Chapter One
Jordan
I stare at the stack of papers spread across my mahogany desk, each one a testament to another love story gone horribly wrong.
The Persall divorce—married fifteen years, now fighting over who gets custody of the dog.
The Bell case—he cheated with his secretary (how original).
His wife is demanding half of his business.
And my personal favorite, the Williams file—they’re arguing about a spoon collection. Actual spoons.
This is what love gets you. Lawyer fees and court battles over kitchen utensils.
My phone buzzes with a text from my ex-husband: Amanda found some of your stuff in the garage. When can you pick it up?
Amanda. His new wife. The woman he was probably already seeing while telling me I was “too career-focused” to make our marriage work. I delete the message without responding and reach for my coffee, which has gone cold while I’ve been reviewing the Persall financials.
“My divorce is final. The feelings? Not nearly as tidy,” I mutter to myself.
The knock on my office door comes just as I’m calculating how much Mr. Persall will owe in alimony.
Riley bursts through the door like a hurricane in designer jeans, her blonde hair practically crackling with nervous energy.
She doesn’t wait for permission—one of the perks of being both my paralegal and my best friend.
She’s clutching her phone to her chest and vibrating like she pre-gamed with too much espresso—never a good sign.
“I need you,” she announces without preamble.
“Good afternoon to you, too, Riley. I’m fine, thanks for asking. Just drowning in other people’s romantic disasters, but what else is new?”
She ignores my sarcasm and plops into the leather chair across from my desk. “This is serious, Jordan. Life-or-death serious.”
“Did someone die?”
“My love life.”
“Well, my dating life died eighteen months ago when David decided I was too ambitious for his taste. What catastrophe requires my immediate attention?”
She leans forward, eyes wide with desperation. “I need you to come with me to the Integration Zone’s Harvest Moon Speed Dating.”
I blink. “The what now?”
“Speed dating, Jordan. At Firehouse Station 32. Tonight.” Her words tumble out in a breathless rush. “I know how it sounds, but I have a really good reason—”
“You want to speed date Others?” I take a swallow of tepid coffee that buys me one second of sanity. “Riley, have you completely lost your mind?”
“Not Others in general. One. Very. Specific. Orc.” She’s babbling now, which means this is worse than I thought.
“There’s this orc—I saw him on the noon news last week during a Station 32 community segment.
He was doing the fire-safety demo—helmet off, tusk ring catching the light—and Jordan, I swear he looked right into the camera and I felt it in my soul. ”
“You felt what in your soul?”
“Connection. Destiny. The kind of earth-moving, life-changing, write-songs-about-it love that makes all the Disney princess movies make sense.”
I stare at her. My best friend since college, a smart, successful paralegal at my firm, is sitting in my office talking about feeling destined for an orc she’s never met based on a news clip.
Riley knows legal work as well as anyone—she’s been my paralegal for three years and handles everything from case research to client prep. Which makes this romantic delusion even more concerning.
“How many times have you watched this news segment?”
Her cheeks flush pink. “That’s not relevant.”
“Riley.”
“Maybe… fifteen times? Twenty? I have it bookmarked on my phone… and laptop.”
“Good Lord!”
“Don’t judge me! You know I’ve been in a terrible dating drought since Derek turned out to be married.
This is the first time I’ve felt any spark for anyone in months.
I just need moral support. Someone to stand next to me so I don’t look completely pathetic when I inevitably make a fool of myself. ”
I lean back in my chair, studying her face. My best friend has had a front-row seat to all my emotional ups and downs and isn’t shy about calling me out on them.
She’s been my rock through the divorce, through every late-night crisis and career victory. When I cried over David, she held my hair back; when the divorce papers were finalized, she showed up with ice cream; and not once did she say, “I told you so” about any of the red flags I’d ignored.
The truth is, I’ve been worried about her since the Derek debacle.
Eight months of swearing off men, throwing herself into work, and pretending she’s fine when I can see the loneliness in her eyes.
She’s been so focused on taking care of me through my divorce that I haven’t been paying enough attention to how she’s handling her own heartbreak.
“I agree that it’s high time you got back into the dating market, if that’s what you want, but why can’t you go alone?”
“Because I’m terrified,” she admits, her voice smaller now. “What if he’s not there? What if he is there, but he’s already partnered? What if I say something stupid? What if—”
“What if the sky falls and we’re all crushed by debris?”
“This isn’t funny, Jordan. I’m putting myself out there for the first time in eight months. I need backup.”
My gaze drops to the stack of divorce files, then to my best friend’s hopeful face.
The smart thing would be to say no. I have briefs to write, depositions to review, and a strict policy against anything resembling romantic optimism.
Plus, I have zero desire to pretend that love is anything more than a temporary chemical imbalance that leads to expensive legal proceedings.
I fire off a short email to get Persall up to date. Emails I can handle. Love? Not in the job description.
But Riley’s eyes are bright with possibility for the first time since her ex-boyfriend’s wife called to suggest they “work out a schedule” for sharing him. And despite my cynicism about romance, I do believe in friendship. Riley has earned my loyalty a hundred times over.
“What exactly would I be signing up for?”
Her face lights up like Christmas morning. “Just stand there and look supportive. I guess you’ll have to participate in a few rounds. And the flyer said something about activities. Jordan, it’s only three hours.”
“Three hours of speed dating with Others.” Because nothing says “romance” like a stopwatch and a name tag.
“Three hours of helping your best friend pursue her first genuine romantic interest since the Derek disaster. Think of it as research. Professional curiosity about another culture.”
It’s a weak argument, and we both know it. But there’s something in her voice that gets to me. The hope mixed with terror, the way she’s trying so hard to be brave while clearly being scared out of her mind.
“What kind of activities are we talking about? Please tell me it’s not trust falls and name games.”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ve heard of these kinds of events having games of trivia, Pictionary, or a craft like card-making.”
“Be still, my heart.” I lay a hand on my chest, playing it up. “You had me at trivia. Really, Riley? You want to drag me to the Integration Zone to play games? If I agree to do this, you’ll owe me big time.”
“You’re just there for moral support. You don’t have to emotionally invest. In the back of your mind, you can be rehearsing closing arguments, right?”
I think about my evening plans—Chinese takeout food, a glass of wine, and catching up on case files while binge-watching one of my favorite series. Not exactly a thrilling Friday night, but safe and predictable.
Then I look at Riley—heel tapping, shoulders tight, hope bright in her eyes—and I feel something shift inside me. Maybe it’s time to step outside my carefully constructed bubble of cynicism and predictability and be there for my best friend.
“Fine, I’ll go to your ridiculous speed dating thing,” I say, already regretting it. “But we both know I should be home prepping for the Morrison custody case tonight instead of—”
“The Morrison case will still be there tomorrow,” Riley interrupts. “The child’s safety is important, but doesn’t depend on you pulling an all-nighter tonight.”
“Okay, but I’m not dressing up, I’m not pretending to be interested in anyone, and I’m definitely not doing any of whatever ridiculous activities they have planned.”
“Deal!” She jumps up and hugs me across the desk, nearly knocking over my coffee. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re the best friend in the entire world.”
“I’m the most gullible friend in the entire world,” I mutter, but I can’t quite suppress a smile at her enthusiasm.
“This is going to be amazing. I can feel it. Tonight’s the night everything changes.”
I gather up the Persall papers, shaking my head. Riley’s romantic optimism is exactly the kind of thinking that keeps me in business. People believing in fairy tales and happily ever afters, only to end up dividing assets and arguing over who gets the good lawyers… and the spoons.
“What time do we need to be there?” I ask, already regretting my decision.
“Seven o’clock. And Jordan? Thank you. I know this isn’t your scene, but it means everything to me that you’re willing to do this.”
As I watch her practically skip out of my office, I can’t bring myself to crush her hope.
I pull up my calendar and block out the evening, typing “Riley’s romantic suicide mission” in the appointment field before changing it to the more diplomatic “Speed dating / Zone.”
My trial calendar dings—Monday’s motion. Perfect.
I need to prep, but it’s Friday night; I wasn’t going to get much done, anyway.
How hard could one evening of speed dating be? At least by the time the night is over, Riley will have learned how challenging it is to find real connection in a roomful of strangers.