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HALEY HILL is a fresh new voice in romantic fiction who has previously found success in the self-publishing world. Prior to launching her fiction career, Haley launched and ran the Elect Club dating agency—and is an expert in all things dating! Haley lives in south London with her husband and twin daughters.
To all the fabulous clients who laughed, sobbed and, on occasion, vomited their way into my heart.
And to James for bearing with me.
‘If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.’
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
While this book is inspired by what the author learned and experienced during her career as a matchmaker, none of the characters portrayed are in any way based on real people. Just as Ellie Rigby is not Haley Hill, the names and characters in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Although real places are referred to throughout, they are all used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
IT WAS A bitter November evening when I found myself in Be At One in Covent Garden, sitting opposite a man whose head was too small for his body. Below a gelled curtain fringe were squinty eyes, shiny skin and bushy hair sprouting from one nostril.
‘You’re the only girl I’ve met online who isn’t a fatty,’ he said, getting up from his chair and sitting down next to me. ‘But I’d say you’re more a size ten than an eight.’
I forced a smile.
‘I don’t mind a bit of meat though,’ he said, his fingers creeping onto my thigh, tongue edging out in anticipation. His breath smelled of coffee and pickled onions.
I glanced at my watch and then downed my mojito. This date hadn’t even made it to eight p.m.
The bar’s heavy door slammed shut behind me and the icy air hit me like a slap in the face. I don’t know why I hadn’t just told him the truth, protected my online dating sisters. Instead, I’d found myself garbling an implausibly long-winded excuse, involving a twenty-four-hour veterinary surgery and a fictional cat undergoing pioneering bowel surgery. I pulled up my scarf and began the familiar trudge to Charing Cross station, wondering what crimes I must have committed in a past life to warrant such karmic retribution.
Eight months prior, spurred by heartbreak and lured by the promise of meeting thousands of ‘like-minded singles’, I’d embraced online dating with gusto, envisaging it to be like shopping for a husband: ooh, add to basket. But after what can only be described as intensive participation, I’d begun to learn that the slick profiles—comprising impressive credentials and