Perfect Match

by Lila Monroe

  I fold my arms over my chest and try to keep my cool. “Not exactly,” I admit. “But I did have a meeting scheduled, and I believe in keeping my appointments. I’m hoping you do too.”

  He gives me a crooked smile. The same one that was staring out of the cover of Forbes Magazine last month. “I’m not sure that’s fair when I didn’t even know there was an appointment. And as much as I love mixing business with pleasure, as you can see, I’m a little occupied.”

  “You can’t listen and climb at the same time?”

  Jack chuckles, with maybe a little exasperation. “You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

  “Not about something this important,” I insist.

  “Fine.” He grips the rope and shifts his feet against the wall. “How about this? If you want to talk so bad, you can follow me up here. I’ll take your pitch at the top.”

  Follow him up?

  My gaze travels all the way to the peak of the climbing wall. My stomach drops at the same time. I don’t even like hanging out on second-floor balconies. Which have railings and a floor and important features like that. My brother Drew always poked fun at my fear of heights, but it seems to be it’s perfectly reasonable to be nervous of things that could kill you. The people who go scrambling up to their potential dooms are the real weirdoes.

  Jack is watching me, still waiting. When I don’t move, he shrugs and turns to the wall. Dismissing me.

  My shoulders stiffen.

  This is my shot. I’m not going to let a little fear stop me now. So how the hell am I supposed to pull this off? Despite how easy Jack is making it look, I’m guessing scrambling up a sheer rock-face isn’t exactly a walk in the park. I felt like throwing a party the day I managed two pull-ups at the gym. Climbing a whole wall?

  Never going to happen.

  Think, McKenna … There’s always a way around.

  I glance around and catch sight of my salvation. There’s a rolling ladder attached to the wall between Jack’s climbing area and the next one over. Still not my ideal situation, but a heck of a lot better than dangling from nothing but a rope.

  I grab it and drag it over. Hmm. My conservative pumps are clearly not cut out for this kind of extreme sport. I kick them off and start climbing hand-over-hand up the ladder.

  I hear a laugh, and when I look over, Jack is shaking his head, clearly amused by my short-cut. “That’s not what I meant,” he calls over.

  “You didn’t say how I had to get up the wall,” I point out, huffing at the effort.

  “Fair enough.” He turns back to the wall and keeps climbing. He isn’t hurrying exactly, but he moves quickly all the same. He reaches for each hold with a smooth, confident motion. It doesn’t look like he’s even a tiny bit worried that his fingers might get a bad grip. Or that his feet might slip.

  Or that he could plunge thirty feet to the floor with nothing but a crash mat between him and oblivion. I might envy that assurance if I wasn’t busy being pissed off that he’s making me follow him.

  But even being pissed off, I can’t help but notice how his biceps flex against the sleeves of his tee. He’s got a fine set of gluts too. I wouldn’t kick that ass out of bed.

  The man it’s attached to, however …

  I jerk my eyes away. Unfortunately, I jerk them down. Oh yeah. There’s the floor, thirty rungs below me now. Way, way down. My stomach lurches, and a cold sweat breaks over my skin. My hands lock around the sides of the ladder.

  Why am I doing this again?

  I close my eyes. I’m doing this for Perfect Match. My career, my future—and the future of dating.

  And so this jackass doesn’t think he’s gotten the better of me.

  I reach for the next rung, and the next, keeping my gaze fixed on the platform at the top of the climbing wall, stretching all the way across—with a handy safety bar railing. All I have to do is get up there. I’ve scaled enough metaphorical ladders in the tech industry. This should be a breeze.

  Jack reaches the platform just before me. As easy as he made the climb look, he’s got a sheen of sweat on his face now. He swipes his arm across his forehead as I scramble up the last few rungs and then—seriously?—he peels off his Knicks tee. To air himself out, I guess?

  Damn.

  He tosses the T-shirt over his shoulder and smirks at me. Oh hell no. He thinks he’s going to throw me off by flashing his physique? Maybe the women he usually hangs out with lose their heads at the sight of those pecs, but he’s never met McKenna Delaney before.

  I grew up with my brother in a boy band. I know abs.

  And I refuse to let him throw me now that I’m forty feet in the air.

  I clamber onto the platform and grip the railing, careful not to look down. My heart’s thudding again, but that’s OK. A little adrenaline rush will juice up my pitch. “Great,” I say. “Here we are at the top, which means I get five minutes of your time.”

  “Make it three,” Jack replies, but I swear I see a begrudging smile in those blue eyes.

  Yes!

  I resist pumping my fist in the air. “My name’s McKenna Delaney,” I start, my heart racing even faster now. “And I’m the head of the up-and-coming tech company Connective, Inc. We’ve developed a revolutionary new dating app that will—”

  “Not interested,” Jack interrupts.

  I blink, thrown. “You said three minutes. And if I have a chance to tell you about our research and field testing, you’ll see that our algorithm—”

  “I said, ‘Not interested.’ ” Jack stretches. “Believe me, I do appreciate a woman who goes after what she wants. But this isn’t my kind of project.”

  “How do you know?” I protest. “You haven’t let me tell you anything about it. The stats from multiple studies across—”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve heard enough numbers for today, darling.”

  I panic. “You’re telling me you don’t use dating apps?”

  “Sure I do.” He winks. “But I’m not looking for true love.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Which one is it: Tinder? Bumble? Hinge? I promise you, none of the current market has the kind of long-term, tailor-made compatibility my algorithm offers.”

  “For your information, I’ve been more than happy with RightNow,” Callahan replies.

  I should have guessed. The ultimate hook-up app. It only asks for an age, a photo, and if you’re available to meet in the next hour. “Look, Mr. Callahan, if you would just—”

  “Your three minutes is up!” he interrupts, with an infuriating smirk. “Excellent effort, though. By the way, you’ve got a little something …”

  He gestures to my coffee stain, and then he grasps a rope and rappels right on down the wall.

  My jaw drops. I stare after him for a few seconds until my gaze gets dangerously close to the floor—which is now way, way down. I jerk my eyes away. Did he really just call me darling? After refusing to listen to a single word I said. After he made me climb up this godforsaken ladder just for the chance.

  I could strangle him. No, dropkick him off the wall, that would be even better. Where does he get the nerve—

  He’s already hit the ground, but I’m not letting him get away this easy. He didn’t really listen. What happened to giving me a fair shot—after I jumped through hoops, or rather, up ladders, for him? Is this some kind of game?

  I pause. Maybe he is testing me. Seeing how persistent I am. That would fit the cavalier daredevil persona, wouldn’t it?

  My knuckles might be white, but I manage to scramble down the ladder in not much more time than it took me climbing up. When I pull on my heels and look around, Jack is across the gym, heading for the locker rooms. Shit. I dash after him, but he disappears behind the door very clearly marked MEN before I can catch up.

  I pause, trying to regroup. I came all the way out here. I climbed that ladder. I’m not done yet.

  Jack Callahan is all about taking risks. In his interviews, he’s always talking about how he looks for brava
do when deciding where to invest. So who cares if this is going to look crazy? A businesswoman’s gotta do what a businesswoman’s gotta do.

  Dragging in a breath, I march up to the locker-room door and push inside.

  Eww. The smell of sweat and aftershave hits me—like my brother’s bedroom when we were growing up. There are a couple of shirtless guys—neither of them Jack—in the middle of changing their clothes in the first aisle. They both gawk at me. “Uh, Miss?” one starts, but I’ve already strode past them.

  The second aisle gives me Jack. He’s half-naked, with a towel wrapped around his waist. I come to a halt with a rap of my shoes against the linoleum floor.

  The ladies’ locker room definitely doesn’t have this.

  He sees me and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  “I’ve been told that’s one of my best qualities,” I say, determined. “If nothing else, it should tell you that I’m willing to go all the way for this company. I’ve worked my ass off on it, and I know it deserves more consideration than you’ve given it.”

  Jack pauses. I can’t read the look he’s giving me, but at least he hasn’t barked out another “Not interested” yet.

  Which is something.

  “So what’s so special about this app of yours?” he says.

  My heart leaps. No time to go through the whole spiel. No time for graphs or data. I’ve got to get to the core of the idea, fast.

  “Perfect Match uses expert relationship research to give each couple it matches the best chance at happiness, right from the start,” I say. “It’s not just about who you date, but how. Most people connect with someone online, or an app, but then they just meet for drinks, or go to a movie, which are the worst ways to get a sense of someone’s key personality traits. You sit, you talk, you tell the same anecdotes you always do, but that doesn’t give you an accurate picture of who somebody is—or if you’re compatible.”

  “Who said talking was the point?” Callahan waggles his eyebrows at me suggestively, and I scowl.

  “For you it isn’t, but eighty percent of app users say they’re looking for a long-term relationship,” I inform him coolly. “And that’s where apps like RightNow fail. Sure, you like their photos, but you could be dating someone for weeks, months even before discovering they have a massive deal-breaker, or they aren’t the person they’re pretending to be. Plus, people don’t know themselves either! They say they want someone adventurous because they think they should be that way, when really, they’d be happier at home watching Netflix every weekend. Perfect Match cuts through all that pretense and designs dates that show you who somebody really is.”

  I’m not sure which part did it, but I can tell I’ve got at least some of Jack’s attention now. He’s watching me intently. His teasing smile has faded a little, as if he’s really thinking about the pitch. Good.

  “My algorithm matches users based on key elements that are proven to lead to compatibility. Not just backgrounds and education, but personality types and quirks. We also delve into their deal-breakers. Then users are matched only with other people who have none of their deal-breakers—because who cares how perfect someone is for you otherwise if you can’t handle their eight cats or obsession with Adam Sandler movies?”

  “Is that all?” Jack asks.

  “No.” I try not to be annoyed. “Studies show that external factors totally change our romantic feelings towards someone. People who ride rollercoasters on the first date associate those feelings of excitement and adventure with their partner, releasing serotonins that bond them together more than if they’d just had a drink in a bar. My app matches users, then gives them date ideas that are tailor-made to encourage maximum interaction and bonding—from extreme sports for the thrill-seekers, to art walks and museum days for introverts who value communication.”

  I can’t help but smile proudly as I tell him. This is what sets Perfect Match apart from the competition—and means our test couples are all madly in love and going strong. After sitting through a dozen mediocre first dates with perfectly nice men, I knew there had to be a better way. Millions of people use dating apps—but waste their matches with boring activities that don’t show who they are as people.

  “I have the research, I have the test studies,” I continue, focusing back on Jack’s reactions. “We’re ready to launch the beta version, we just need the investment for marketing and technology upgrades, to roll it out wider and take this to the next level. This could revolutionize the whole dating app industry,” I insist. “So, are you in?”

  Jack pauses, and for a moment, I think I might have done it. Then his smile turns rueful. “You may be right,” he says. “If you’ve cracked the code to dating bliss, there’s got to be millions in that. But you know what I think, Ms. Delaney? There is no formula for love. You can’t break it down into computer code.”

  What?

  “But—” I start to protest, but he gives me a look.

  “You had your shot: you pitched, I listened. I’m passing, thanks all the same. Now, I need to go take a shower. This time, perhaps you could keep from following me?” He pauses, then flashes a cocky smile. “Or not, your call.”

  I narrow my eyes. “No thank you.”

  “Suit yourself. A pleasure, Mackenzie.” Before I can correct him, he drops the towel and saunters away, leaving me with zero investment—and a front-row view of his ass … ets.

  3

  McKenna

  When I wake up on Saturday morning, all I want to do is pull the covers back over my head and hide for the rest of the day. Normally I’m a pretty get-up-and-go person, but after two more weeks of trying—and failing—to find an investor, I think I deserve a moment to wallow.

  Perfect Match is still hanging on life-support. Since my encounter with Jack Callahan at the gym, I’ve racked up a dozen more “No”s, the last one delivered by a guy who looked young enough to be in high school, with a suit so slick you could have skated on it. Another trust-fund kid playing at entrepreneur, who had the nerve to ask me out after he’d finished turning me down.

  I could turn to family if I wanted to go that route. My brother, Drew, has a hefty bank account, thanks to his music superstardom. I know he’d help out in a flash if I asked. But I won’t. I want to succeed because of my own work and ideas, not family connections.

  Or fail miserably, as the case seems to be.

  My phone buzzes with a message from my friend about brunch, so after ten more minutes of moping, I shove the covers off and stumble the five steps to my tiny bathroom—bumping my hip on the dresser as I go. Really, I love my apartment. I’m thankful just to live in Manhattan, even tucked in a corner of the Upper West Side, and finding a rent-controlled place was the biggest score of my life. But after spending the better part of three weeks in fancy offices, boardrooms, and lofts, it’s hard not to notice the little things. The spidery cracks in the paint on all the ceilings. The warped floorboards where some tenant before me left the window open when they were out of town during a blizzard. The ancient radiator in the kitchen that whistles almost as loud as the kettle.

  Still, it’s my home, all five hundred square feet of it. I’m not sure I’d move even if Perfect Match takes off. But I could at least pay for some renos. Barb, my landlady, pretty much gives me free rein, saying, “Whatever makes you happy, honey!” Now that her kids are out of the nest, she turns the mothering vibe on every tenant under forty. And hey, there are a lot worse characteristics for a landlord to have.

  Always punctual, my next-door neighbor and long-time friend Tessa knocks on the door at ten-thirty sharp. “Hey, Mac!” she smiles. “Ready to go?” Also as always, she looks like she could be heading off to her insurance office job, not a casual lunch. Neat blouse, sensible jeans, plain Mary-Janes. Her long, wavy chestnut hair is pulled into a broad clip at the back of her neck, and she’s wearing a single strand of pearls that I know for a fact isn’t her style, but her boyfriend gave them to her,
so she feels obligated to wear them. Sure, she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she’s got a wild side, I swear. Drag her onto a dance floor or out to an amusement park, and it cracks through. I’ve never seen anyone scream as loudly or joyfully while ricocheting through a loop-de-loop. Or maybe I’m just impressed because I spend the whole time with my eyes squeezed closed trying not to vomit?

  “Two seconds,” I tell her, yanking a sweater over my head and smearing some lip balm on.

  “You had a few more pitches at the end of the week, didn’t you?” Tessa asks as we head one floor down. “I know you were awesome—did any of the investors see the light?”

  I grimace. She gives me a hug of sympathy. “Ugh. That bad? I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Nope. It’s theirs for having their heads too far up their asses to see what a genius you are.”

  I laugh. “Thanks. But hey, at least none of these guys stripped naked in front of me.”

  Tessa purses her lips. “I can’t believe Jack Callahan did that. Isn’t it harassment?”

  “To be fair, I did walk into the locker room on him,” I point out. “And hey, if I had an ass like that, I would show it off everywhere too! Seriously,” I add, “I’d be walking half-naked to the grocery store. Subway station. Laundromat.”

  “Exactly the way to meet your perfect match,” Tessa cracks. We laugh.

  We have to rap on Jill’s door three times before she answers—in a towel from the shower. “Sorry!” she chirps. “Late night at the bar. Slept through my alarm.”

  Which could mean she didn’t even set it, but we were prepared for that. Brunch actually starts at eleven.

  “I met the cutest guy,” she says as she lets us in. “Oh my god, Mac—you’d have been drooling over him too.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Did you break your ‘no numbers while you’re on the job’ rule?”

  “No.” She shoots us a sly look. “But I need some perks if I’m going to keep waitressing, waiting for my big break.”

  Jill goes on to chatter about her latest theater auditions as she rubs her hair dry. Her shoulder-length style is bright red—this month, at least. But then, Jill can pull just about anything off. She throws on a ruffled wrap dress with a plunging neckline and links arms with us on the way to the stairs. The building does have an elevator, but, well, let’s just say ninety-nine percent of the time, walking is faster. With significantly less chance of spending a few hours stuck between floors.