Chapter 4 #2
Chloe lifted her hand to take it. Avery paused, watching her, waiting for something. “You want me to put it on now?”
“If you could.”
Chloe looked down at the watch. It had a small, black oval screen and a slim elastic strap—just like the one she’d seen Wendy wearing. “It tracks your vital signs, your mood, oxytocin levels, hormone spikes, stress levels. It helps us monitor everything, tells us how things are going.”
Chloe slipped it on, admiring the clean aesthetic of the design. As soon as she had it on her wrist, it made a small beep, and a blue square lit up the screen.
“Right, now that’s out of the way, let’s go meet your match.”
Avery led her back to the waiting room, then turned left and opened a second door, which had “Meeting Room One” written on the front.
Inside was a room much larger than Avery’s office.
It had red, cushioned velvet walls and dim, romantic lighting.
In the center was a table, covered in a white linen tablecloth, with two chairs on either side.
On top stood a lit candle and a single red rose in a vase.
Jazz music played quietly in the background, and there was a subtle aroma of cloves and cinnamon—the room smelled of Christmas, Chloe’s favorite smell.
As Avery ushered her in, it felt like walking into a womb or some trippy dream, the soft, warm colors incongruous next to the cold sterility of the waiting room. On the back wall was a second door, and Chloe’s heart began to race as she saw the figure of a man come through it.
As he walked into the middle of the room and she was able to see him better, her eyes grew wide and she pinched her lips together, suppressing a gasp.
He was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders, a warm open face, and a distinct glint in his hazel eyes.
His eyebrows were dark and thick, and he had neatly cut brown hair, with a strong, sharp jawline.
He looked strangely familiar, though she couldn’t work out why.
Had she seen this man in her dreams? All she knew was that he was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever seen in real life.
As she stared at him, he walked across to the table, a smile lighting up his face.
Then he pulled out a chair to offer her a seat.
“Hi, I’m Rob,” he said in a soft Irish accent. Irish. Oh wow. She had a thing for Irish accents. She swallowed. He was exactly her type, if movie-star good looks and a Hollywood smile could be described as a realistic type for anyone.
“Holy mackerel,” she said under her breath.
“Holy mackerel yourself,” he said, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Avery gave Chloe a gentle shove, and she took a step toward Rob, who now extended his hand to shake hers.
“I’m Chloe,” she said, blushing as she took his hand.
“Why don’t I give you two a chance to get to know each other,” Avery said, as Chloe moved to sit down, glad to have the feel of solid furniture beneath her.
Rob walked around to take the second chair, carefully removing his jacket before sitting down.
He was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and gray tie.
His whole outfit was impeccably styled, like he’d just stepped off an Italian fashion shoot.
Chloe regretted that she was only in jeans and a floral blouse.
She pulled her hair out of its clip and tried to fluff up some volume at the top.
Then she remembered her hair might smell of chips, so she compromised with a half-up-half-down situation.
Once they were seated, Avery walked over and reached out to take both their wrists. She pressed down on a soft indent at the tops of both their watches, causing the blue square to pulse twice and then turn into a blue heart.
“Now we can track your progress,” Avery explained.
She gave Chloe a long look that Chloe couldn’t interpret. It felt like she was wishing her luck, or maybe she had noticed her taking her hair down and knew what that meant. Avery left briskly, shutting the door behind her.
Chloe turned toward Rob and let out a nervous laugh.
“Well, this is…different,” she said, glancing around at the strange room.
“What kind of restaurant has padded walls? Do you think they’re worried we’re going to start throwing food?
Or is it to drown out the sound of all the other diners?
” She looked around, letting out a short laugh, followed by a brief snort.
Why did she only ever snort around ridiculously attractive men?
But Rob only smiled, unperturbed by the snorting.
“I don’t think it’s a real restaurant,” he said, and she noticed his lovely Irish lilt again. “I think it’s a date simulation. Maybe we only get to eat if we pass the test.”
“What’s the test?” she asked, leaning forward a little.
“Getting on?” he suggested. “Working out why they matched us?”
“So did you fill in the questionnaire too, then?” she asked.
“I did,” he said, “all forty-two pages.” As he leaned toward her, she noticed how good he smelled, like expensive, spicy cologne and mint soap. Was this really the man she had matched with?
“It felt like there were a lot of questions about air temperature,” Rob added, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“I noticed that too,” she said. “Whether you like to sleep with the window open or closed. Maybe that’s the secret to any great relationship, wanting to be the same temperature at night.”
“Ha,” he laughed. “What were you, open or closed?”
“Open.”
“Me too.”
They grinned at each other. When Rob smiled, his cheeks creased into dimples, and his dark eyes radiated warmth, like the soft flicker of a fireplace on a cold evening.
He reminded her of Adam Brody or Paul Mescal, a perfect blend of the two, which was strange, given those were two of the names she’d written on her form.
Now that she thought about it, maybe that was why he looked familiar.
In the presence of such physical perfection, Chloe felt suddenly tongue-tied. Dropping her gaze, she looked back at her watch, which now showed a pulsing pink line. Rob’s showed the same. “Look, snap. We’re twinsies,” she said, holding out her wrist. Twinsies? No wonder she was single.
“Twinsies,” he said, eyes brimming with delight, as though this was the most charming thing she could have said.
She noticed Rob didn’t fidget or look distracted; he sat still, offering her the full beam of his attention.
She realized how rare this was, and how attractive she found such self-assured poise.
“So, how did you get involved in all this?” Chloe asked, trying not to be intimidated, reminding herself that however attractive he was, he was still only human.
But then he moved his hand to push up his white shirtsleeves, and she noticed how toned and tanned his forearms were.
She also noticed his hands, firm and strong but with long, elegant fingers—perfect hands, like a piano player’s.
Had she mentioned on her form she had a thing about hands?
Now, when she looked back at his face, she realized he’d said something, but she’d been distracted.
“Sorry, say that again,” she said, shifting her focus to his face.
“People say it’s the future,” Rob said, looking back at her with unabashed directness.
“From what I’ve seen, it feels like they know what they’re doing.
” He tugged his lower lip between his teeth, eyes dancing with playful intent.
Was he flirting with her? She felt instantly skittish, like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“But tell me about you, Chloe. Avery mentioned you were a playwright?”
“Yes, trying to be.”
“I’d love to write, but I don’t think I have the imagination,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure you do. Everyone has a book in them, or a play—a journal at least.” Chloe twirled a stray curl, then knitted her hands in her lap to stop herself from fidgeting.
“Are you nervous?” Rob asked gently, reaching for her hand across the table. Chloe hesitated, only briefly, before placing her hand in his. As their fingers touched, she noticed something—both their watches now pulsed with a soft purple line.
She nodded, embarrassed.
“Don’t be,” he said, and when she looked up, she saw such kindness in his eyes, such genuine care.
He wasn’t judging her. “Tell me more about the theater,” he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, then letting go and leaning back in his chair.
“I read Chekhov recently and I’m not sure I understood most of it. ”
He read Chekhov? Men on Hinge did not read Chekhov.
“No one understands Chekhov,” she said, feeling herself relax a little. “I think it’s meant to invoke a feeling of doom. Which play did you read?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?” she asked, laughing. “Wow, you’re more of an expert than me then. Do you read a lot of plays?”
“I do,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “Though I probably prefer novels.” Chloe let out a tiny squeak. The holy grail: a man who read fiction. “Give me an old leather armchair, a good cup of coffee, and a decent book,” he said with a soft smile, “and I am a happy man.”
“Oh, me too,” she said, enchanted. “Well, a happy woman.” She felt her shoulders relax.
“Anything you’ve read recently that you’d recommend?” he asked.
“I go through phases,” she said. “I’ll get obsessed with a time period, then just read everything from then. I’m currently deep in my Gilded Age era.”
“I’m the same, but with authors,” he said, leaning forward, his face lighting up.
“I’ve just discovered Mary Shelley and I’m disappointed she didn’t write more.
” He ran a hand through his hair, then his eyes found hers again.
“When I read, I sometimes get nostalgic for a time I didn’t even live through. ”