Too Good To Be True
A One Love novella
Lauren Blakely
Contents
About
Too Good To Be True
1. Olivia
2. Herb
3. Olivia
4. Herb
5. Olivia
6. Herb
7. Olivia
8. Herb
Epilogue
About
She’s wary of love. He’s been burned. But when a matchmaker connects these two jaded New Yorkers, sparks fly and chemistry crackles from the first date. Can this kind of insta-connection be the real thing? Or is it too good to be true? Find out in this delicious novella from #1 NYT bestselling author Lauren Blakely!
Too Good To Be True
By Lauren Blakely
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1
Olivia
Do I want to try it?
My brother asked me that very question when he invited me to check out a prototype for his new home automation system.
This is no Alexa. This is no Google Home. His home automation system supposedly answers your most annoying emails, makes you an omelet, and even folds your laundry.
Well, in my dream life it does.
Geek that I am, naturally I said “hell to the yes” when he invited me to take a test run. So here I am, race-walking across the blond hardwood floor of the lobby of his swank Gramercy Park building and pushing the button to his penthouse apartment.
When I reach the top floor, I practically vault down the hall to his place.
Can you say eager?
I bang on his door. He takes more than ten seconds to answer, so I decide to act thoroughly annoyed when he finally does.
“Come on, come on, come on.” I’m bouncing on my toes, making grabby hands.
He rolls his eyes from behind his black glasses. “Overeager much?”
He holds the door open for me. I sweep in, my eyes like lasers scanning for the little white device. “You can’t dangle something as cool as the ultimate home automation in front of me and expect me not to jump all over it and want to play with it. I only strapped a jetpack on and flew down to touch it.”
He laughs, escorting me to the living room. He knows that, just like him, I love all sorts of electronics, gadgets, gizmos, and toys, and have ever since we were kids, fighting over all sorts of various game consoles. Since I’m the oldest, with two twin brothers, I usually beat them.
And I beat them up.
Someone had to put the little evil geniuses in their place. Lately, it’s hard to put Dylan in his place since he’s been traveling for business. But when he returns, I fully intend to kick his butt in our softball league.
“True, true,” Flynn says thoughtfully. “What was I thinking? You and Dylan are both geeks like me.”
I hold up a fist for knocking. “Dude, we are so nerdy. Also, FYI: nerds rule.”
He scoffs authoritatively. “You know it. Nerd or bust.”
I spy the device on the coffee table. My eyes widen and I hold out my hands, like I’m caught in a tractor beam. “Take me to your leader.”
“Kate is all yours,” he says, using the name of the automation device.
I park myself in the leather couch and fire off questions.
“Kate, tell me a dog joke.”
“Kate, make me a sandwich.”
“Kate, what’s the weather like in Bora Bora?”
She answers each one with panache.
What’s more amazing than a talking dog? A spelling bee.
Okay, you’re a sandwich.
And . . .
Perfect, you should go there.
I glance at Flynn, who’s rightfully proud of his new tech. “Kate knows the answers to everything. I’m booking a flight now.”
Flynn nods his agreement. “Bora Bora is always a good idea. If anyone thinks otherwise, you should excise him or her from your life.”
I tap my temple. “The Bora Bora litmus test. I’m filing that away.” I return my focus to the white disc. “Kate, make me a playlist of top pop songs.”
As she preps some Ariana Grande and Katy Perry, Flynn groans and drops his head into his hand.
“No, please, no pop songs.”
“I like pop.”
“You need to try indie rock, I’ve told you.”
I roll my eyes and launch into my best rendition of his favorite tunes. “Oh, my life is so sad, I flew with an eagle, and now I have a noose around my toes.”
He cracks up and gives me the strangest look. “What on earth is that, Olivia?”
I answer like it’s obvious. “That’s what indie sounds like. A sad lament.”
“Oh, well then, let me tell you what pop sounds like.” Flynn adopts an intensely happy look, snapping his fingers, then sings a send-up of my music. “Oh, I want you. Yes I do. Yes, yes, yes, I do. Do do do do do do do do do.”
I laugh. “See, that’s so fun to listen to! You should totally write that song.”
“So we agree to disagree on music.”
“But not the Bora Bora litmus test.”
“Never the Bora Bora litmus test.”
I spend the next hour playing with the device, and pronounce it is the coolest one I’ve ever seen. “But we have one more test for Kate.”
“What is it?”
I hold my arms out wide, like I’m ready to make a pronouncement. “This will be the toughest test of all. Can she handle what I’m going to throw at her?”
Flynn gestures grandly. “Go for it.”
I clear my throat, adopting a most serious tone. “Kate, find me a hot, smart, and kind guy. Must love animals. Be willing to try quirky new dates in New York City. Ideally, likes odd and interesting art installations. And be able to sustain a conversation about something other than himself.”
Flynn’s eyes bulge. “She’s not a miracle worker,” he says protectively. He’s protective of the device.
Kate speaks back in her calming robotic voice, but I’ve rattled her. “I’m sorry, that does not compute. Can you please try again?”
I crack up.
“You can’t really expect her to do the impossible,” Flynn says.
“I know, tell me about it.”
He leans forward, hands on his knees. “So is dating getting you down?”
I sigh. “A little bit. It’s kind of awful out there. Have you tried it lately?”
He shudders. “No, I’m practically on a sabbatical since Annie.”
I shudder too, remembering Flynn’s ex. She turned out to be completely using him, trying to sink her claws into his fortune. Not for nothing, but it’s really hard for a tech multimillionaire to find somebody who likes him for him. My brother is rich as sin, and normally I don’t feel bad for him, but on this count—never knowing if someone loves you for you or your money—my heart is heavy.
It’s a poor little rich boy dilemma, as he calls it. Yet it’s wholly real.
“But what about you? What’s the latest from the minefield of dating?”
“Last night I went out with a handsome surgeon, who was all around pretty funny and smart. But it turns out he’s into jazz music,” I say, crinkling my nose. “He spent half the time telling me he loves to go to jazz clubs and to listen to jazz at home. I had to be honest—jazz is never going to be part of my life, so we’re clearly not compatible. We’d never see each other.”
Flynn gives me a look, takes a deep breath. “Olivia. But are you doing it again?”
“Doing what?” I ask, indignant. “Being direct and honest on dates about what
works and doesn't work?”
“Are you sabotaging every date you go on?”
I sit up straight. “I do not do that.”
He points at me. “Yes, you do.”
“I don’t care for jazz.”
“I’m sure you could have found a work-around for his love of jazz. Instead, you sabotage. You’ve done that ever since Ron.”
I huff. “Do you blame me? Ron was the ultimate douchenozzle. And he hid it well.”
“‘Douchenozzle’ is a bit tame for that specimen. More like ‘king of all the assholes ever.’ It’s not often you find a man who’s not only a cheater but a serial cheater. He had affairs like it was an advent calendar.”
A twinge of embarrassment stings my chest. “And that makes me the stupidest woman ever for missing the signs?”
Flynn moves next to me, squeezing my shoulder. “No. You liked the guy, and he was the Artful Dodger. It was hard to spot his deception at first. But ever since then, when you’ve met a guy here or there who seems somewhat decent, you always find something wrong with him. A smart and funny surgeon? But he likes jazz, so that’s a dealbreaker? And then you tell him?”
“But I don’t like jazz one bit,” I say in a small voice.
“Look, I don’t like jazz either. But I don’t think it needs to be a line in the sand.” He arches a brow. “Be honest with me. Are you constantly looking for what’s wrong with a man so you won’t get hurt again?”
I sigh, wishing it wasn’t so obvious, but then Flynn knows me as well as anyone. “I was totally hoodwinked by Ron. I didn’t see it coming, and I should have. What if it happens again?” I ask, my deepest worry coloring my tone.
“Anything can happen, but now you try to find something wrong with someone before you even start. You’re never going to open yourself to what you want if you do that.”
I cross my arms, exhale heavily. “Fine, maybe I do that, but look, I haven’t met anybody that ticks all the boxes on my checklist. Or even three quarters. Hell, I’d settle for half. I don’t even know if my dream guy exists.”
He stares out the window, like he’s considering a math problem. Since my brother solves math problems in his sleep, he snaps his fingers. “My buddy Patrick. His sister is a matchmaker. Why don’t you try Evie? Let her know what you’re looking for. Maybe she can find someone for you.”
I’ve tried online dating. I’ve been set up by friends. I’ve been open to meeting men at the gym, at bookstores, even at the farmers market. But I’ve had no luck finding a jazz hater, animal lover, quirky-art fan, who’s hot as hell and likes me.
“Admittedly, I’m kind of picky. Do you think I’m better off being single?”
“Olivia, you want to be happy. You want to find someone. Just call Evie. Her job is to find matches for picky people.”
That sounds exactly like me.
And because I’m not boneheaded, I do call her. I meet with her the next day at a coffee shop.
She’s everything you want in a matchmaker. She has a keen eye for people; she’s perky, wildly outgoing, fantastically upbeat; and she knows everyone.
“Are my requirements just too crazy?” I ask after I’ve told her what I’m looking for.
Evie gives me a reassuring look and pats my hand. “No. You don’t have requirements that are too hard to meet. What’s too hard is to find a man like that online. But that’s why you came to me.” Her smile is radiant and full of confidence. “I have a few men in mind. Just give me a couple of days, and I promise I will do everything I can to find you the man of your dreams.”
It sounds impossible to me.
2
Herb
“Hey there, little Cletus. You’re doing great, and you look swell,” I tell the teacup chihuahua with the burnished brown coat. He whimpers as I stroke a hand down his soft back. Cletus is resting in a cage after the five-month-old had a very important surgery today. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “You won’t miss them.”
My vet tech snickers behind me. “Bet he will.”
I roll my eyes at David as I turn around. “I see you’re suffering from neutering sympathy. Shall I get him a pair of neuticles to make you feel better?”
“That would help me a lot, come to think of it.”
“You do know he doesn't miss them?”
David grabs his crotch. “I’d miss mine.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not neutering you, isn’t it?”
At twenty-three, David is still young, and his age might be why he still feels that associative pain that men often experience when a dog is neutered. At age thirty-four, and after thousands of spays and neuters, I’m well beyond that. I don’t get emotional over removing that particular part of a dog’s anatomy. And I don’t get weirded out.
It’s all in a day’s work.
David gives me a salute. “Yes, boss. Also, Cletus’s foster mom is here.”
“Great. I’ll go chat with Evie.” She’s a regular foster for one of the city’s nearby rescues, bringing in little dogs for their nip and tucks as they’re getting ready to be adopted.
Gently, I scoop up the pup and carry the coneheaded boy to the lobby of my practice on the Upper East Side.
Evie waves brightly at me. “And how is the sweet little boy?”
“He did great.”
Evie laughs. “Now, I always thought it was kind of funny to say that an animal did great during a surgery. Because, really, isn’t it you who did great during a surgery?” She taps my shoulder affectionately.
She has a point.
And I concede to it, blowing on my fingernails for effect. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. No one snips dog balls better than this guy.”
“Put that on your business card, Herb.”
“It’ll be my new tagline.” I shift gears. “All right, you know the drill. Give him plenty of rest, make sure he takes it easy. He might not want to eat right away. And whatever you do, keep that lampshade on him.”
Evie drops her face into the dog’s tiny cone and gives him a kiss. “I won’t let you get out of your cone, I promise, Coney Boy.”
“Give me a call if anything comes up, okay? Day or night. Doesn’t matter.”
“That sounds perfect.” But before she turns to leave, she gives me a look. It’s a look that says she has something on her mind. “Dr. Smith, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“I can see the wheels turning in your head.”
She smiles, acknowledging that I’m right. “Have you started dating again? It’s been more than a year or so since Sandy left.”
“Yes, I’ve dated,” I say, a little defensively. “I just haven’t met the right person.”
“It’s hard to meet the right person. I hear you on that front.” Her tone is sympathetic.
“I thought I had met the right person.”
The thing is Sandy was a fantastic woman, and I can’t fault her for leaving. She was offered a fantastic job in Beijing. She accepted and boarded a flight two weeks later without any fanfare or discussions about us continuing.
We’d been together for a year. We’d started making plans. And then her plan was to move halfway around the world, so that’s what she did, ending us in one clean slice.
“But you can’t let it get you down,” Evie adds. “You are a prize.”
I straighten my shoulders and flash an over-the-top smile. “Thank you. I always thought I’d look really nice paraded around onstage, perhaps given away at the end of a blue ribbon ceremony.”
“We’ll enter you in a dating contest.” She sighs thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing a bit as she taps her chin with her free hand. “But I have other ideas for you.”
“Fess up. Are you trying to enlist me into your stable again?”
She swats my arm affectionately. “Of course. I’ve only been trying to get you in my stable for ages. You know that. Smart, single, sweet as anything, clever, hot vet who does free spay and neuter clinics for the city’s rescues? You are going to be in
demand.”
Since she’s a premiere matchmaker, Evie’s broached the subject before. I’ve been reluctant though. Maybe I’ve been nursing my wounds since my ex took off with barely a goodbye kiss. Or maybe a part of me figures if I can put myself through vet school, open a successful practice, and make it in Manhattan, I ought to be able to find a woman without a little assistance. “Honestly, I figured I’d meet someone the old-fashioned way, like how I met Sandy. We bumped into each other at a coffee shop. She nearly spilled her hot chocolate on me.”
“Ah, the old rom-com meet-cute.”
“Well, yeah. I suppose it was. So I assumed I’d meet someone new in a similar fashion.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
I scratch my jaw, considering her question. “Badly.”
“You don’t say?”
“Do I detect a note of mockery?”
“No. I simply agree that it’s as hard as differential calculus to hope to meet someone in person in a random, swoony, just-like-the-movies way.”
“I’ve been on dates. Mostly setups from friends.”
“And?”
I wince, shaking my head. “Dreadful. I’d rather bathe in molasses than go out with another oh, Tonya knows so-and-so and so-and-so knows so-and-so. And what it truly amounts to is this—your one single friend was pressured by his girlfriend or fiancée to set up her one single friend, and it doesn't matter if you have anything in common.”
She nods sympathetically as she strokes Cletus’s head. “That is indeed the problem with friends setting up friends simply by virtue of their relationship status. I, however, have a long list of lovely single ladies, and I only connect people I think—no, I’m sure—will go together like gin and tonic.”
“I do like a good gin and tonic.”
Too Good To Be True: A One Love novella Page 1