Chapter one
Gemma
Rule #8: Keep your clothes on.
Iwas the world's best matchmaker. Well, for everyone but myself.
As my ex-boyfriend's tongue dove down my throat and his hands coasted toward my ass, that fact had never been clearer to me than in this moment. One would think that a handsy kiss in the middle of a romantic garden cafe would indicate some measure of matchmaking success, but in point of fact, this asshole was trying to break up with me.
Poorly.
Not only that, butIhad inadvertently matched him with the woman he was leaving me for. And now, he was forcing a "goodbye kiss" on me that I had neither asked for nor wanted. Francis was the worst kisser I had ever met. I'd put up with itbecause I'dthoughthe was reliable and steady, and as an agent of chaos myself, surely that made him my perfect match. To be assaulted by his coffee breath and wandering hands thirty seconds after he'd broken up with me was just adding insult to ignominious injury, but what had I expected? A happily ever after? An advantageous match like I'd given to dozens of couples over the last three years?
Laughable.
I could match two people on opposite sides of the Earth with nothing more than their first and last names and a tweak of gut instinct. I could find someone's soulmate no matter what they did for a living, where they lived, or what bizarre hobby occupied their time. What I could not do was find love for myself.
I pushed Francis away from me, distantly aware that some of the patrons around us had gasped in surprise and there were several pairs of eyes on us. Francis stumbled back, his handsome features bewildered.
"Gem, I'm sorry," he huffed, his pale face pinkening and his eyes too bright. "I'm sorry, I just… I'll miss you." Francis embodied what I thought I was attracted to. Handsome, charming, and energetic, he had been able to keep pace with me during dates to clubs or random festivals. He charmed everyone around him, and I had always found that attractive. Unfortunately, his charm extended toeveryone…including the secretary I had found for him.
After all, they were a good match.
I looked into his caramel-brown eyes, and my heart twisted painfully. Even as I folded my arms over my ribbed, long-sleeved shirt and tried to hold in the cascade of hurt, it rushed through me all the same. I wasn't in love with Francis—I wasn't even "in like" with him. But being rejected still hurt. It always had, even with friends, and it seemed like each rejection stabbed a serrated knife a little deeper into my sense of self-worth. I tried to gathermy pluck like a mantle. "I'll miss an easy fuck too, but here we are."
The breakfast patrons gasped again, this time louder. A waiter eyed me with an irritated mouth pucker from across the softly lit space. Scrambled and Saucy had a really cute vibe to it with living plants threaded through an overhead terrace and twinkle lights interspersed amongst the greenery. In late September, the air was chilly first thing in the morning, but they had patio heaters set up over each table, and a fire crackled in an open-air hearth behind me. It would have been a perfectly romantic spot for a breakfast date under normal circumstances. Which was just my luck, really.
Francis's features fell with distaste at my crude remark. "Don't be like that, Gemma. You said yourself, Missy is a good match for me."
I had said that. I'd meant it in a work capacity, but apparently, I had outdone myself by accidentally finding him a soulmate when I'd meant to find him a decent employee. "I did say that," I replied tightly, reaching down to snatch up my leather shoulder bag from my chair. "And honestly, I hope her vag is as dry as your elbows." I grabbed my bright yellow peacoat from the wrought iron chair and draped it over my arm. "A word of advice from matchmaker to freeloader client—don't assault women when you're trying to break up with them, asshat."
A ripple of surprised murmurs rolled through the outdoor terrace, but I didn't pay them any mind. I didn't know any of these people, and if thirty people in Eugene, Oregon thought I was a bitch, then so be it. I turned and left Francis standing there dumbfounded and red-faced, and I threaded through the packed breakfast cafe toward the exit. I'd made myself late for work for this shit because Francis had said he had something "serious" to discuss with me. And here, I'd thought he meant he wanted to deepen our relationship in some way.
No, he had just wanted to break up with me in a way that made him look like the good guy because he'd chosen a nice restaurant.
Unfortunately, I still thought, deep down, that Francis was an okay guy. The heart wants what the heart wants, and his heart didn't want me. Francis had fallen for Missy, and I would have been lying if I'd said I hadn't completely seen it coming. The spark between them had been undeniable. Against all logic, I'd hoped that our relationship would matter more, but clearly not. And I couldn't even blame him. I would never advise one of my clients to stay with a girlfriend out of sheer loyalty when their heart was drawn to another.
If that happened after marriage or total commitment, well, that was another matter. But while dating? That was what this process was for. Dating was meant to test relationships, test bonds, and give couples a chance to find who they fit with.
Francis fit with Missy. I fit with no one.
I opened the creaky metal gate on the terrace, and with a little too much force, I slammed it closed behind me. My bra itched under my ribbed top, and I scratched under it absently, hating that I'd wanted to wear an uncomfortable push-up bra that barely fit just so I could impress the a-hole who'd just dumped me. The bra pads in this damn thing were shifting as I walked, and I knew I was going to have a terrible time fighting with it and trying to keep the removable pads from escaping the tight fabric. I did look good, though, whatever that was worth. I had tucked my camel-tan ribbed blouse neatly into my form-fitting plaid skirt, and I'd paired it with dark tights and boots that made me feel sexy and badass at the same time. The tights might have been a bit much this time of year, though.
Already, the morning was heating up, drifting from crisp cold to sweltering heat, as was often the case in September here. The trees overhead rustled, and the rising sun glinted through theyellowing leaves in fractures of bright light. I paused just beyond the restaurant, poised between two historical buildings where the hum of the crowd behind me joined with the rush of traffic beyond the sidewalk.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.Shake this off, Gemma. He wasn’t the one for you. Love is random; you just didn’t win that time. Control is calm. Calm is control.
When I opened my eyes, I resolved to leave Francis behind me. I could still salvage this day. I totally had this. I swallowed a ball of tears that had lodged in my throat and walked briskly down the sidewalk toward Kiss-Met Dating Services.
A walk would do me good, and I was grateful I hadn't driven the three blocks to the restaurant after all. It would give me time to compose myself and prepare for the day ahead. I had clients who were looking for love, and even if I couldn't seem to find it myself, I could help them.
Kiss-Met Dating Services occupied the second floor of a historical building turned corporate office space. The turn-of-the-century lobby with its diamond-patterned tiles and brushed metal details hinted at the building's age, but each floor had been updated and adapted to its business. The first floor had four different business suites for an accountant, a therapist, a construction company, and some kind of financial advisor. On the second floor, two doctors—Dr. Rook and Dr. Frost—had private practices there, and on the third, Kiss-Met took up the entirety of the generously sized area.
My head pounded as I hit the "up" button outside the elevator, reminding me that Francis hadn't even had the decency to dump me after I'd had a cup of coffee. "Jerk," I muttered to myself, adjusting the bottom of my bra again. The walk hadn't helped with the strangulating push-up bra disaster. I'd gotten sweaty, the band was itching around my ribs, and the bra pads were half out, sneaking up the deep V of my blouse. The elevator doorshummed open, and with a muttered, "Screw it," I dove my hand down my shirt, grabbed the offending bra pads, and ripped them out.
It was only as I started to enter the elevator that I realized I had an audience.
Dr. Rook from the second-floor OB/GYN practice stood just outside the elevator doors and had apparently been right behind me for several seconds. He had his arctic blue eyes trained on his phone, and his tidy, light blond hair didn't so much as rustle as he lifted his head to enter the elevator and stand next to me.
