Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Nori
On Thursday morning, I scan the repair estimate from Spring Valley Auto, praying there’s been some kind of a mistake, but the numbers don’t lie, no matter how much I wish they did. Apparently, parts for a thirty-year-old Lincoln Continental could take weeks to arrive, after they’ve been ordered. And when I do the math, those parts plus the labor add up to more than three thousand dollars.
That’s three-zero-zero-zero.
As much as I love Dorothy, I couldn’t have sold her for three grand even before the breakdown. Same if I’d had her towed to the junkyard and stripped for parts. Not that I’d ever want to strip Dorothy. But still. What do I do now? A new car will cost more than these repairs. And I can’t exactly apply for a loan. Not when I’m trying to buy Serendipi-Tea.
My credit’s already stretched to the limit.
I drop onto the window seat with a second cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine will help me turn off the worst-case-scenario part of my brain. Sunshine streams through the glass, leaving streaks of light on the hardwoods. And as visions of dollar signs dance in my head, I try to think positively .
Hmmm.
Blown gasket head.
Warped engine block.
Weeks for parts.
Worst. Case. Scenario.
This isn’t working.
I check the time. Just past ten o’clock. Hayden’s in class right now—probably about to start third period—so I can’t call and ask her for advice. This is my one day off work, so I don’t want to go into Serendipi-Tea for some good old-fashioned distraction. Maybe Keeley’s free. If so, she’d probably be up for a little problem-solving session.
I’m about to text her when an unknown number lights up my phone screen. Normally I don’t take calls from “maybe spam” but the area code’s the same as East and Becca’s. They could be calling from the landline at her parents’ house. Maybe they need me for a change. So against my better judgment, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Good morning!” someone chirps. “Is this Nori Sinclair?”
“It is.” I check the phone screen again. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Jemma Lane, head of marketing at Swipe Rite. Ever heard of us?”
I sure have. Just last week, Hayden sent me one of their video ads with that absolute earworm of a tagline: You can’t go wrong with Swipe Right .
“You’re a dating app.”
“Not just any dating app,” the woman says. “We’re the premier site matching singles up with their perfect partners.”
Ugh. Their telemarketers are cold-calling poor, love-starved people to get them to sign up? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford to join. “Sorry, but I’m not interested in hookups,” I say.
“Swipe Rite is not for hookups,” the woman insists. “There are plenty of other apps for that. Our company’s mission is to bring more true love into the world.”
I press out a skeptical laugh. “ And to make money.”
“Well, yes,” the woman admits. “Someone has to pay my salary, Nori.”
My stomach does a little leap at hearing her use my name again. The fact that this stranger knows who I am kind of freaks me out. Maybe she got my number from that silly Spring Singles potluck I went to a couple months ago.
“Please take me off whatever call list you found me on,” I say. “I really can’t pay for your services right now.”
“Money won’t be an issue, Nori.”
“Maybe not for you,” I say. “But I can assure you, money is an issue for me. A big one.”
“What if I told you joining Swipe Rite won’t cost you a dime?”
“Then I’d say that’s even worse.” A tiny snort slips out of me. “I’ve heard the free tiers for dating apps are a complete disaster.”
“Not at Swipe Rite. We have the absolute best matchmaking algorithm in the business, and we’re not only offering you our premium package at zero charge, we’re offering to pay you to go on dates.”
“Wait, what?”
“We want to pay you to go on dates for us,” she repeats.
“Me?” I cough out a laugh. “But … why?”
“You live in Serendipity Springs, correct? At The Serendipity apartment building.”
My pulse picks up and a thread of unease works its way around my ribs. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Jemma Lane,” she repeats. “And you’re Nori Sinclair. Twenty-seven years old, still single, but determined to find your soulmate. Unfortunately”—she pauses for a small tsk —“you’ve been on quite a few disappointing dates lately, haven’t you?”
Disappointing dates?
How does this Jemma Lane person even know that my recent setups were?—
Ahhh. I let out a quick cackle. This situation has my favorite middle school teacher written all over it. “Hayden put you up to this, didn’t she?”
There’s a brief pause. “I’m not at liberty to divulge how we found out about you, Nori.”
“Well.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but my best friend wasted your time. She knows I’m not into dating apps.”
“As I mentioned before, Swipe Rite isn’t just any dating app,” Jemma persists. “And we think you’re the perfect person to help us spread our unique message.”
“And how exactly would you expect me to do that?”
“By being the featured single in our big Spring Into Love promotional campaign.”
I pull down my brow. “What does that even mean?”
“With your permission, we’ll curate the perfect profile for you, then let our algorithm do the rest. Of course, your case will work a little differently than the typical dating app experience. We’ll do immediate screening of your potential matches to speed up the process and give our audience the perception of our actual services, but condensed. Think of it as Swipe Right, only supercharged.”
“But … why?”
“Our goal is to trace one hopeful young woman’s journey to finding her soulmate,” she explains. “And to prove Swipe Rite’s the best site to accomplish this, we’ll be matching you with ten different eligible men, and sending you on ten different wonderful dates! ”
I huff out a laugh. “And how is all that dating not going to cost me money?”
“We’re securing sponsorships from local businesses who will cover all the expenses. In fact, I can text you the names of some of the locations we’ve already arranged.”
Within seconds, my phone pings with a list of proposed dates. There’s axe throwing at some medieval-themed restaurant that sounds like an adult Chuck E. Cheese. A pottery session at a place called Kil-N-Me Softly. Grape crushing at a vineyard halfway between here and Worcester. A night in an escape room. A private cooking lesson at Aria, which comes with an asterisk about this being the first time their chef has ever agreed to teach a class.
Before I can read any further, Jemma interrupts.
“We’re still waiting on a few more places to commit,” she says, “but these are the kinds of activities you can expect.”
I puff out a laugh of disbelief. “Why on earth would these businesses want to subsidize my dating life?”
“Because they’ll be featured in our ad campaign too,” Jemma says. “A Swipe Rite marketing representative will be discreetly planted at every location we’ve partnered with to take pictures and videos of you with your match. Another rep will write up ad copy for the footage which we’ll air on our social media channels and even in some television spots. All you have to do is fill out a questionnaire, answer a few writing prompts, and send some pictures for us to choose from. We’ll craft the perfect profile and match you with the bachelors most likely to engage our audience.”
A scoff sneaks out of me. “Isn’t that false advertising?”
“It’s just plain old advertising,” she quips. “And we’re confident your story will drum up record signups this summer. You just show up to the dates and let the public watch you fall head over heels in love!”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Why me? ”
“I’ll be honest with you, Nori.” Jemma takes a beat. “You became our marketing team’s first choice the moment we learned you live at The Serendipity. We’ve all heard about the little love boosts residents get there. At the end of the day, we figure that increases our odds of success,” she says. “And yours, of course.”
“What if I don’t believe those rumors?” I glance out the window at the base of the tree where proposals supposedly happened when this place was a dorm. “The magic never worked for me.” I let out a sigh. “And I don’t think a dating app will either.”
“Let me put it this way, Nori. You’ve heard the saying ‘you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince’? Well, here at Swipe Rite, our job is to weed out the frogs. Of course we can’t guarantee every match will be a home run. But ultimately, we want the world to see you exploring options and finding the love of your life, thanks to Swipe Rite.”
I blow out a long breath. I shouldn’t have let Jemma get her hopes up. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t think?—”
“If you agree to participate,” she interrupts, “we’ll pay you five thousand dollars. Up front.”
Whoa.
My jaw drops. “Did you say five thousand dollars?”
“I did. And at the end of the promotion, after you’ve gone out with all ten matches, we’ll give you another five thousand.”
“ Ten thousand dollars?” I blurt. “That sounds too good to be true.” Despite my doubt, I want this money. No, I need this money. And one word rings in my ears.
Shortfall.
An extra ten thousand dollars would cover the gap in my business loan, which means I’d be able to buy Serendipi-Tea without anyone else’s help. Sure, I might have to dip into savings to cover the repairs on Dorothy, but that’s a huge step forward toward my future. For ten grand, I can date ten men.
What’s the worst that can happen?
“Our offer is very real, I assure you,” Jemma says. “To be fair, we’re expecting to make far more from this campaign than we’ll be paying you. And the local businesses sponsoring your dates will also benefit from the publicity. In other words, you’d be helping them as much as you’re helping us. And you’ll make a little money in the process. But the real benefit to you, of course, will be meeting your soulmate. Finding the love of your life would be priceless, wouldn’t it? And letting the world watch is a small price to pay.”
Something pings behind my ribs, a wrench thrown into Jemma Lane’s perfect plan. “What if I don’t find … the one? What if, at the end of all these dates, I haven’t met my soulmate?”
“We’ll already have all the promotional footage we need to curate the illusion of a happily-ever-after. You and the men you’ve dated can quietly get on with your separate lives. Just like the people on those television shows do. The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, etc. Hardly any of those couples stay together.”
“So I get the money either way?”
“As long as you fulfill your contract, yes.”
“Contract?”
“It’s fairly standard. The language stipulates that you’ll go on all ten dates, even if the first match sweeps you off your feet. The places sponsoring this promotion are paying to be a part of the campaign. To be fair to them, you must go out with all ten men.”
I let out a little snort. “After the dates I’ve been on lately, I’m not really worried about falling in love at first sight.”
“I can tell you’re still skeptical, Nori, so let me be blunt. You don’t have to believe in Swipe Rite or believe our algorithm works. In fact, you can doubt the process the whole time. Just go on these dates and let us share your experiences. Either way, we’ll pay you the first half as soon as you’ve signed the contract.”
“I’ll do it!” I blurt before I let logic or rational thought talk me out of it.
“That’s wonderful,” Jemma says. “And if we happen to get a little help from the mystical powers of your building, well then, I say let the magic begin.”
“Sure. Yes. All the magic.”
“Text me your best email address, and I’ll shoot the contract over for you to review and sign. I’ll also send the questionnaire and prompts you’ll need to fill out so our team can create the perfect profile. You’re good with us taking the lead on that, yes?”
I bite back a smirk. “Absolutely.”
“Try to have fun with your answers,” Jemma says. “And as for the pictures you send us, they can be selfies or shots with friends and family. Work photos. Anything. Don’t overthink this part, okay?”
“Deal.” Overthinking a dating profile definitely won’t be my issue.
“We’re really excited to roll out this campaign,” she says, “so as soon as we’ve received everything from you, we’ll get your profile live.”
“All right.” I text Jemma my email address, ignoring the small twinge in my stomach. I mean, seriously. How bad could these ten dates be? Warren Snuze was awful, and I didn’t even get paid.
“Just remember, we believe in you, Nori. More importantly, we want you to believe in us .”
I force a laugh. “You can’t go wrong with Swipe Rite.”
“Ahhh. You’ve seen our commercials!” she chirps. “Anyway, I’ll send everything over to you right now. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions .
“Sounds … good,” I say. And I mostly mean it. After all, Jemma promised I just have to show up to ten dates, play nice, and go home. Whether I connect with any of these men or not, I get five grand up front, and another five grand at the end.
Win-win.
Still, I take my time perusing the contract, even though I can’t imagine any of the clauses will keep me from signing. I need the money way more than I need to be worried about something like this, for example:
The Featured Single will refrain from dating anyone not affiliated with Swipe Rite until the Spring Into Love campaign ends. Expected duration: One month.
Heh. I flash back to my disastrous dinner with Warren Snuze and the lukewarm dates with Phoenix Fernsby. Giving up nights like that for the time being will hardly be a sacrifice.
The next clause isn’t a problem either:
In the event the Featured Single does not complete all ten dates, the Featured Single shall forfeit any future stipend and return any prepaid monies to Swipe Rite.
I have no problem agreeing to this too. First of all, I always honor my commitments regardless of financial gain. And I actually am looking for my match. I do want to get married. If I see this process through to the end, maybe I will find the love of my life.
Either way, I get paid.
So I complete the DocuSign, then spend the next two hours answering Swipe Rite’s questionnaire, filling out their prompts as honestly as possible. I also send Jemma a variety of pictures I think legitimately look like me. In other words, no filters.
Swipe Right’s going to use this stuff to create my “perfect” profile, so for the sake of my conscience, I want them to present me as authentically as possible. Yes, this is all just an ad campaign, but at least my future dates—and any singles targeted by the Spring Into Love promotion—will be seeing the real me.
That’s something. Isn’t it?
Blowing out a long breath, I set down my phone and shift my focus back out the window. As blossoms flutter down from the trees like pink snow, I think about all the couples in front of this same building fifty years ago, saying goodbye at the end of a date.
A kiss on the cheek. A squeeze of the hand. A legitimate, organic relationship forming the way love’s supposed to grow. That was always my dream. But I don’t need that right now as much as I need the money.
So I drain the rest of my lukewarm coffee and eat lunch while watching Breaking Dawn part 2 again . By the time the credits are rolling, I’ve managed to convince myself the Spring Into Love campaign is a great idea. Definitely easier than vanquishing the Volturi.
Featured single.
Ten grand.
Easy peasy.
I pad to the bathroom to brush and floss after my lunch. I may have no control of my love life, but at least I can kill it in the dental hygiene department. Slipping a single-use pick from the cabinet, I flip the lights on, and my heart leaps into my throat.
In the mirror, a vision emerges behind me. A gorgeous, six-foot-two vision, wearing blue hospital scrubs. While I stand there frozen, scrubs-man reaches out and brushes my hair from the nape of my neck. I swear I can feel the sweep of his knuckles over my skin, and my whole body breaks into goose bumps.
I let out a little whimper.
Why does this keep happening?
I literally just signed a contract obligating me to spend the next month dating ten other men. Fantasizing about Cash Briggs isn’t going to help me fulfill that goal. And I really need the money. So these momentary lapses of sanity couldn’t be continuing at a worse time.
A knock at the door startles me, and I drop the floss pick into the sink. Scurrying to the entryway, I check the peephole to see who’s in the hall.
Cash Briggs.
Of course.
That’s why I saw his face in the mirror. I was just experiencing a premonition. Some kind of reverse déjà vu. A tiny psychic slip. These things happen to people all the time, right? To totally normal people. I wasn’t actually picturing Cash in the mirror again. I can’t picture him in my mirror.
Again.
Another knock.
I haul open the door, and Cash flashes the same smile I just saw reflected above my head.
My heart skips a beat. Two beats. Three.
“I can’t date you,” I blurt.
“Well, that’s good.” His mouth goes crooked. “Because I don’t remember asking.”