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“Callum,” Jayla replied with warm affection. “Dr. Callum Reed.”

That one bell of intuition suddenly erupted into a cacophonyof wind chimes and fairy tinkles as Callum’s name rang through Janice’s mind. She glanced over her shoulder at the slim packet of papers on her desk, out the window at the sudden squall of a windstorm, and then back to the pair of hopeful parents in her office.

“Well, maybe a little nudge in the right direction will help fate along,” Gemma offered.

With a symphony of kismet playing in Janice’s ears, she smiled. “Fate indeed.”

Chapter one

Ruth

Ruth

Iwas the world’s worst matchmaker.

I didn’t need a badge or a medal to prove it—I had a paper trail of failures to announce my lack of skill to the world. Each failed match was like a sad certificate that declared Dr. Ruth Coldwell to be the most abysmal matchmaker to have ever breathed oxygen. Each folder of disappointed clients had been splayed out on my desk in a manila fan, and I couldn’t help but want to douse my entire office in gasoline and set fire to the debacle.

With my head in my hands, I glared down at the sixteen folders that contained disastrous matches that had not only gone awry but had downright enraged our clients. At Kiss-Met, there were eight talented, dedicated matchmakers who found soulmates for lonely romantics every day. And then there wasme, theterriblematchmaker who made their lives hell. I wasn’t just an unskilled asset to the company—I was a detriment to the effort.

Lifting my head and sighing, I picked up one of the folders. This one was from last week, and I’d thought for sure I had found something quirky and interesting to bring them together. The man and woman had both put on their profiles that they liked pickles. Cute, right? He owned a cannabis farm, and she owned a ranch, so they both worked outside often and clearly had a passion for agriculture. Match made in heaven.

Except he was a vegan and she was a cattle rancher. They’d made sure to relay that fact to me in no uncertain terms ten minutes ago.

Groaning, I closed the file and tossed it aside. “I’m doomed,” I said to no one. My voice filled the small space easily because I had a pretty solid suspicion that this “office” had actually been a utility closet before I’d been hired. It honestly hadn’t made much sense to me that I’d gotten hired in the first place, and I’d had a hunch that the only reason I’d gotten the job was because my best friend worked here and had pulled some strings. The afterthought-broom-closet office kind of sealed that suspicion with wax and a stamp.

There were no windows in the eight-by-eight space, so I glanced at the clock on the beige wall. It was almost ten, which meant I was due for a caffeine boost and a pep talk. Or a melodramatic meltdown. Whatever happened first. I stood, adjusting my glasses on my nose, and collected the files into a tidy pile.

Suddenly, my door opened, and Gemma leaned in, hanging off the doorway with one hand and sweeping the door out in a grand gesture. “Ruthie P., my cute little nerd!”

I looked up with a faint smile, tapping the stack of files on the desk to even them out. “I had a feeling you’d show up. Coffee?”

“Always and forever,” Gemma replied solemnly. My best friend had a cherubic face with sweet, pink cheeks, enormous blue eyes, and lush lips that I knew for a fact drove men wild. She had styled her waist-length blond hair into half-up space buns, and she wore one of her signature plaid skirts and ribbed top combos with camel-colored Mary Jane pumps that made her short stature slightly less obvious.

I set down the stack of files. “I might need something stronger than coffee. I just got reamed out by another client.”

Gemma’s sapphire eyes bounced to the side. “Uh oh.” Gemma had been relentlessly optimistic about my ability to figure out this matchmaking thing, but after two months of struggling to understand the intricacies of pairing people together, I was about ready to cut my losses and take a position with a department store or something. Sure, I had a doctorate in humanities and mountains of debt, but the more I screwed up here, the shittier I felt. “Who was it? Were they rude? Do you want me to beat them up?”

I passed by Gemma, heading down the modern office hallway and past a glass-lined conference room. “That’ll help my reputation. I’ll send my thug BFF after everyone who lodges a complaint against my crappy matchmaking.”

“Exactly,” Gemma said like that was the obvious answer to my problems. “Besides, I’m a cute thug. They’ll never see it coming.”

Gemmawascute. That was undeniable. I, on the other hand, couldn’t have looked more forgettable if I tried. I had a whole “sad beige nerd” thing going for me with tortoiseshell glasses, neutral button-down blouses in various shades of depression, and wool and tweed slacks that did not jive well with the August heat. In my defense, the A/C in our building was completely overkill, and I routinely checked my nose for frostbite by the end of the day.

I did have nice hair; I could admit that much. Shoulder-length and bouncy, my waves usually stayed glossy and soft, and it gave me a smidge of originality in my otherwise drab appearance.Jesus, I’m hard on myself, I thought with a hint of consternation. I wasn’t sure when I’d become such a grump, but it probably had something to do with the years of wasted schooling, the lack of immediate family, and the broken heart that was liable to cut me if I tried to pick it up and attempt to put it back together.

And now I had a career that I sucked at. “Maybe I should just have a quarter-life crisis like the rest of our generation. I can move to Santa Barbara and sell keychains on the boardwalk and live in the back of a dispensary.”

Gemma gave me a concerned side glance. “That is definitely a choice. Look, I told you, the dating process isn’t complicated. You just need to give them options.”

“Yes,” I sighed, rotating a hand like I wanted to get through Gemma’s next lecture faster. “And each stage is a base, but it’s up to them to advance. I know. Actually, that’s kind of a weird allegory you guys chose. Why baseball?”

Gemma grinned conspiratorially. “Hitting bases means hitting bases, Ruthie P.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sports analogies do not help my understanding of the practice, Gem.”

We passed by our boss’ office, and then we entered the two-story, posh lobby that served as a first impression for Kiss-Met Dating Services. With a company logo mounted on a water feature wall and a semi-circle, glossy white desk right in front of the elevator entrance, the lobby gave the impression that Kiss-Met was more than capable of solving people’s loneliness. And truth be told, with the exception of me, it was. Kiss-Met had an astounding eighty-six percent match rate for their clients. People were practically guaranteed a happily ever after.

We crossed the slick, white tile floors and went to the front desk where Olivia sat clicking away on her computer and helping a client who stood on the other side. “You ready for tonight?” Gemma asked with a tentative glance my way.