Page 1 of Flying High

Prologue

Abbi

Lastnightwasadisaster—a complete, utter, unmitigated disaster. It couldn’t have been more of a failure if I had deliberately tried to make it into one.

Or perhaps that’s the problem.

Ihadtried.

I tried to make it fail from the outset,you know, the way we all do. I tried to do all the rightwrongthings that are supposed to guarantee you caught the gaze of a man and ensure you leave the bar with one on your arm. Because I really need a bit of male attention, and desperate times call for desperate measures. My dry spell needed to end.

I wasn’t asking for much—a quickie over the back of the couch, a fumbling fuck against the entry way wall, hell I’d even settle for a dry hump in the back of a taxi.

Did I mention it was a long dry spell? I’d like to give my vibrator a break.

What I really wanted was a sweaty session between the sheets, where the bedhead was at risk of leaving marks on the wall, where I’d be sore, in the best possible way, the following day. One that would require an apology to my roommate for excessive noise, although in vain hope, I had pre-warned her. The weight of a man on top of me was a distant memory at this point. I wanted the endorphins, the rush, the afterglow. Hence my crazy plan. In the interests of disclosure, I’m prepared to share the somewhat humiliating details of my well-planned operation.

First, I’d gone to the bar with my very attractive best friend and roommate, Hannah. She’s a total doll with killer curves that guys can’t seem to look past. Because everyone knows a guy is more likely to go for the moreapproachableone in a pair—aka me—right? Wrong. Guy after guy came up to my gorgeous friend, no matter how disinterested she looked. In my defense, I’m not unattractive, but a daisy standing next to a rose is still a daisy.

Next up was my attire. I wore granny undies—full briefs, pale beige— guaranteed to land you in bed with a sexy man, humiliation staining your cheeks as you explain them away.I don’t usually wear these, honestly!You know how it goes. And to lend more weight to the undesirable elements of my appearance—I’d gone with an unmatching bra, my toenails were unpolished, my dress zipper was incredibly difficult to unfasten, and my legs were far from freshly shaved.

And finally, I left our apartment in a gigantic mess—towels left on my ensuite bathroom floor and clothes strewn over my unmade bed.

All things that were supposed to stack heavily in favor of me scoring.

The universe could do nothing but throw an eligible bachelor in my path and laugh at my horror when the hunk of my dreams discovers my less-than-appealing undergarments along with sub-par personal grooming and a hovel of a home, right?

Nope.

Nada.

Nary a man to be seen.

Do not pass go, do not collect an orgasm.

This might strike you as silly, superstitious nonsense. I get it. In my line of work as a real love matchmaker, not just a hookup generator, it’s important to test out strategies. Even though my sample size was small and at best anecdotal, I can say with complete conviction that it was a total waste of time. It was though the universe flat out refused to throw me a bone, despite trying to play by the Murphy's Law handbook. That was probably where I went wrong. That, and thinkingBridget Joneswas a playbook for real life. Hannah thinks I’m nuts, but then she’s not exactly had much luck in the dating department either, despite not lacking in male attention. We often joke about being single roommates when we’re old and gray, and we can share the responsibility of looking after the cats we plan on eventually adopting, even though we both prefer dogs.

A while ago, I involved Hannah in a match through work. She had a long streak of being single, and I sent her on one date when we were short a match. I never got a straight answer from her about exactly what happened, but neither she nor her date, Chase, sought out Match X’s services again. Obviously, I made sure she was okay, but something happened there that she won’t tell me about. After that, I made a rule to never again involve my friends in a match. Doesn’t mean I can’t use her as a wingwoman when I’m trying to find one for myself, though.

So, I’m going to change up my way of thinking, moving on to the power of attraction. You put it out there, and the universe will deliver. Or something along those lines. I read an article about it last week. I’m always researching, trying to learn new techniques, see what’s worked for others, and tuck the information away for the right time.

I reach for dark red nail polish, scoot back on the polished wood floor, then carefully apply a thin layer to my toenails. This feels more like me immediately. Replacing the cap, I carefully stretch as I don’t want to smudge them and have to start over again. I lay back on the floor, planning on staying still for a few minutes to let the lacquer dry.

Thankfully, despite not having any luck last night, I’m much better at making matches for my clients. Much better than the online dating apps that are so popular.

Usually.

This last month has not been good for my long-term track record, and I like to think of it as more of a freak month.

An anomaly.

A write-off.

At least that’s what I’m telling my boss, and I hope to hell to never have another month like it. It was all well beyond my control, but Mary is more of a numbers man than one who cares for explanations, and the bottom line was that not one of my clients made a match. Mostly, they just didn’t gel, and that’s fine, but there were some spectacular flops.

David, a sweet guy in his late forties on the tail of a divorce, was all set for many dates, and honestly, he’s a lovely guy and would be a wonderful partner to the right person. Problem is, he decided halfway through his second date to come out. Yes,come out, and unfortunately, his poor date, Alexis, didn’t take that too well. She was a bit fragile already after a string of bad dates before she came to the agency. So not only did I have to refer David off to an agency specializing in same-sex matches, but Alexis needed an hour of counseling over the phone to talk her down from the ledge.

Francesca called me half an hour into her first date to ask for a refund of her matchmaking fee. She’d been waiting for her match, Eric, to show, and I couldn’t get her to muster up any patience while I tried to locate her date. It turns out Eric forgot to get fuel and had also forgotten to let his date know he was waiting for AAA to bring him a gas.See, not my fault!

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