crowd at his back, and sipped a dirty martini. Two olives. Shaken, not stirred. Alcohol—something he rarely indulged in—was the evening’s only saving grace.
Seeing as he had no intention of actually trying to find a partner tonight, it seemed pointless to pay any attention to the singles milling around the room. That included the three women who had, one at a time, attempted to engage him in conversation. He’d politely excused himself to speak to an acquaintance here or there, or to go back to the coat check to retrieve the phone he’d claimed he’d forgotten. Each woman had been irritated but had accepted his unsubtle dismissal. Not an ounce of real moxie in any of them. It surprised him that he was mildly disappointed.
Behind him, the crowd mingled and made small talk as they tried to figure out whom in the group they might end up paired with. There was a great deal of forced laughter from women and posturing from men. Both groups were trying too hard. So Isaac continued to sip his drink and ignore them all.
The moderator entered his peripheral view, and he watched as she took over the small platform where the DJ likely held court on any given night. The woman, whom Isaac recognized from one of the meetings between his investment firm and Jonathan’s lead team, fiddled with the mic. What was her name...? Jamie? Janie? Something like that. She’d been impressive; he remembered that much. She was the team’s lead psychologist, stolen from a competitor, and the person singularly responsible for creating the personality-profiling system that Jonathan had turned into code.
Jaline.
Her name was Jaline.
The mic screeched, and the crowd winced before someone started clapping and everyone followed suit.
Jaline took a mock bow, then lifted the mic. “Good evening. My name is Jaline. You’re all here because—”
Half listening to Jaline’s presentation and half developing the following morning’s agenda, Isaac pulled his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. There was no reason the interim couldn’t be turned into productive time. Opening the phone’s note-taking app, he began to tap out a rough outline for the first of three meetings scheduled before noon.
A round of applause had him lifting his head and looking around. People had begun to move en masse, approaching the makeshift stage from where Jaline had been speaking.
Isaac signaled the bartender. “What did I miss?”
“Instructions on how to find the love of your life, apparently.” The guy grinned. “If it were that easy, I’d be out of a job.”
Shaking his head, Isaac handed the guy a twenty. “Another drink, my friend, and the CliffsNotes version of the speech I just ignored.”
“Make your way to the table, pick up the paperwork with your first name, last initial and unique participant ID. Men go the numbered table to which they’ve been assigned.” The bartender shook the drink with expertise and poured it with little more than a glance at the glass. “The app’s magic algorithms ensure that at least one woman who has a compatible personality and similar interests will make her way to your table. If you’re lucky, Cupid will follow before the clock strikes twelve—” he slid the drink to Isaac “—or the bar closes at two. Whichever comes first.”
“Funny guy,” Isaac murmured into the glass before taking a sip.
The alcohol burned his throat, and the pungent fumes left him craving clean, unfiltered air. Maybe this weekend he’d head up to the Poconos. For all that he loved the city—its vibrancy, international community and resulting diverse culture—there was nothing like New York’s mountains in the fall.
“Isaac?”
He turned toward the familiar voice. “Hello, Jaline.”
She handed him his packet and visibly cringed. “Sorry. Jonathan said to make sure you didn’t skip out.”
Irritation prickled along his hairline and he rubbed at the sensation, trying to get it to go away. “I told him I wouldn’t bail on him, and I won’t.”
“Fair enough. My job is to get you your paperwork and see you seated at table twelve. Then? I’m out, and you’re on your own with the women Lucky paired you with.”
“Fantastic.” In reality, this whole thing was anything but.
Taking the paperwork, he made his way to table twelve, well aware the woman watched his every move. He had to wonder what she’d do if he feinted toward the door, but he didn’t. He was many things—unnecessarily cruel wasn’t one of them. That he’d even considered it was evidence as to how much the evening had worn on him. Only brotherly affection kept him from walking out. Jonathan had made it clear he needed Isaac to see this through. And at the end of the night, Isaac would be disqualified for any future test runs of the Power Match app.
Whatever. It amused him that he would end up being declared insufficient. That hadn’t ever happened to him before.
Sinking into a chair, he set his drink and paperwork on the table and then shrugged out of his suit jacket. Less than two minutes passed before he found himself putting the jacket on again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, yanking the jacket so it hung straight and then rearranging his tie. “It’s a couple hours of one night of my life. Nothing more. I’ve been civil for far longer and under worse conditions.” He picked up his martini glass and gave Jaline, who still watched him, a somber salute. “I’ll survive.”
With the lyrics from that same iconic 70s song ringing through his head, he smiled benignly as the first woman approached his table.
* * *
Rachel leaned over the ladies’-room counter and reapplied her lipstick. The sound system had been piped into the spacious room, so she heard the moderator calling participants together to attend what was deemed their final “power match.” The woman’s enthusiasm grated on Rachel’s nerves, particularly since her first two meet and greets had been unmitigated catastrophes.
“Calling all lab rats together for the final observation session of mating behaviors as they occur in an urban environment,” someone said from behind a closed stall door.
“In a controlled urban environment,” someone else qualified from another stall.
The two commentators laughed.
Rachel didn’t.
Were they right? Was that all this was—a structured environment where psychologists would watch with an educated eye and report their findings back to the mysterious people who designed apps like this? What would they do with the personal information when the app went live? She racked her brain, trying to remember the contract language regarding using an applicant’s personal information for advertising and promotional purposes.
Damn it. Wine haze had her questioning what she thought she remembered.
She knew better than to sign anything, even her bar tab, when she’d had that third glass of red.
Could she back out? Yes, but she needed the cash offered to participants to pay off the remaining balance on her March trip with Casey to the Dominican Republic. If she didn’t collect the two grand, she’d be seriously hard-pressed to make that vacation happen. And she needed that vacation. Two weeks in paradise. No incessantly ringing phones. No senior attorneys treating her like she was a secretary instead of an active member of the New York State Bar. No ten-and twelve-hour days ending with cold Chinese takeout. No Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons in the office trying to catch up. No insane commute that involved crowded subway stations, jostling crowds at every crosswalk or attempts to avoid the unpredictable weather.
Two weeks of complimentary drinks, fine dining, spa services and beach chairs situated just out of reach of the surf.
“For that, I can tolerate a hell of a lot more than being called a lab rat,” she said to her reflection.
An attractive woman left one of the stalls, stepped up to the mirror and began