The day is surprisingly nice for May. Minnesota winters can be really cold and can last well into the time of year that is supposed to be spring, but this year, all the snow has long since melted, and the sun promises warmer days ahead. I actually feel a little bit hot under my coat. I tell myself I’m sweating because of the internal climate going down on the underside of my sweet retro vibe, but really, I know I’m sweating for an entirely different reason.
Instead of thinking about my chances of failure—which are probably pretty high because I’m already certain that finding Cliff Marshall a match is not going to be an easy task—I try and focus on my chances of success.
I have a good track record.
I used to play this game as a kid, where I couldn’t step on the cracks in the sidewalk because it was bad luck. I’m not a superstitious person, but today I focus on dodging the cracks all the way to the coffee shop just to keep my mind occupied.
I reach the shop with a good fifteen minutes to spare. I have a picture of Cliff Marshall, provided by his mom, but I also looked the guy up online. Of course I did. To be fair, I generally do this with all my clients. A discreet search helps me determine what kind of image they’re putting out there. Potential dates are going to use search engines and social media. They’re going to check what kind of vibe a guy or gal has. I do a pretty thorough search, and I have even made some subtle suggestions in the past about cleaning up the old online presence before dates go down.
Cliff Marshall is squeaky clean. He doesn’t have any social media account that I could find, and any articles about him are related solely to his parent’s company. I don’t really understand everything they do, but I do know it’s about gardening and seeds and stuff.
I pull open the door to the coffee shop, which actually isn’t just a coffee shop. I call it a coffee shop, but it’s also my secret sweet spot as far as it goes for the best places to eat in the city. I wine and dine a lot of clients here, and by wine and dine, I mean fabulous coffee drinks and even better homemade desserts. They also have a selection of soups and salads that are fabulous. I suppose they could be classified as a restaurant of sorts, but I call them a coffee shop for the out-of-this-world drinks that get made here.
The first thing I notice when I walk in is that Cliff is already sitting at a table. He beat me here, and I’m fifteen minutes early. I’m always early so that I get to see my clients walk in. I like observing them for those first few seconds of unguarded time.
The second thing I notice is that the guy is way bigger in real life than he is in his photo. I mean in the jacked body, deliciously broad shoulders, narrow waist, epic muscled arms kind of way. Yeah, he’s better looking than his photo too, but I’m just observing that on a professional level, of course.
The third and probably most important detail I take in is the massive scowl he has on his face. His mom did say he was going to participate in this venture. But she didn’t say he was willing, and I can tell that in no shape or form is Cliff Marshall on board with this.
Fecking frick. I might as well start packing my desk right now.
CHAPTER 3
Cliff
I do not want to be here. It’s humiliating. It’s frustrating. I’m being forced to go on dates that I don’t want to participate in. Apparently, this is supposed to ensure my future happiness. I’m playing along and playing nice, but only because I have to. It means going on the three shit dates and calling it a day. I’ll put in the time. I’ll make sure she knows. Then I’ll request that a word of this will never be spoken, and my love life is off-limits for life. I’m not sure how much more my poor old nuts can take. If my mom wants grandkids, I’ll suggest to her that she stop trying to castrate me by forcing me to do things that are completely humiliating and on par of getting my balls cut off.
I have to grind my teeth because all of a sudden, there’s a tall, willowy brunette with sparkly dark eyes and a big smile pasted on naturally coral and full lips, striding my way. She pulls out the chair across from me, drops in effortlessly, and stretches out her hand. I stare at it for a moment before I decide that rudely spurning her is not in my best interest. Reluctantly, I shake her small hand. To my surprise, she has a pretty firm grip for someone with a hand half the size of mine.
She pulls back and offers me a pretty smile. She blinks furiously, batting long eyelashes. If she thinks it’s charming, she’s wrong.
Well, okay, so she’s really pretty. She’s beautiful.
And yes, I notice.
Yeah, so she’s not wearing any makeup, and she has a nice figure. She’s tall and thin, but she has decent curves, nice sized breasts, and an even nicer ass. Well, I noticed because I have eyes. And no, she doesn’t have any of it on display. She’s wearing a retro-looking green dress that has a high neckline, a nipped-in waist, and a full skirt. She looks like she just stepped straight out of the fifties, minus her long, straight hair. She is wearing no makeup that I can see, but her features don’t need the extra definition.
Okay, I also notice that she smells good. Not an intrusive perfume, in your face kind of smell, but a subtle, fresh air, fresh laundry kind of scent. There are a few floral notes tucked in there, probably from her deodorant or shampoo. I have to admit it’s nice. She’s put together. I can see why Mom chose the dating company and why she liked this lady.
I bite back all my rude comments as Miss Matchmaker arranges herself in the chair. She pulls out a notebook and a pen from her tote, and I have to give her props for going old school on this one instead of typing shit right into her phone or her laptop. She maintains eye contact too, which is ballsy. Lady balls. Yes, they’re a thing. And I like them.
“Hello,” Miss Matchmaker says. She has a pretty voice. Not annoying or over the top. Just… nice. “I’m Rowan. And I already know you’re Cliff, but anything else you tell me is going to be news to me.”
Great. She doesn’t take forever to get to the point. Directness. I like that too.
“Do you want a drink? Something to eat? They make amazing desserts, and the drinks are even better,” she continues.
“No. Thanks. I’m not a sweets kind of person.”
“Right. Well, they make good soups if you like those.”
“No, thanks.” I tuck my hands in my lap and decide to be just as frank. I think she can handle it. “Look. I’m only here because I’m pretty much being forced to be here. I’m going to cooperate with you as much as I can stand to do so. But I don’t think this is going to be fun. I don’t think I’m going to like it. I think it’s all going to be a huge waste of time. I actually feel sorry for any potential matches. That’s where I stand.”
Rowan—what a strange name she has—gives me that disappointed kind of look my mom has perfected. This lady is young… I’d say about mid-twenties. It’s a little disconcerting that she already has those looks down. I wonder if she has kids. If she has a husband. I find my eyes straying to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s bare. I don’t know why my stomach tightens a little at that. I tell myself it’s just because she’s the perfect combination of beautiful and hot, and any guy would be checking for a ring because most guys are loaded up on testosterone and think with their nether regions most of the time.