Page 38 of Off the Wall

“All right.” I text Jemma my email address, ignoring the small twinge in my stomach. I mean, seriously. How bad could these ten dates be? Warren Snuze was awful, and I didn’t even get paid.

“Just remember, we believe in you, Nori. More importantly, we wantyouto believe inus.”

I force a laugh. “You can’t go wrong with Swipe Rite.”

“Ahhh. You’ve seen our commercials!” she chirps. “Anyway, I’ll send everything over to you right now. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions.

“Sounds … good,” I say. And I mostly mean it. After all, Jemma promised I just have to show up to ten dates, play nice, and go home. Whether I connect with any of these men or not, I get five grand up front, and another five grand at the end.

Win-win.

Still, I take my time perusing the contract, even though I can’t imagine any of the clauses will keep me from signing. I need the money way more than I need to be worried about something like this, for example:

The Featured Single will refrain from dating anyone not affiliated with Swipe Rite until the Spring Into Love campaign ends. Expected duration: One month.

Heh. I flash back to my disastrous dinner with Warren Snuze and the lukewarm dates with Phoenix Fernsby. Giving up nights like that for the time being will hardly be a sacrifice.

The next clause isn’t a problem either:

In the event the Featured Single does not complete all ten dates, the Featured Single shall forfeit any future stipend and return any prepaid monies to Swipe Rite.

I have no problem agreeing to this too. First of all, I always honor my commitments regardless of financial gain. And I actuallyamlooking for my match. Idowant to get married. If I see this process through to the end, maybe Iwillfind the love of my life.

Either way, I get paid.

So I complete the DocuSign, then spend the next two hours answering Swipe Rite’s questionnaire, filling out their prompts as honestly as possible. I also send Jemma a varietyof pictures I think legitimately look like me. In other words, no filters.

Swipe Right’s going to use this stuff to create my “perfect” profile, so for the sake of my conscience, I want them to present me as authentically as possible. Yes, this is all just an ad campaign, but at least my future dates—and any singles targeted by the Spring Into Love promotion—will be seeing the real me.

That’s something. Isn’t it?

Blowing out a long breath, I set down my phone and shift my focus back out the window. As blossoms flutter down from the trees like pink snow, I think about all the couples in front of this same building fifty years ago, saying goodbye at the end of a date.

A kiss on the cheek. A squeeze of the hand. A legitimate, organic relationship forming the way love’ssupposedto grow. That was always my dream. But I don’t need that right now as much as I need the money.

So I drain the rest of my lukewarm coffee and eat lunch while watchingBreaking Dawn part 2again.By the time the credits are rolling, I’ve managed to convince myself the Spring Into Love campaign is agreatidea. Definitely easier than vanquishing the Volturi.

Featured single.

Ten grand.

Easy peasy.

I pad to the bathroom to brush and floss after my lunch. I may have no control of my love life, but at least I can kill it in the dental hygiene department. Slipping a single-use pick from the cabinet, I flip the lights on, and my heart leaps into my throat.

In the mirror, a vision emerges behind me. A gorgeous, six-foot-two vision, wearing blue hospital scrubs. While I stand there frozen, scrubs-man reaches out and brushes myhair from the nape of my neck. I swear I can feel the sweep of his knuckles over my skin, and my whole body breaks into goose bumps.

I let out a little whimper.

Why does this keep happening?

I literally just signed a contract obligating me to spend the next month dating ten other men. Fantasizing about Cash Briggs isn’t going to help me fulfill that goal. And I really need the money. So these momentary lapses of sanity couldn’t be continuing at a worse time.

A knock at the door startles me, and I drop the floss pick into the sink. Scurrying to the entryway, I check the peephole to see who’s in the hall.

Cash Briggs.

Of course.

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