Chapter 1 #2
“Where exactly would I meet these mythical normal people?” I ask, genuinely curious about her logic. “The subway?”
The thought makes me shudder because I’ve ridden the subway exactly twice in my life, both times ending in disaster that involved designer shoes and mysterious stains.
“Actually, I have an idea,” she says, and something in her voice makes me instantly suspicious. “Remember when I told you about Romance Expected?”
I vaguely recall Ellen mentioning some dating service when she first started seeing Enzo, her leopard shifter mate who makes her disgustingly happy in ways that should be illegal.
They’ve been on an extended honeymoon for the past month, sending me photos from various tropical locations that make my penthouse feel like a concrete prison decorated with expensive artwork and broken dreams.
“The shifter dating service?” I ask, and my voice comes out more skeptical than I intended. “I’m not even sure I’m ready to admit I’m a donkey shifter, let alone date someone who knows about it.”
“That’s exactly why you should try it,” she says with the amount of enthusiasm that usually precedes terrible decisions.
“Red Carrington, the owner, specializes in matching people who don’t fit conventional molds, and she does blind dates.
Like, properly blind. Neither person knows anything about the other except basic compatibility stuff. ”
The idea makes me shudder because dating someone without researching their background, their financial status, and their family connections goes against every instinct I’ve developed over the past three years. “That sounds terrifying.”
“Good terrifying or bad terrifying?” she asks, and I hear the smile in her voice.
“Is there a good terrifying?”
“Totally. It means you’re about to do something that might actually work instead of something guaranteed to fail spectacularly,” she says patiently, like she’s talking to a particularly slow woman with an MBA and a lousy dating life.
I look around at my destroyed living room, taking in the torn artwork and scattered glass that represents yet another relationship explosion. She has a point about the spectacular failure part, and my current track record speaks for itself in the most depressing way possible.
“What if he’s awful?” I ask, voicing the fears that immediately spring to mind. “What if he’s boring? What if he asks me to split the check?”
The horror of that last possibility makes me shudder because I’ve never split a check in my life, and the concept seems fundamentally wrong on multiple levels.
“What if he’s wonderful, and you never would’ve given him a chance because he doesn’t meet your checklist requirements?” Ellen counters, and I hate when she makes sense because it’s one of her most annoying qualities.
“I don’t know,” I hedge, picking at a loose thread on my sofa cushion. “The whole blind date thing seems so random.”
“Lindsay, your current system has a one hundred percent failure rate,” she says with brutal honesty. “Maybe random is exactly what you need.”
Ouch again, but she’s not wrong about the statistics. Every relationship I’ve had in the past three years has ended in disaster, and each one cost me more than just money because they left me questioning whether I’m even capable of genuine connection anymore.
“You really think this Red person can help?” I ask, and something vulnerable lingers in my voice that I don’t usually let people hear.
“I think you’re scared of dating someone who can’t be bought, manipulated, or impressed by your net worth. And honestly? That fear means you should definitely do it.”
Ellen cuts straight to the heart of things because we’ve been friends since high school. She knows me well enough to recognize when I’m making excuses to avoid actual vulnerability, and her accuracy is both comforting and irritating.
I grasp for reasons to avoid stepping outside my carefully constructed comfort zone. “What if I hate it?”
“Then you leave.” She laughs. “What if you don’t hate it?”
I groan. “Then I’ll have to admit you were right, which will be insufferable for both of us.”
She laughs again. “I can live with being insufferable if you can live with being happy.”
Happy. When was the last time I was genuinely happy with someone? Before Dalton, certainly, and maybe not since college, when relationships were simpler and nobody seemed to care as much about my trust fund or family connections or the size of my inheritance.
“Fine,” I say before I can change my mind or talk myself out of what might be the stupidest decision I’ve made since agreeing to date Preston in the first place. “Give me her number.”
“Already texting it to you,” she says with satisfaction. “Be honest with her. Not brutal honesty, just normal honesty, where you admit you want to meet someone without having to test them first.”
“I don’t know if I remember how to do normal honesty,” I say, and the confession feels strangely liberating.
She speaks firmly but kindly. “Then it’s time to relearn.”
After we hang up, I stare at the contact information Ellen sent me while Stella continues cleaning around me with the efficiency of someone who’s dealt with my romantic disasters before.
Red Carrington, Romance Expected, and the address is in a part of Manhattan I rarely visit, sandwiched between neighborhoods that cater to trust fund babies and areas where real people live.
Stella pauses, surveying the progress she’s made in restoring order to my chaos. “All finished, Miss Lindsay. The restoration service will be here Thursday to assess the damage.”
“Stella, do you think I’m too difficult to date?” I ask, and the question comes out with more vulnerability than I’d like.
She considers the question with the seriousness it deserves, setting down her supplies and studying me carefully. “I think you’re careful. Maybe too careful. But difficult? No. You just haven’t found someone who appreciates complicated women.”
“Complicated.” I test the word out loud, rolling it around on my tongue because it sounds better than neurotic or high-maintenance or any of the other labels I’ve applied to myself.
“Your father was complicated too,” Stella continues, and I hear something wistful in her voice. “It took your mother three years to figure him out, and look how happy they were.”
Were. Past tense. Mom died when I was fifteen, and Dad never remarried. I sometimes wonder if I inherited his tendency to keep people at arm’s length along with his business acumen and his emotional walls. “Maybe I should call this Red person,” I say, more to myself than to Stella.
“Maybe you should.” She continues gathering her supplies with practiced efficiency. “Maybe you should do it before you talk yourself out of it.”
She knows me too well, and after she leaves, I pace around my apartment.
The silence feels oppressive after Preston’s dramatic exit yesterday.
He actually slammed the door so hard that one of my remaining paintings shifted on the wall, and I had to straighten it before the crooked angle drove me completely insane.
I pick up my phone three times before finally dialing the number Ellen sent, and each time I put it down because the idea of trusting a stranger with my romantic future seems fundamentally insane. Finally, I force myself to dial and commit when the line rings.
“Romance Expected, this is Red,” comes a voice that’s warm and professional with an underlying energy that makes me picture someone who smiles a lot.
“Hi, I’m Lindsay Caldwell,” I say and then immediately second-guess whether I should have used my full name. “My friend, Ellen Hartwell, recommended your service.”
“Ellen, yes.” Red’s voice brightens considerably. “How’s the honeymoon going? The last I heard, she and Enzo were island-hopping in the Caribbean.”
“They’re disgustingly happy,” I say, and I find myself relaxing slightly because something genuinely warm about Red’s voice puts me at ease. “She suggested I might benefit from your expertise.”
She chuckles, and it’s not mocking but understanding in a way that catches me by surprise. “That’s one way to put it. Why don’t you tell me a little about what you’re looking for.”
Where do I even start? The request feels impossibly complex because I’m not sure I know what I’m looking for anymore beyond someone who won’t destroy my apartment when faced with conflict.
“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore.” The confession feels strange coming out of my mouth.
“My last few relationships have been disasters, and I’m starting to think the problem might be my approach. ”
“What’s your approach?” Red asks, and there’s no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how insane my testing system sounds when I have to explain it to a stranger who specializes in normal human relationships. “I tend to evaluate potential partners pretty thoroughly. Maybe too thoroughly.”
“Ah.” Something in her tone suggests she’s heard this before. “The old ‘job interview’ approach to dating?”
“More like a background check followed by field testing,” I say, wincing at how clinical that sounds when spoken aloud.
She laughs warmly. “Let me guess. You’ve been burned before, so now you put every guy through an obstacle course to prove he’s worthy?”
“Something like that.” The accurate assessment stings a little because it makes me sound paranoid and controlling, even though I prefer to think of myself as cautious and thorough.
“How’s that working out for you?”
“My living room currently looks like a war zone, and the video is viral,” I say, glancing around at the destruction that serves as evidence of my romantic failures. “So not great.”
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking.” Red’s voice takes on a businesslike quality I find oddly reassuring. “You need to try something completely different. No research, no tests, and no preconceived notions. Just you, showing up as yourself, meeting someone who’s also showing up as himself.”
The concept is simultaneously appealing and terrifying because it goes against every protective instinct I’ve developed over the past three years. “That sounds risky.”
“Riskier than your current system?” she asks with a gentle hint of challenge. “No apartments will be damaged, at least on a first date.”
Point taken. My current system has a perfect track record of failure, so maybe it’s time to try something with better odds of success. “What exactly are you proposing?” I ask, settling deeper into my sofa and trying to ignore the way my heart rate has picked up.
“A double-blind date. You don’t know anything about him except that you’re compatible on paper. He doesn’t know anything about you except the same. No last names, no occupations, and no Instagram handles to stalk beforehand.”
“What if we have nothing in common?” I voice the first fear that immediately springs to mind.
She doesn’t hesitate to respond. “What if you have everything in common but would never have given each other a chance otherwise?” It sounds like something Ellen would say.
I look around my destroyed apartment, taking in the evidence of yet another relationship that imploded because I couldn’t trust someone enough to be genuine with them. “What would I need to do?” I wish I sounded more confident.
“Come in for a consultation. We’ll talk about what you’re really looking for in a partner, not what you think you should be looking for. Then I’ll work my magic.”
Magic. Right, though at this point, I’m desperate enough to try supernatural intervention if it means avoiding another relationship that ends with destroyed artwork and viral videos. “When can I come in?” I ask before I can change my mind or develop elaborate backup plans.
“How about tomorrow afternoon? Say, two o’clock?”
Tomorrow. That’s too soon to change my mind or talk myself out of what might be the best or worst decision I’ve made in years. “Two o’clock works,” I say, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff.
“Great.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Please come prepared to be honest not just about what you want but about what scares you. That’s where the real matchmaking happens.”
After I hang up, I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto my sofa while trying to process what I’ve just agreed to do.
Outside my floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glitters with possibilities and dangers in equal measure, and for the first time in three years, I’m going to date someone without knowing their net worth, their family background, or their potential ulterior motives.
The thought makes my stomach churn with anxiety, but it also makes me feel more alive than I have in months.
Maybe Ellen is right, and random is exactly what I need to break the cycle of romantic disasters that have defined my dating life.
As Red pointed out, my apartment will come to no harm on a first date, at least.