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“A debrief. I only have one date left to convince you that Opate Match, a business you believed in enough to buy, by the way, is based on a sound business idea.”
“Oh,” I say, “I know your business idea is sound. I just don’t think it’s the same one as you do.”
“Right, because I think it’s to help people find love, and you think it’s… remind me again?” She stretches her legs out on the couch, long and elegant. “Arranged marriages for the elite?”
I snort. “I know that’s what it’s for. People who want to find a partner for status or prestige, rather than an actual relationship. Can you honestly tell me you don’t have clients like that? Ones who’d decline to go on a date with anyone who earned less than a six-figure income?”
Summer takes another bite and looks at her dog, burying her fingers in his fur. “They exist, sure. But on the whole… I don’t see it that way at all. These people come with their own set of difficulties. Some can’t even date in public—we’ve had a few famous people as clients, actually. Others are older and wealthy and want to meet an equal, but it’s harder to trust when money comes in the way. It’s true that some come to us with a shopping list of criteria. But…” Summer’s face softens, her voice growing warm.
“All that melts away when two clients like each other, when we’ve found a good match. Those are the best debriefs. I’ll talk to both of them after their first couple of dates and it’s there in their voice. The excitement, the nerves, and suddenly the preferences theythoughtwere important don’t matter anymore. The only thing they can see is the person in front of them. It’s beautiful.”
Her gaze returns to mine, and the joy in her eyes is real. “Anyway, I love my job. You’re free to consider me a hopeless romantic.”
“I do,” I say, looking away from her. The old rancor burns in my chest. It’s been a long time since I believed in anything like that. I doubt I ever truly have.
“I have a question for you,” she says.
I force my voice to lighten. “I’m not answering any more of those prompts.”
“It’s not a prompt, I swear.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s something completely different.”
I lean back on the couch and drink her in with my gaze. The teasing smile. The warm eyes. “Fine. What is it?”
“Why don’t you believe in true love?”
I groan, staring up at the ceiling.
“It wasn’t a prompt!”
“It might as well be.”
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“Sure you don’t,” I say, but there’s a smile in my voice. Even I can hear it.
A second later and I’m hit squarely in the chest by one of the colorful throw pillows. I look over at Summer. She’s staring back at me with a gaze that’s half shocked, half challenging.
“Sorry,” she says. “That didn’t hurt, did it?”
Hah. My hand curls around the pillow, hurling it back at her.
She dodges it easily and breaks into laughter. Ace gives a single, low bark of surprise beside her.
“Is this how you treat your clients when they won’t respond to your questions?” I ask. “No wonder Opate Match is in dire straits.”
“I don’t have pillows in my office,” she says. Crosses one smooth leg over the other and shoots me a triumphant look. “You’re avoiding the question, which is fine.”
I push away my half-eaten pizza and lean forward. “How can you believe so strongly in it?”
“In true love?”
I nod. It’s almost like we’re in her office, talking about something rational and not here, in her home at midnight, discussing love over pizzas. I should leave.
I don’t.
