But where I saw beauty in everything, it seemed very few people saw it in me—or maybe they saw beauty, but they didn't see it as anything they wanted to hold on to for the long run. No one ever stuck around, and I was beginning to think I was destined to be alone.
"There's someone for everyone," Max was saying. "It's a mathematical certainty. It's just a matter of testing the right attributes against a large enough sample size to find a viable match."
"That's very romantic." I rolled my eyes. We’d been having this conversation for years. Max thought love was some kind of scientific problem to be solved. I thought it was something much more mystical than that—and for some people, I figured, lightning just didn’t strike. I’d tried so many dating apps I might as well have been standing on top of a mountain holding a metal stick, and the lightning would still choose some stupid tree nearby. Fucking trees. I heaved a dramatic sigh, which Max thought was aimed at him.
"No, hear me out. I've been working on this a while." He stood and began to pace the room. Max was a good-looking guy—I mentioned he was a soccer star, right? He had the looks to go with it. The number of girls throwing themselves at Max was insane—but he had a habit of completely geeking out, and maybe that was the reason he was still alone in the love game.
But maybe his magic math mind could help. I had nothing to lose.
"I've been building a database and working on the right variables to test," he said. "If you'll be my first subject, I think I can use the algorithm I've created to find your perfect match."
"You're going to use math to find my soulmate." I sat up and grinned at him. “Is this going to be like the time you made me buy exactly forty-three tickets for the raffle at school?”
“You won five hundred dollars. That worked.” He raised an eyebrow.
I lifted a shoulder. He had a point, though he’d made me give him half, and minus the forty-three bucks I’d had to spend to win, he’d come out ahead in that one.
“What’s in it for you?” I asked him, suspicious now.
“I want to prove the theory.”
“That’s all.”
“It could also be really lucrative,” he admitted, crossing his arms. His dark eyes twinkled and I could almost hear the gears ticking in his brain.
I stood and waved my arms around his living room, furnished in a spare modern style, but absolutely opulent. “You don’t need more money, Max.”
“That’s not the point.”
"I’ve tried every dating site there is," I pointed out.
"This will work better."
I pulled my long blond hair up into a bun on top of my head, thinking about it. My brother was smart, that was for sure. If he thought he had a line on solving life's greatest mystery and wanted to help me, I might as well let him. I wasn’t getting any younger. "Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"What have I got to lose?" I shrugged and stood up. "What do I have to do?"
"I'm going to give you a questionnaire," he said. "It might seem like some of the questions are arbitrary or pointless, but just answer it as completely as you can, okay?"
I nodded. "So you'll take my answers and match them up with...who?"
"Men in San Diego. I've restricted my focus to the local area—San Diego and a fifty-mile radius. I've been collecting data for the last year or so to build the database while I perfected the algorithm. It's almost there. Ready to test."
"Hold on. You’ve been gathering data on dudes in San Diego in your spare time?”
“It sounds creepy when you put it like that.”
“It is creepy.”
“Just set up a skeleton site, ran a few ads. Nothing creepy—just gathering a pool to pull from.” He brushed an invisible speck off his chest as he explained this.
“Huh. And these guys think what? What’d you tell them?” I was leaning over his computer now, trying to see if I could get a gander at this large pool of men. Maybe I could just sort through it myself, pick my own ‘match.’
“I was truthful. They’re getting free memberships into what will become the most sought-after matchmaking service in Southern California. No guarantees, no time limits set. When I find a match, I contact them.” He closed the computer and recrossed his arms. “What do you say?”
“Hang on, so what did these guys think when you told them who you are?” Obviously it was bizarre to have a pro soccer star everyone had heard of recruiting dudes for a dating app.
“That part’s gonna have to be a secret. You have to agree to that.” His dark eyes were serious now, and he dropped his big hands onto my shoulders. “Swear, Sis.”
“Okay, okay,” I agreed.
His hands relaxed on my shoulders and he gave them a quick squeeze before letting me go. “What do you say then?”
“I'll be your guinea pig," I agreed. "Let's get it going."
* * *
Two days later I was working in my studio, letting my mind run back over the insane questionnaire Max had made me fill out. It wasn’t just thorough. It was crazy. Max had taken a picture of me and then asked questions about everything from my blood type to my preferred pillow firmness. But I doubted there was any real possibility that a detailed questionnaire could accomplish what I hadn’t in twenty-eight years, no matter how encouraging my mother continued to be.
“There’s someone for everyone,” she always told me.
But maybe not for me.
Besides, I had finally scored a solo show at a gallery in Santa Monica that I’d been hoping to land for years, and I had a lot to think about besides love, or my total lack of it.
Honestly, I would have settled for a guy willing to stick around for more than two dates. I didn't need a soulmate, just someone who didn't seem hellbent on getting away from me as fast as they could after a few dates. I'd begun to get a complex. I was twenty-eight. I wanted kids. Lots of them. Time was a-ticking.
Max called while I was in the zone—Ed Sheeran was singing, I was swaying as I put paint on the canvas, and my vision was erupting before me in a vibrant explosion of color. I let the call go to voicemail, and a few hours later when I was taking a break, I picked up the message.
"Sis. Call me. I ran the numbers and I've got your guy. Pretty sure he's a perfect fit."
I called Max back from the front patio of my little cottage. I rented a tiny place in Ocean Beach. It was nothing like Max's glamorous multi-million dollar high-rise on Mission Bay, but it was perfect for me. The ocean rolled beyond the sloping sand as the phone rang in my ear.
"Hey," he said. "Ready to meet your match?"
"Match? Is this the terminology we're going with?" A little blossom of hope popped out of the dark soil in my gut. I tried to ignore it.
"Yeah. I'm Mr. Match. Like it?"
"What about something more mysterious like Señor Suave, or Monsieur Romance?"
"Because I'm not selling a body spray for hormonally challenged teens."
"Fine."
"I think it's catchy," he said.
Made no difference to me. "Sure. I guess that works. All right, Mr. Match, tell me about my match."
"Cool. Okay, so he's a doctor. He's twenty-eight, and he also plays the piano and volunteers at animal shelters."
"Okay," I said. "Sounds good on paper. I don’t suppose he’s a closet poet or anything, too? I’m an artist, Max." Was it too much to expect that my perfect match would be artistic too?
"It doesn’t work that way. Look at the success rate you’ve had picking men based on your criteria. Trust the math. I'm emailing you his photo. If you say go, I'll email him with yours and set up the first date."
"Okay, hang on." I pulled the phone from my ear and pulled up my email, waiting impatiently for Max's email to come through. When it did, I clicked the photo immediately and was not disappointed. Dark wavy hair hung boyishly around a clean-shaven handsome face with full lips and bright blue eyes. A cleft in the center of his chin reminded me a little of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. "Wow," I said.
> "Good wow or bad wow?"
"Good," I said, my voice holding more awe than I'd intended to convey. I'd never dated anyone so good looking. My insecurity spiked—what would he think of me?
"So the butt-chin isn't a deal breaker?"
"Butt chin? The cleft?" I let my eyes drag away from his gorgeous eyes to re-examine the cleft in his chin.
"Yeah."
I laughed. "No, it's cool. As long as he doesn't, like, get food stuck in there or anything."
"I didn't have a question about regular hygiene of dimples, but maybe I can add that." Max’s sarcasm made his voice flat.
"I'm sure it's fine."
"So you'll go out with him?" He sounded weirdly excited.
"Yeah, if he's willing to go out with me." This was the part where things fell apart. I knew I was a catch—but I felt like I needed time with someone for them to understand how. I wasn’t rich like Max, I wasn’t a famous athlete. I was a semi-successful artist who just wanted someone to love, to have a family with and to grow old alongside. I swallowed hard.
"Cat, you're his perfect match. He'll be willing. Stand by."
I could hear Max's fingers flying over the keyboard, and after a minute he said, "There we go. Done. Mr. Match—who, remember, is not me—has reached out with the match."
"Now what?"
"I'll let you know when he responds."
I felt a burst of nerves explode in my gut as I thought about hot Doctor Buttchin looking at my photo. What if he didn't think I was cute? I shoved down the insecurity and turned my music back up, pushed myself to finish the piece I’d been working on. I had a good life with or without Dr. Buttchin. I’d be fine. I’d get a dog, just to throw everyone off.
I needn't have worried. Max called me back an hour later. "It's on. Saturday night. You're meeting at McDaughtry's at eight."
"The team bar?" McDaughtry's was an Irish pub in the Gaslamp Quarter where Max's team, the South Bay Sharks, tended to hang out.
"I want to keep an eye on you."
"Fair enough." I thought about Max watching me have a first date. I would be glad to know he’d be there if the guy pulled out a machete or something, but I didn’t necessarily need an audience if things went well. “A teeny bit weird though. And I thought you wanted to be anonymous.”
“I’m there to protect you. Don’t point me out and we’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
Now I just had to handle my nerves and insecurity until Saturday.
Chapter 3
Paging Dr. Buttchin
Cat
I arrived at McDaughtry's with crazy nerves shooting around inside me. I'd dated. Like, a lot. But there was something about Max's confidence that this guy would be the one that had my mind flipping over itself with possibilities. I was thinking about tiny little chin-cleft kids and family vacations. And I realized that was nuts considering I hadn't even met the guy.
"Your brother is pretty smart," Mom had said when I'd called to tell her about the experiment. "And he's been quizzing me about love since he was a little boy. I actually think it makes perfect sense that he'd find a way to combine his aptitude for numbers with his deep interest in love."
"Don’t you think it’s weird that Max has a deep interest in love?"
Mom laughed. "I don't know if it’s weird. I think it has to do with losing your dad. It’s a way of mourning, I think, of trying to understand the loss. He's been digging into the topic with his scientist's mind since he was a kid, in one way or another."
She was right. Max did always ask my mom strange questions about Dad, about how they had been together, about why it had worked.
So with Mom's blessing, I had dressed in a flowy red sundress that showed off my legs, matched it with red lips, and styled my hair in long waves over my shoulders. If this didn't get Dr. Buttchin's attention, nothing would.
I stepped into the bar, pausing just past the threshold for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. My brother sat at the bar facing me and gave me a little salute as I looked his way. I lifted my hand at my side, keeping it low in case the good doctor was already watching me. I didn't want him to think I knew everyone in the bar. Drunk floozy was not the first impression I was aiming for here.
The space was pretty big, with several seating areas scattered around the main bar in the middle. I scanned the tables and my eyes stopped on a head of dark wavy hair just as bright blue eyes met mine. A little shock ran through me as our gazes met, and I took it as a good sign.
The doctor stood and smiled at me as I approached, and my stomach dropped. He was tall, and dark, and so much more handsome than his photo revealed.
"Hello," he said. "Cat?" He looked just the tiniest bit uncertain, and it just about charmed the pants right off me.
"Yes," I said. "Todd?" Because Todd, after all, was Dr. Buttchin's real name.
"Guilty," he confirmed. He grinned, revealing the dimple beneath his lips and two more in his cheeks, and I swear I practically swooned. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Sure," I said, moving to sit down. "A glass of pinot noir?" Just as I was about to tuck myself into a spot, Todd stopped me.
"Oh, wait, no."
I straightened back up. "Sorry?"
"Do you mind sitting on my right side?" He smiled apologetically, but didn't offer an explanation.
"Sure," I said, moving to the other side of the small table.
"I'll be right back with that drink." He strode off toward the bar, affording me a very nice view of his backside, covered in chic dark slacks and perfectly round and tight beneath the fabric. Here was a guy who took care of himself. He’d surely be good at taking care of a family. Or that is what I would have been thinking if I was having neurotic and inappropriate thoughts about having a family with a man I’d met two seconds ago.
"Here you go," he said, placing a glass on the table before me as he slid back into his seat.
"Thank you," I said, and then I touched the rim of my glass to the top of his pint glass and we were underway.
He made a strange face as I did so, his lip wrinkling the tiniest bit and then returning to normal.
We talked, laughing and exploring our commonalities and differences. I had to hand it to Max, Todd did seem like a great match for me. He adored art, loved animals and wanted children. And then there was his ridiculously handsome face and the body to match. The only thing that should have tipped me off to the fact that Todd was not, in fact, a good match for me, was the way he insisted on wiping down the table with sanitizer wipes he pulled from his pocket.
I’d been in the middle of telling him about the art show coming up in Santa Monica, but found myself struggling mid sentence. “And it’s just a big deal because… I…”
He lifted my glass to wipe beneath it and offered me an encouraging smile. “Go on. It’s amazing you have a solo show already. You’re so young.” He folded up the wipe neatly and placed it on the very far edge of the table.
“Right,” I said, trying to push away a growing concern over Buttchin’s need for cleanliness. I took a breath and went on, explaining the way I’d decided to approach theme for the show.
But as I talked, a teeny tiny alarm was sounding in my head. He’d even reached out once and wiped down my glass for me. He was protecting me from bacteria, I supposed. Not weird, right? Charming. I was going with charming.
He was a doctor. He treated patients with all kinds of terrible diseases, and probably had learned to be extra careful about germs.
"Thanks," I said, unable to avoid addressing the sanitization of our environment any longer. "Is it flu season?"
"It's always flu season," he said, grinning as if he were joking and then not offering anything else to explain the increasingly sanitary nature of our table. He even pumped a little bit of sanitizer out of a bottle from his pocket once when he thought I wasn't looking.
I had one hand on the booth next to where I sat, and now that I was thinking about it, I noticed it was just slightly mois
t. I lifted my hand to my nose and sniffed lightly, confirming my suspicion that my seat had, indeed, been wiped liberally with sanitizer before I'd sat down. No wonder he wanted me on the right. He must have wiped down the side where he assumed I’d sit.
"So what kind of medicine do you practice?" I asked him, expecting him to be an infectious disease specialist or maybe a pediatrician, given the focus on infectious germs.
"I'm an ophthalmologist," he said.
So there went that theory.
But if you touched eyes, you had to be very clean. I knew this because I habitually felt guilty over my own ghastly habits where my contact lenses were concerned. It was a wonder I hadn't lost an eye yet. I took a moment to suffer a pang of guilt once again and resolved to improve my habits, if not for myself, then out of deference for Todd. Clearly the germ situation in San Diego was worse than I’d imagined.
"Would you maybe want to get out of here? Take a walk or something?" Todd's blue eyes glimmered in the low light, and between the encouraging smile on his lips, the scent of something spicy and manly emanating from his very broad chest—and if I'm being honest, the two glasses of wine—I found myself nodding.
Once we were out in the clear air, I was sure Todd would be able to focus on me, on us. And while he was quite fastidious, he was also a catch. He was successful and attentive, handsome and gentlemanly. We all had our faults, and cleanliness was certainly not akin to alcoholism or anger issues, right? If Todd was a good kisser, I’d say yes to a second date.
Yes, I thought. Max really was a genius. This would be great. I gave my brother a wink as we went out, and felt my phone buzz in my purse in response. He had promised to keep tabs via text if we left the bar, and I knew if I didn’t text him back in an hour, he’d be calling out the cavalry (in the form of the South Bay Sharks, his soccer team, members of whom were every bit as intimidating as cops with guns.)
Todd and I walked around the Gaslamp Quarter for a bit, strolling and enjoying the vibrant crowds and energy. It was amazing. We talked, we flirted, he held my hand. After a while, he asked if he could drive me home, and after texting Max, I accepted, since I had ubered to the bar.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 2