Page 35 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Only if you promise not to destroy them within five.”

That gets a laugh, short, dry, but real.

I glance through her intake form, and Olivia’s notes. Alexandra is, unsurprisingly, allergic to what she calls 'performative courtship.' She doesn’t want flowers or love poems. She wants someone who can hold their own in a debate on climate policy and still make her laugh over coffee. Her last three dates, none of which she made it past dinner with, include:

•A hedge fund manager who showed her a slideshow of his watch collection.

•A plastic surgeon who quoted Hemingway over oysters and said he “wasn’t like other men.”

•A tech founder who opened their first date with: “So, how much do you bench?”

She ghosted all three.

“You’re looking for someone who gets to the point,” I say. “Someone confident, grounded, and, ideally, not insufferable.”

“Exactly,” she replies. “And I’d prefer he not pitch me a startup mid-meal.”

“Noted.”

“And no poets. I can appreciate the arts, but I don’t want to date a man who calls me ‘his muse’ after two glasses of wine.”

“I think we can avoid the tragic artist archetype,” I assure her.

“Then we’ll get along just fine.”

I glance at my screen. "My assistant will be in touch with you shortly to confirm the details, time, format, and what kind of coffee you prefer during your onboarding."

"Black," she says, without hesitation. "And no muffins. Muffins are a distraction."

"Duly noted."

She hangs up with a time block already on her calendar. Efficient. Brutal. Delightful. I like her already.

Next up is Mason Wolfe. I shift gears immediately, he’s not a call-you-at-your-desk kind of guy. Sure enough, when he picks up, I hear background jazz, a low clink of glassware, and what sounds like a bartender violently shaking a Negroni to death.

The man’s file reads like a cocktail menu of contradictions: fast cars, fast exits, and a suspicious number of one-month relationships with women who all mysteriously moved to Bali after dating him. His last few dates include:

•A novelist who broke up with him mid-weekend in Monaco because he "talked during her writing sprints."

•A sculptor who claimed he was too emotionally intense, then made a six-foot marble bust of him titledChaos in a Suit.

•A hedge fund heiress who ghosted him after he beat her at poker in front of her father.

Needless to say, Mason Wolfe is not everyone’s cup of tea. He’s more like a flaming whiskey shot served with a smirk.

"Grayson!" he says, like we’re old friends. "I was hoping it’d be you."

"You caught me between elite profiles and eloping fiancées. What can I do for you, Mr. Wolfe?"

"Find me someone who likes speed and dislikes pretense. Bonus points if she can outdrink me and win at chess."

"You want a unicorn."

"No," he says. "I want a woman who scares me a little."

I grin. "We might just have her. But she plays dirty."

"So do I.

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