She cocks her head, daring me to object again. “This service matches people based on personality profiles rather than photos. It’s practically the same concept, just with algorithms instead of sepia-toned images and handwritten letters.”
I tip my head from side to side—my body and mind arguing about relenting. Physical me is interested in survival and to do that, I need a place to live, which means earning money since I already spent my last advance on basic living expenses and tuition payments. Mental and emotional me will stubbornly stay bogged down and keep dreaming until the cows come home—or not, because I don’t have one of those at present. Well, I do, but the Victorian on Cornsilk is a dump.
She taps my closed laptop. “This is legitimate research and probably a tax write-off.”
As if that’s the worst ofmy problems.
I sigh. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for a blind date marriage, I mean, that’s the end game, right? What if the guy is weird?”
“Or the man of your dreams.”
“Yes, let’s not forget about the not-so-little detail of marriage,” I practically bark the last part because what is little about marrying someone? Nothing. That’s what.
“Just think, a happily ever after.”
“Or he could be dangerous?”
“Love always is.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“But it would be a scheduled meeting in public, not at a secluded cabin in the woods,” Nina points out.
“What if he’s an ogre?”
Her gaze slants and she looks at me carefully. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about Fletch. Had the man not looked at you with longing in his eyes, I’d break girl code and chase him down myself.”
I hoot a laugh. “He has the personality of an ogre, so I’d recommend avoiding him at all costs.” But he is undeniably handsome with that dimple in his chin, the crooked smile, and with eyes as delicious and devilish as chocolate.
Nina claps her hands on her thighs. “If that’s the case, mail-order hubby here we come. And don’t worry, I’ll be nearby if you need rescuing.”
Rescuing me from these thoughts about a guy who’s irrelevant to me? More like as irrelevant as my ever-increasingly pink cheeks. Scrambling, I shove away all things Fletch Turley. The guy is a menace … to my emotions.
With a wink, Nina says, “I know you’re thinking about him.”
“Actually, I was wondering what was in the package he droppedoff.”
“See, I was right.”
“For the record, I find it hard to believe he looked at me with longing. Pfft.”
Breezing by my comment, apparently also deemed irrelevant, Nina now appeals to my financially desperate situation. “In the Heartland agreement, there was mention of a new couple stipend paid for by the groom and/or his sponsor, even though that’s not very romantic. It could help you out right now.”
I fiddle with my empty teacup, retreating to my pity party corner. “I write romance. I don’t live it.”
“That’s exactly the problem. You’ve spent your whole life as the sidekick in the romantic comedy, never the lead.” Nina gives me a look that’s equal parts affection and exasperation.
I wince, knowing she’s right. I’m always the best friend, the confidante, the shoulder to cry on. Never the one with the epic love story. And if I’m honest with myself, maybe that’s why my writing has hit a wall.
Nina inhales a slow breath. “Is this about Isaac? Or Chris?”
The names still sting, even years later. Isaac used me for trigonometry help in high school before publicly announcing he thought I was cool but wasn’t interested in dating a“walking textbook.” Chris, a college boyfriend, moved on because I was “too in my head” and “not spontaneous enough.”
“Not everything is about my tragic romantic history,” I say, but we both know it’s a lie.
“Speaking of romance … if you’d rather, we could talk about that kiss under the mistletoe?” Even though Nina is arguably one of the friendliest people in Cobbiton—ask any of her customers—she has a diabolical streak.
My cheeks darken. “You dared me. It was a bet. Thanks for helping me replenish my bank account. But we all know that the kiss meant nothing.”
