandy likes things to be run his way. Okay, so it makes the chances of success greater, and we are a high end, discreet, dating service where people don’t have to go online and do the work themselves. It’s good to be professional, but this is too far.
Last week I was summoned into Chris’s rather expansive and elaborate office. He called me and literally told me I had five minutes to get to his office. I thought I was getting fired. But nope. Instead, he gave me a job that will either make or break my career.
Literally.
If I pull this one off, I get a big bonus. If I don’t, I get, well… I get to look for new employment.
It wouldn’t be so bad, but after meeting with Sue-Anne Marshall, my make it or break it client’s mother, I’m pretty sure this one is as lost as lost causes get.
I lean back in my chair and throw my hands up to my face. I drag one down roughly, combing my face the way I would comb through my tangled hair. I narrowly avoid scratching my eyes out. I press hard on my cheeks, making a ridiculous face. I’m sure my skin bears the red imprints of my fingertips for a few minutes after, but hey, no one is going to peep over the top of my cubicle and look at me, so I’m free to make whatever scary, stressed-out faces I want.
I allow myself to rock forward a second later. My chair lets out a screaming groan of agony. I figure it has about two point eight more days before it falls apart completely. I glance at the neat, handwritten list I have sitting on top of my computer keyboard.
At the top is a name. Yup, that name is now infamous. At least to me.
Cliff Marshall.
Beneath his name, I have a number of different points jotted down. They are keynotes I made from the interview with his mom, which I had two days ago.
Cliff Marshall.
His parents have, like, a butt-ton of money. Find out if he cares about material things, and what he truly values. Note to self—matching him with a gold digger WILL GET ME FREAKING FIRED.
33 years old.
Had one serious relationship. (It must have been bad, because, seriously, who stays single for that long after a relationship of a few years at a young age? Right… someone who gets wrecked by said relationship.)
Is avowedly single (Quote unquote). Enjoys the bachelor life far too much (Also quote unquote).
An only child.
Graduated with a Business Degree.
Works at his parent’s company.
Owns his own house. Has no pets.
Doesn’t have a ‘type’… at least according to his mother.
I’m due to meet with the guy in an hour. His mother informed me that she was footing the bill for the whole thing. She gave me the whole sob story about how her son was going to put her into an early grave with worry over his future happiness. She determined that he needs a partner to be happy, and since he’s either in no hurry to find one for himself or incapable of finding one—she wasn’t very specific on what the issue really was—she needed to take drastic measures. Oh, and she’d really, really, really, like grandchildren before she croaks—her exact words.
Sue-Anne Marshall was a funny lady. I actually enjoyed our meeting. She has that dry, self-deprecating humor that rich people usually either abandon along the way to becoming super-rich or just lack completely from birth and never learn because they’re rich and don’t need to be funny.
Do I think she’s a little bit desperate? Yes. Do I think Cliff Marshall sounds like a self-entitled brat that no amount of help could actually help? Kind of. Do I think he’s tied on as tight as can be to the apron strings? I guess so. I mean, he works for his parents. Honestly, I feel like he’s one of those kids who was born to rich parents and never had to do anything for himself. It’s probably why no woman can stand him. He hasn’t had a relationship since he was twenty-one, when he and his only girlfriend broke up, according to his mom, at least.
I can’t say I’ve had many moms pay for their son to get matched, but there have been a few. I’ve been doing this job for five years now, and I’ve seen all sorts of stuff in that time. This isn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing when I grew up, but hey. It’s a job. I actually get paid pretty decent with an hourly wage, and I also get huge bonuses now and then, when my boss feels like there’s a real incentive for success.
As if the guy thinks I don’t try hard on every case. I guess there are just some that are more sensitive than others. Time-sensitive. Reputation-sensitive. All over sensitive. This is one of those. I have a feeling that Sue-Anne Marshall is going to be very disappointed if my three picks don’t work out.
I’m hoping to get a match with number one. I always hope for that, but my boss made it EXCEPTIONALLY clear that in this case, the three-strike thing isn’t really an option. I mean, it is, but it’s also not. He’d like a 100% success rate on the first try.
Which is why I’m currently snatching up a fresh notepad, a pen, and my phone. I stuff them into my already overflowing tote bag before I throw on my vintage black velvet jacket. It’s pretty, with beautiful lapels, a narrow waist, and a huge flare with pleats. It’s fun, and I like fun. I also like to look dressy and professional, but not in that office-y kind of way I’ve always secretly detested. I adore retro. I swear half my paycheck goes to my rent and bills, and the other half goes to retro clothes and shoes. I’m a big thrifter, but I’m also guilty of following WAY too many retro shops on just about every social media site I’m on. I’m also kind of addicted to all the little retro boutiques that pop up all over the place. Whenever I travel, I have to go treasure hunting.
Oh well. At least I have a rockin’ closet. Like a really huge rockin’ closet.
Which will be difficult to keep affording if I screw up this job.
I throw my tote on my shoulder and head out the front door. I picked a classy coffee shop that is just twelve blocks from the office. Far enough away to be discreet but close enough for me to walk, which is a huge bonus, because I don’t have a car.