CHAPTER ONE

Harrison

Happy Valentine’s Day, Matchmakers!

The glossy banner taunts me as I walk into the hotel’s private banquet hall. As if acknowledging “the most romantic day of the year” isn’t enough, I’m about to spend it with not one, but two-dozen true-love believers. All because I have a head for financial figures instead of the gift of geek. Fuck my life.

Not really. Outside of tonight’s unfortunate turn of events, my life’s pretty great. How many thirty-three-year-olds can say they co-own one of the hottest online games on the market? Two, that’s how many. And I’m one of them.

Normally, I’m glad to be the partner with a head for numbers. My buddy Greg is the tech half of our brainchild, and I’ve never needed—or wanted—to understand his geeky gifts. He makes the games do the fun stuff. I turn the fun stuff into green stuff. It works really damn well.

For the first time, I’m wishing our roles were reversed. If I were the programmer, I’d be at the office right now. Fixing whatever it is that needs to be fixed to get Odyssey of Onixath up and running. I have no idea what that’s going to entail. When Greg and his team start talking, it might as well be a foreign language.

Bottom line—the game stopped working.

You think malls are crazy busy on Black Friday? That’s nothing compared to the onslaught of calls, social media messages, and emails flooding our support center. Players don’t like dying in-game, but they really lose it when faced with the black screen of death. We’re talking angry-mob-with-pitchforks level shit.

Best to step aside and let the geek squad work their magic. Still, I should be holed up in my twentieth-floor corner office, monitoring subscriptions and merchandise transactions. I could be putting together offers that’ll soothe our temporarily game-deprived customers’ tempers while also putting more money in the company coffers. But that’s not where I am.

I’m at a fucking speed-dating event. On fucking Valentine’s Day. Because my business partner isn’t only a computer and gaming genius, he’s a hopeless romantic. And I do mean hopeless. I’ve tried getting him to see the glaring truth—love is like a drug. It lures you in, gives you a temporary high. But endorphins don’t last. There’s always a crash.

Greg has met “the one” more times than I can count, and that’s saying something, since I’m a numbers guy. He falls fast and hard, every time. Then comes the real fall, when his “soulmate” inevitably either dumps him, or shows her true colors. Either way, it always ends. Then begins again with the next woman he meets at one of these speed-dating gigs. For a genius, he’s not very bright.

If I were truly a good friend, I’d turn around and walk away, instead of taking his place at tonight’s “desperates anonymous” meetup. A last-minute no-show would throw off the male-to-female ratio, thereby pissing off the organizer, who’d ban him from future events. That’s what he claimed when he begged me to cover for him. Literally begged. It would’ve been funny if he wasn’t serious. I’m going to have to go through with this.

“Shit.” My muttered curse draws the attention of a nearby redhead.

Apparently, profanity and a scowl are a beacon, because she’s smiling in my face within seconds. “Hi, I’m Vanessa. Obviously.” She taps the nametag stuck to a body-hugging green dress. “You’re new.”

“Actually, I’m Harrison.”

“You’re so funny!”

I try not to grimace at her laugh, but it’s shrill enough to shatter glass. Definitely won’t be passing Vanessa’s name along to Greg. I need my partner’s eardrums intact.

“Let’s get you signed in.” She links her arm with mine. “Not that I want to share you with anyone.”

Holy shit. The game’s already afoot.

“Think I’d better sign in on my own,” I say, disentangling from the woman clinging to me like a staticky sweater. “Don’t want it to seem like I’ve already found my match before the event has started.” I give her a wink. Just because it’s bullshit doesn’t mean I can’t play along like a pro. “I’ll see you later.”

“Can’t wait.” She waves while walking toward the bar.

The bar where they’re serving cocktails to a handful of attendees. Excellent. That’ll be my next stop.

I scope out the room on my way to the clearly marked check-in table. A quick head count tells me I’m the last to arrive. Everyone’s dressed on the formal side, as per the rules. Too bad I couldn’t have seen Greg in action here. I’ve known the guy since high school, and he’s not a dress-to-impress kind of guy. I honestly didn’t think he owned a suit.

I, on the other hand, own a closetful. The fact that I was already wearing one made it easier for Greg to call me out as his replacement. Nobody else in the office was positioned to step in. Maybe I’ll start wearing jeans to work—after I buy a pair.

There’s nobody manning the station when I reach the table, and no “Hi, my name is” sticker to grab. It’s a sign to get the hell out of here. I can say I tried, right?

Wrong. “Fuck,” I say, dragging a hand over my face.

“We suggest limiting profanity use during the event. It gives the wrong impression.”

“Or an honest one,” I say, turning toward the female voice that’s equal parts soft and assertive. My favorite kind. I’ve got my charming-asshole smile in place when our gazes meet, and the owner of the sexy voice clearly isn’t impressed. Which is too bad, because she’s gorgeous. As in ticks-every-box—and a few I didn’t realize I had—gorgeous.

“You must be Harrison Bernard.” Her fire-engine-red lips remain poker straight. “It’s unfortunate Greg couldn’t make it tonight. He’s a great guy. He’s always a welcome addition to our events.”

Ouch. There’s no mistaking that subtle insult. The lady has claws. Finely pointed claws.

“Trust me, nobody wishes he were here more than I do. Except maybe Greg. He’s a sucker for these matchmaker things.”

Her amber, almond-shaped eyes narrow. “If Greg hadn’t called me with his personal guarantee that you’d pass the vetting process, you’d be out the door right now, Mr. Bernard. You may find ‘these matchmaker things’ off-putting, but it’s Greg’s reputation on the line if you take your unfounded negative bias to the table. I hope you’ll keep that in mind, for your friend’s sake, and out of respect for the attendees who’ve been looking forward to tonight’s opportunity to connect with someone special.”

Berated by a salesperson pushing the biggest crock of crap around. I don’t think so. “I know what women want to hear. There’ll be plenty of smiling faces at the lonely-hearts club tonight.”

“I bet yours is the loneliest heart in the room.” She doesn’t look up from writing my name on a sticker in the angriest all-caps I’ve ever seen. “And that you’ve earned it.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

Her head jerks up, fury swirling in her pretty eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I said, I’ll take that bet.” I relieve her of the Sharpie she’s holding, cap it and set it aside, then collect my nametag and affix it to my suit jacket, calmly smoothing it while holding her fiery gaze. “After I’ve played nice at your event tonight, I’m taking you on a date. A real one, not a group project.”

“I’m not going out with you.”

“I’m sure it’s against company policy, but I won’t be a MatchMakers member after tonight. You won’t get in trouble with your boss.”

“I am the boss. I own this franchise.”

Not going to lie, I’m kind of turned on by that information. Also by the contempt in her voice. I’m anti-love, not anti-passion.

“I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last available man alive. I’d let the human race die out before I’d get involved with a man like you.” She’s beautiful, sexy, well-spoken, business-minded, snarky, and she loathes me.

Fuck me, I might be in love after all.

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