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.