Perfect Match Read online

  The women in the audience screamed as Dylan raised a hand. Someone held up a sign, hand-lettered with markers and adorned with glitter on white poster board: DYLAN PICK ME!

  Another woman whoo-hooed enthusiastically and waved her own sign which read, DYLAN I’M YOUR PERFECT MATCH!

  Fia couldn’t resist snorting to herself at the misspelling, as a third sign appeared from the throng: THEIR ALL WRONG FOR YOU BUT I’M RIGHT. She rolled her eyes in as small a way as possible, but when she looked up, Dylan was watching her. He smirked, and the smile they shared made her feel like he not only knew exactly what she was thinking, but that he agreed with it.

  Connie peered over at the two of them, and Fia quickly averted her eyes, feeling like a kid caught cheating in school. Then she snuck one more look at Dylan, found him still grinning at her, and turned pink while trying not to giggle behind her hand.

  When Chelsea started talking, she sobered up immediately and leaned forward, eager to see how Connie’s date had compared to hers.

  “Here’s footage of Dylan’s date with Mari, from Connie Birnbaum’s service!” A video started playing without words; a sexy song beat accompanied a clip of Dylan smiling and kissing a pretty blonde on the cheek. As the music died out, Dylan’s voice: “Mari, it’s so great to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things from Connie, and I have a feeling we have a lot in common.”

  Another clip rolled; Dylan and Mari were laughing together in a cafe and holding hands, looking at something, pointing. She giggled into his shoulder; he wrapped a possessive hand around her waist. Later, a brief kiss on the lips and smiles into each other’s eyes.

  “And now, let’s see how Dylan did on the date picked for him by Fia!”

  Another clip rolled, but this time, the music—instead of a sexy Latin beat, was more of a circus sound. “Doot doot doo-doo-doo-doo,” went some accordions and trumpets. A video of Dylan making weird noises played. There was Altera, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. They cut to a clip of Fia and Dylan, before the date started, and that whole dumb interchange about Jane Goodall. Then…Dylan texting while Altera watched. Dylan texting again.

  “Uh-oh…looks like this date isn’t so hot,” commented Chelsea. “But let’s see if it gets better.”

  More video. Dylan told the banana joke; Altera rolled her eyes. Then there was silence as the two of them sat there together. They were so quiet that everyone could hear the couple at the next table talking about a friend’s vasectomy. “I swear, she told me that his testicles swelled up to the size of a cantaloupe, and she thought she’d have to take him to the ER, but then they called Dr. Reichart, and he said that was normal, and to just wait it out.”

  Dylan leaned over to Altera. “Hey, do you think it would be funny if I borrowed a cantaloupe from the kitchen and put it into my pants and casually walked up to that table? I could introduce myself as Doctor Reichart and just see what happens.”

  Altera put her face into her hands.

  The audience howled.

  Fia was livid, and her face got so hot she was sure it was burning red. This wasn’t fair! Altera had told her that, yes, there were some awkward moments, but that they’d also had great conversation and chemistry! She bit her lip and glared at Chelsea, who ignored her completely.

  “Wow!” Chelsea laughed, and the audience roared. “That was quite a…performance.” She made a show of frowning at Dylan and shaking her finger. “Bad boy. Very bad!” Women screamed. “You were so misbehaved.”

  Dylan smiled at Chelsea, but glanced over at Fia. “I guess I need to be punished, then.”

  The audience got even louder.

  Chelsea trilled. “So, Dylan, tell me what each service got right…and wrong…for you.”

  Dylan sat up and put one fist into the other hand. “Both women were amazing people, and I felt lucky to meet them. Mari, Altera, thanks for taking a chance on me.” He nodded at the camera.

  “Dylan!” Chelsea pouted. “That’s no fun. I want the real scoop. Who did it better, is what I want to know?” She waggled her eyebrows in an exaggerated motion, and the audience laughed.

  “Both women were great,” Dylan said, his voice—to Fia—seeming to pick up just an ounce of tension. “Smart, talented, kind people. I’d be lucky to get a second date with either of them.”

  “But if you had to pick.” Chelsea pounced. “If you had to pick one service as having provided a date who best matched your personality, which one would it be? Honestly. We all need to know, right, ladies?” She waved at her studio audience, who screamed their approval and agreement that yes, yes, they needed to know, right the fuck now.

  Dylan shifted and a muscle clenched in his jaw, then he smiled. “Sorry, Fia. I’m going to have to go with Connie. You made me feel just a little uncomfortable all watching me in the shrubbery with your tally sheet. You know, all that data processing makes a man”—he stretched out his long limbs, to sighs and gasps from the audience—“lose interest.”

  “But I-I didn’t… you were the one making the jokes about—” sputtered Fia, but Chelsea rode right over her.

  “And there you have it! Round one goes to Connie! No surprise, as Connie has been in the business for over fifteen years and knows a thing or two about how to make a match! Everyone, Dylan has two more dates this coming weekend, so stay tuned Monday morning for another big reveal about”—she made a “come on” motion to the crowd—“Who Did It Better?” The audience chanted along with her.

  Back in the beige room, Fia nearly ran to grab her things. What the fuck? She was sure that she’d provided a wonderful date for Dylan. Why had Chelsea decided to make a mockery of her company…and Altera, too, in a way? Because playing that stupid clown music and showing just the bad highlights was certainly disrespectful to Altera. Fia’s heart sank. How was she going to explain to her client what had happened?

  As she walked into the hallway, her phone rang, and Altera’s pretty, accented voice rang out, angrily. “Fia, how could you?” She sounded disappointed. “I trusted you to get me a good date, and I understand that sometimes it doesn’t work out. But what she said on television this morning? It was horrible! The date wasn’t that bad. She made both of us look like fools the way she edited.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no control over that and no idea she was doing it. Please, forgive me.”

  Altera’s voice softened. “I’m not really mad at you. I know it’s not your fault, not entirely. It’s mine for knowing the whole TV thing was happening and agreeing to do it, anyway.”

  “I mean, can you maybe turn it into something good? Maybe…someone will contact you and want you to be in a TV show or commercial or something?” Fia crossed her fingers.

  Altera made a noise that didn’t sound happy. “Fia, I’m not an aspiring actor! I’m a lawyer. This isn’t…” she sighed. “This is exactly the wrong kind of publicity I need.”

  “So, what do you want to do, then?” Fia tried not to sigh into the phone.

  “You know, I’m done with matchmaking.” Altera’s voice held finality. “Like I said, I’m not entirely mad at you, but I think I don’t want to work with your company anymore.”

  “I understand.”

  Fia hung up and wiped her eyes. Shit! When she saw Chelsea coming, she turned, fists clenched, mouth open, ready for a fight.

  But before she could get out a word, Dylan appeared behind her and took her arm. “We need to talk,” he said smoothly, manipulating her down the hallway before she had a chance to say a single thing to Chelsea.

  “Let go of me,” she hissed, although she followed along beside him compliantly, thinking his strong hand felt good, warm, on her arm. His grip wasn’t tight, just possessive enough to be sexy.

  “In a minute,” he whispered back. “Don’t talk to Chelsea right now. You’re too pissed. You’ll regret it if you say something awful.”

  “Oh, will I? Did you regret saying awful things about me just now? You know, I lost my client, Altera. She just called and fired me. S
he was upset!”

  “She’ll get over it.” Dylan opened a door. “Come in.”

  “Where, to your personal abattoir, where you’ll finish dicing me up and drain my blood for the amusement of the audience?”

  “You’re mad.” His voice was calm.

  “You think?” She crossed her arms. “Yes, I’m mad!”

  “Well, what did you think would happen?” He opened a small fridge and pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to her. “Here.”

  She took it, realizing they were in his dressing room. Dark leather couches and a few pictures, a rack of clothes with a tie flung over it, askance: It seemed to fit his personality. She drank deeply, then recapped the bottle and set it on a glass-topped end table. Sinking onto the nearest couch, she put her face in her hands for a second before looking back up.

  “Not that.” She traced a bead of condensation on the bottle. “Maybe just a recap. The way she did the clips…there was no way Connie’s date was that good and mine was that bad. Right?” Her voice, both defensive and pleading, made her mad, so she cleared her throat.

  He shrugged, then sat beside her. “Chelsea likes to work things for maximum effect. Next time, she’ll maybe do the opposite and make your date look awesome to even things out. Then she’ll play it up for the finale because you’ll both be 50/50.”

  “But she was rude to my—to Altera!”

  “But what did you think might happen, showing a date on live TV?” He sounded frustrated. “Didn’t it occur to you that they might clip out the funny or bad parts?”

  “No.” She bit her lip. “And also, you were especially annoying to her and not to the date Connie picked. I feel like you did it on purpose to get at me!”

  He laughed. “You think you’re that important to me? That I’d do that just to get a reaction from you?” But when he turned to look at her, his smile died away, and a tendon jerked in his neck. Their eyes met and locked.

  Fia was suddenly aware of his proximity, the strength of his arm, his hand on the couch, so close to her thigh. Her bare thigh, since she’d worn the dress picked out by Gracie. She swallowed and licked her lower lip, and felt a flutter of adrenaline when he smiled at her, a slow lazy smile, a dangerous sexy smile.

  “Maybe you are that important to me,” he said, his voice low. He reached out a finger and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I do want some kind of reaction from you.”

  She made a small gasp without meaning too because the touch of his finger sent wild sparks through her body, her skin tingling at his touch.

  “What…kind of reaction?” she managed, unable to look away.

  His smile grew broad. “That’s a dangerous question, Fia. You sure you’re ready for the answer?” He quirked a brow at her and unfolded his hand, pressing his palm against her cheek, caressing her where her neck started. She was sure he could feel her pulse, hard and fast, under his fingers. Mesmerized, she stared at his eyes, those gorgeous brown eyes, those thick lashes. And his lips! So sexy, chiseled yet soft.

  “Dylan?” she whispered.

  Without warning, he closed the distance between them and took her face in both hands, gentle but firm. “This,” he replied, and then his lips brushed hers, once, then again, more firmly.

  She let out a sigh that turned into a little moan when he deepened the kiss, moving her head to get the right angle.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered into her lips, then flicked his tongue at her mouth, urging her to open for him.

  She was hot and dizzy and delirious with the sudden passion that swirled through her. He smelled like faded cologne and shampoo, after-shave and his own manly scent. His fingers were so sexy and strong on her skin, and his kiss—God, he was good!

  He thrust his tongue into her mouth, seeking, and his hands trailed off her face to her shoulders, down her arms, and then he snaked one hand around her waist, pulling her closer, still kissing her.

  She reached up one hand to touch his face. God, those cheekbones, that chiseled chin! She ran her fingertips over the faintest stubble on his jawline, then into his thick black hair, soft and clean, then to the back of his neck. She wound both hands around and pulled him closer, even as he tugged her into his lap, arranging her easily. With one hand he stroked her thigh, and she moaned and let her legs drift just the slightest bit apart, his touch unraveling her.

  God, he felt so good!

  “That’s the reaction I knew I’d get,” he said, letting his fingers move upward, centimeter by excruciating centimeter. “I knew you’d come apart in my arms like this.”

  She pulled back just a bit. “What?”

  He sounded confident and cocky. “I knew that if I could just get you alone, I’d have you begging for my touch in under a minute.”

  “In under a minute?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “That’s right.” He grinned at her. “And now I’ve gotten the chance to prove it.”

  She pulled back and scowled. “You know what? You’re disgusting.”

  “Oh, am I?” He raised a brow. “That’s not what you were saying”—he looked at his watch—“ten seconds ago.” He mimicked her breathy moan. “Oh, Dylan! That’s what you were saying.”

  “You’re an ass!” She stood up and wiped her mouth, face burning again. “You are such a jerkoff. God.”

  “Not God. Just good at what I do.” He laughed.

  “You know what?” She glared at him. “You know what, Dylan? It was you, okay? You were the one who wanted me. Maybe I was the one who knew the minute we met, that if I gave you a chance, you’d be all over me with your stupid, Come here baby talk. I knew you were dying for”—she waved her hands up and down her body—“this. It was you who couldn’t resist. Not me.”

  “Oh, is that right?” His grin widened.

  “Yes. That is right. It’s completely right.” She crossed her arms. “Anyway, we can’t do…that. Or anything. I’m trying to find you a date. True love.” She bit her lip, feeling sort of sick about the whole thing.

  His smile faded and he stood up, too, half turned away to pick up his own water bottle. “That’s right. So you are. Although I’ve repeatedly told you I’m not looking for love.”

  “And I’ve repeatedly wondered why you’re doing it if you really don’t want it.”

  “Because Chelsea wants to.” His voice was taut.

  “If Chelsea asked you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?” She imitated Chelsea’s voice. “And now from the cliffs of Dover, here we are with Dylan, who’s going to jump into the ocean, and the sharp black rocks and sharks below are just waiting to rip him up! But I said do it, so he will! He’s my puppet dolly baby, and he does whatever I want!” She moved her hand like she was making a puppet talk. “Okay, Chelsea, whatever you say, okeydokey.”

  “Fia, that’s not fair.”

  “Oh, really? Maybe you should be grateful I’m mocking you in private and not in front of a million or so viewers who might suddenly hate my business and never use it.”

  “Maybe you should remember that no publicity is bad publicity, and you’ll get new clients even if Chelsea says you have a shit service. If it’s on TV, people like it.” He sounded bitter for a second, but then he cheered up as he continued, “And for the record, the Dover cliffs are white, chalky, almost. And there hasn’t been an unprovoked shark attack in the channel since 1847, since the rare sharks in British waters are typically not dangerous to humans.”

  She blinked, caught off guard, and curiosity won over irritation. “Seriously? What are you, Mr. History Encyclopedia?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I am.” He grinned. “Also, I took a trip there last year and learned a lot about the area.”

  “You went to the Cliffs of Dover?” She was fascinated.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I travelled all over Europe, and that was something I really wanted to see.”

  “Why there?” She bit her lip. “I mean, not that it’s not a cool place, I’m sure. I’m just wondering why that w
as on your list.”

  He sat back down and gestured, so she did too, a little uncertain, but curious what he had to say.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Well, yes.” She glanced at his face; he was serious now. “I do.” There was something about this man that completely fascinated her—she’d never met anyone like him before, such a mix of arrogance and openness and charm, all wrapped up together in a mix that was dangerously intoxicating. The funny thing was that, from the look on his face, she could almost think he felt the same way about her. At least, the intensity of his gaze, the way he watched her, didn’t seem at all like the way you’d interact with a random stranger.

  “Okay. Well, there’s this poem by Matthew Arnold.” He shifted on the couch.

  “Yeah. I think I remember that from college lit. Something about a beach.” She noticed the way the hairs on his arm gleamed in the light as did his watch. She was mesmerized with his strong hands—sexy hands.

  He smiled briefly. “It’s called Dover Beach.”

  “I don’t remember it, not the words.”

  “Well, I do. I memorized it.” He had a faint flush of red along his jaw. “I didn’t have the best childhood, so I read a lot, and one thing I liked was poetry. Even though a lot of people might have said that boys who like poetry are sissies.”

  “How could they say that?” She frowned. “So much of the world’s best poetry is written by men! Or perhaps I should say, the world’s best-recorded and best-publicized poetry. And we’re not taking into account the fact that women were deliberately held back from literary pursuits in the Western world until…”

  He held up a hand. “I agree a hundred percent on the feministic arguments and the way women weren’t featured. But right now, can I—the poem?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Some critics say the poem is overly dramatic, but I loved it. Especially this part.” He cleared his throat.

  Listen! you hear the grating roar

  Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,