Matchmaker

Lane

Lane

I paced. I was normally a secure, confident woman, but I'd never done anything like this before. Three months ago, after an ugly breakup with Nick, my former boyfriend, I'd entered my information into an 'exclusive' dating app that promised the potential for romance, adventure, and an experience of a lifetime. That seemed like just what I needed after Nick had dropped me like a smelly sock. He'd decided he couldn't put up with my s**t anymore, s**t like expecting him to show up for dates and keeping promises.

Nick had been hot as s**t, and he certainly knew how to please a woman between the sheets, but after six months of turmoil, and almost three months of separation, I wondered what I saw in him. Actually, I knew what I saw in him, but getting f****d to nirvana occasionally wasn't enough to offset the lonely nights, the feelings of neglect, and the occasional sneering, degrading comment. I was nothing but a f**k toy for him, and I wanted more. I was still hurting from Nick's explosive departure, but plenty of Rocky Road ice cream, weepy movies on Netflix, and a little time, had dulled the edge of my pain.

As the ache began to fade, I'd realized how stupid I'd been, falling prey to the promises the app made. I was smarter than that. The only saving grace was the app wanted nothing but general details about my life, my likes and dislikes, and a photo. There was no request for payment, contact information, or even my name. There were no advertisements, and there was no way to option up or make any selections from other members. I simply downloaded the app, entered my information, and that was it. The app promised the service was totally free, and there was nothing else for me to do. To be honest, if the company behind the app was legit, I couldn't figure out how it stayed in business.

The app was very upfront in stating that only one in a thousand applicants were selected, and the names were purged after three months. The app would alert when your profile was deleted, so you could resubmit, but I'd decided I wasn't going to bother. I'd been vulnerable and needy when I'd applied the first time, but now the worst of those feels were now gone.

What I found most intriguing was if a candidate was selected, the app would alert the applicant and the person could accept an offer for a personal interview. A personal interview... for what? It was all very hush-hush and mysterious, and stuff like that was catnip to me.

I'd looked for information on the company, but I'd found nothing except Lancaster Personal Services was a private company, based in Chicago, with estimated annual revenue of between five and eight million dollars.

After a time, I'd forgotten about the app and the profile I'd entered, deciding it was nothing but a scam as I indulged in chocolate ice cream and threw myself into my work. It wasn't easy running a small business, but not having a social life helped. I left the app on my phone, waiting out my three months, but then I planned on deleting it.

I was working in my little office when my phone alerted with a sound I'd never heard before. It brought to mind the sound a fairy godmother's wand would make in a Disney movie, a high pitched, almost whimsical tinkling sound. Personal Interview Requestedwas on the screen with two large buttons below, a green one labeled Accept and a red one labeled Decline.

I'd almost pressed the big red decline button, but all the hopes and fears I'd had when I first entered my information came rushing back. After a long moment of soul searching, I'd tapped the green button. I had to know the pitch. The app had asked for a phone number and a convenient time for the interview.

I'd almost tapped the cancel button, but after another round of soul searching, I entered my phone number and typed anytime into the time field. I pressed send and had just placed the device back on my desk when it began to ring.

I'd listened to the woman's pitch. She'd explained she was interviewing select women for a project she was working on, and I was one of six possible candidates. I'd first blown it off as a scam and kept waiting for the part where I was supposed to send her five thousand dollars to secure my place, but the woman had been adamant that it was no scam and she'd never ask me for money. Even more interesting was the woman, after a short conversation, wanted me to meet her at the time and place of my choosing. I'd selected a busy restaurant near my office, just in case the woman was some kind of whack job. The woman wouldn't give me her name, only telling me I could call her Brooklyn. I couldn't figure out why she wanted to be called by a New York borough, but whatever tripped her trigger.

Brooklyn had met me the next day, and what was even more amazing was she'd flown from Chicago to do it. She'd grilled me for two hours in Henry's, asking a lot of personal questions. At first, I'd been very uncomfortable answering, but Brooklyn was an expert putting me at ease. She'd constantly reassured me that I could stop any time and that she'd leave and never bother me again. When she was done, she'd paid for our meals, left a two hundred percent tip on the table, and left. She'd asked if she could contact me again. I'd given her permission, causing Brooklyn to smile and thank me. She'd said she would be in contact with me again, no matter what happened, and if I hadn't heard from her, that was because no decision had been made.

It had taken almost a month more before Brooklyn had called me again, and now I was wearing a hole in the floor waiting for a man I'd never met to arrive in Telluride, Colorado. Brooklyn had explained it all to me. At first I was aghast at what she was proposing. I was going to spend a month as the companion of a man, the man that had paid Brooklyn to find him a compatible woman, the man that had paid for my first-class airfare and was paying for this beautiful chalet.

I swallowed hard as I continued to pace. Brooklyn had promised, promised, nothing was expected of me. She'd said I could leave any time, and I had a prepaid first-class plane ticket back to San Antonio, Texas, and a hotel voucher good for one night at the airport motel in Montrose, Colorado, in my luggage. All I had to do was show up at the airport and present my ticket to be returned home.

The only reason I'd agreed to this flight of fancy was Brooklyn had gone out of her way to make me feel safe, had promised me that Bryant was buying only the introduction, and had assured me that anything that happened after that was entirely up to us. The winning argument was when Brooklyn had asked why this was any different than having a friend of mine introduce me to someone they thought I might like.