Page 6 of Love’s a Script (Hearts Collide #1)

Chapter Six

Ruben and some of his coworkers had paused in their work to gather in front of the mounted television and watch Mayor Laurie—who’d shown up to the annual ice sculpture exhibit with his fiancée—talk to the press on location.

Though Ruben believed the mayor’s sudden engagement suspiciously timed, studying him now with his wife-to-be, he couldn’t deny they appeared as real as any lovebirds.

His arm was about her waist and she looked at him adoringly as he spoke into various microphones that crowded them.

“Mr. Mayor, is there a date set for the nuptials?” an unseen reporter asked.

“We’re hoping for an autumn wedding. Something very intimate and private.”

“Oh, the restraint!” said Chesa. “A shame it wasn’t applied to the budget for his swearing-in ceremony.”

“Mayor Laurie,” another reporter piped up, “do you have any updates on how you’ll proceed with the auditor’s findings?”

The mayor stiffened, his friendly expression fading.

“We are obviously taking it very, very, extremely seriously, and of course, obviously, we understand that the constituents would like this addressed sooner rather than later, obviously. But we are using the allotted time we’ve been given to prepare a robust response… ”

“He’d sound more convincing recommending gas station sushi,” Ruben said.

After, the team dispersed to different areas while Chesa approached Ruben. The orange hockey jersey she wore was almost too fluorescent to look at directly. “Excited?” she asked.

“Yeah, excited to get it over with,” he replied. Mary was due at the station at any moment for his first meeting as an official client of Hearts Collide.

“Not a very romantic way to talk about your dating life,” Chesa said.

“Well, this isn’t a very romantic undertaking.

” That was nowhere more evident for Ruben than when he was completing a particular section of the intake forms that asked him to define his dream partner, to choose characteristics from a drop-down list like he was selecting toppings for a pizza.

The coarseness of it nearly moved him to abandon everything, but he reminded himself that buttressing the feature was his priority.

“I think she’s here.” Chesa nodded in the direction of the entrance.

Ruben turned to see Mary, a sight of sophistication in a spotless cream coat, being directed his way by the sound engineer.

“I expect a full debrief afterward,” Chesa whispered as she left his side.

Ruben met Mary in the middle of the floor where she said hello with a terse smile.

He thanked her for accommodating him by meeting at the studio and offered her something to drink from the station’s newly acquired Keurig machine, but she declined.

Inside the conference room, he watched Mary silently unload the contents of her bag onto the table one by one.

He’d expected some tension, but the antiseptic air between them was unbearable.

“I was looking at the add-on services on your website,” he began lightly. “Do people actually pay extra for a style consultant?”

“Yes,” she said. “Some want to look and feel their best when they’re about to meet a lot of romantic prospects. A style assessment is one way to do that.”

“You think I need one?” he asked in jest but pushed his chair away from the table to give her a full view.

Mary took a serious look from the coils on his head to his old Converse high-tops then said, “I’m not a style expert.”

“But you have an opinion.”

“I do.”

Ruben laughed when she didn’t elaborate. “That bad?”

“No, I’m just not able to give you useful feedback because, again, I’m not an expert.”

“How diplomatic,” he said, then worried the comment came off glib.

If Mary thought so, she didn’t address it, starting the meeting without further preamble.

She spoke quickly with what seemed like practiced inflections and gestures, and the hair framing her pretty face billowed whenever she spoke a word beginning with a plosive consonant.

“We will only have two check-in meetings,” she said while explaining his truncated matchmaking plan. “After your first date and before your last date. But you’ll provide written feedback on each date on the Hearts Collide app. It will help me refine your compatibility data.”

Compatibility data. It was easy to forget they were talking about human connection.

“Problem?” Mary asked.

“Nope. Taking it all in,” he said. “But tell me, how exactly do you calculate compatibility?”

“We have about ten guiding principles that we use to assess matches, but each matchmaker also uses their experience and their—for a lack of a better word—gut to pair people.”

Ruben nodded, pulling out the pen and notepad he’d brought along to jot down this revelation. The agency’s website and press coverage gave the impression that centrifuges and difficult computations were involved.

“I thought I wouldn’t be directly quoted in your feature,” Mary said.

He looked up and found her frowning. “And you won’t be,” he said. “These are my personal notes that I’ll use to talk more accurately about the agency.”

She still appeared untrusting, and he realized he had her ire but none of her confidence. It would affect his experience, and ultimately, the quality of his insights.

“Okay, can we be real?” he said, putting his pen down.

“I know you think I’m a cynical smartass.

I won’t deny the smartass part, but if we’re being technical, I’m a skeptic, not a cynic.

I question almost everything, but not for the sake of being a contrarian.

I’m okay with being proven wrong, and I have no problem changing my opinions after learning something new.

It’s what makes me good at my job. So I give you my word that I’ll be open and committed to this experience. ”

Mary searched his face, and whatever she saw there softened the furrow that had lightly creased her forehead. “All right,” she said. “And I promise to do my best to find you your perfect match.”

They shook hands at that point, and after a quick tour of the app he’d be using to see his matches’ profiles and complete post-date assessments, the meeting was over.

“Lookout for an email later today with all the information we’ve gone through,” she said as he walked her to the elevators. “I’ll have your first match before the end of the week.”

“That’s fast,” he said.

“We only have six weeks,” she replied, stepping into the empty elevator cab as he remained on the office floor. She pressed the close button once then a few more times when nothing happened.

“Old building,” he said. “It takes a moment.”

They waited, not making direct eye contact. Ruben didn’t try to fill the silence in case his mouth undid their undeveloped goodwill. He swore it was the longest the doors had ever taken.

“Your outfit’s fine, by the way,” Mary said after a bit.

“Yeah?”

She nodded. Smiled. “It’s clean and it fits. It does skew a little too university RA or man with a hot sauce review blog for my taste, but that’s only something I’d say if I was being undiplomatic.”

A spirited laugh left Ruben just as the elevator door finally appeared and slid shut.

* * *

Mary studied the collection of glossy headshots spread out across her desk.

The smiling women in the photos were all—to varying degrees—compatible with Ruben.

In her search, she’d prioritized outspoken women.

Women who lived their lives on their own terms. And those who valued authenticity as much as Ruben.

Only a novice matchmaker would expect to hit a home run with a first match. It happened occasionally, but matchmaking with that sort of intent was limiting and didn’t leave room for pairings that were a little offbeat.

There was a knock at the door, and Mary called out for the visitor to enter.

“Your caffè mocha and pastry,” Eden said, stepping into the room with long strides that could’ve appeared on runways if Eden had been the sort.

“Thank you,” Mary said, moving for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Eden said, joining her behind the desk. “New client?”

“Yeah, the radio show host. I did his onboarding yesterday.”

“How was that?”

“It went surprisingly well.”

The dynamic Mary had with Ruben was unfamiliar, a bit tense, and far too direct.

Typically, with other clients, she went to great lengths to present herself as ceaselessly positive and benevolent.

But donning her Energizer-Bunny-on-caffeine persona for Ruben after how their first interaction had gone would be such obvious pretense.

“This is an eclectic group,” Eden said, sifting through the photos. “Have you narrowed it down?”

Mary considered the photos and pointed to one.

“Imani was my first choice,” she said, “but I don’t know if the timing will work because I have a short window with Ruben and she’s out of the country for a month.

” Mary tapped another photo. “I like Trisha, and I think she and Ruben could get along. My only concern is Ruben’s a vegetarian and she grew up hunting.

Neither has a preference for a partner with a specific diet, but again, because there’s so little time, I don’t know if I want to risk it. ”

“So nowhere close,” Eden said.

“No, but I’ll get there. I just want to make sure I’m making the best choices.”

“It’s a lot of effort for a reluctant client.”

“He told me he was open, so I’ve decided to take him at his word and also look at this experience as a personal challenge to make a believer out of a nonbeliever.”

“If you’re successful in changing his perspective,” Eden said, “you’ll have earned a medal.”

“Cruise lead would do,” Mary replied offhandedly.

“It’ll be the most dignified bid for the role then,” Eden said. “I literally saw Sienna almost trip headfirst into the reception desk because she was rushing to hold the door open for Cassidy when she got in this morning.”

“Oh, wow,” said Mary.

“It’s embarrassing,” Eden continued. “Especially since we all know she sees cruise lead as a vacationing opportunity.”

Mary nodded but knew more than likely Eden would find her own motivation for the role gauche as well.

Desperation laced Mary’s desire for professional acknowledgment.

Oh, she wished for indifference. She assumed it simpler, less exhausting to not regularly need assurance on where she ranked in others’ esteem. But such was not her reality.