Page 59 of Miss Matched

Kennedy

“Whatarewedoing here again?” I say to Luce under my breath as I stare at a statue of a nude man made entirely of condom wrappers.

Luce skims it over top to bottom, with an unimpressed pause on his carefully crafted dick, and takes a sip of her martini. “Don’t blame me, this was Monica’s idea.”

Her idea by extension of Steven, Monica’s boyfriend-of-the-month and one of Seattle’s most sought-after up-and-coming artists—not that I understand why at the moment.

“And what is this supposed to be exactly?”

Around the room are a series of pieces—naked bodies crafted from various mediums. Two women entangled, shaped with electrical wires. A man made of sticks, masturbating. And then there’s the focal piece across the room: an orgy made of feathers and bricks is suspended in midair.

“Art, apparently.” Luce cocks her head to one side and frowns. Then she turns to face me. “I’ve been meaning to call you; we issued the cease and desist against Paul, as well as the restraining order.”

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“If you so much as get a text from him, I want to hear about it. You got me?”

A throb starts between my temples, and I nod my head.

“Don’t worry,” Luce says, running a finger down the crease forming on my forehead. “He won’t win this.”

It doesn’t make me feel any better. Luce might be used to courtroom battles, but that’s her profession, not mine. I started matchmaking to bring people together, not enter a war zone.

“Ladies!” Monica runs up behind us and wraps a hand over each of our shoulders. “So glad you made it. Isn’t it incredible?”

Luce puckers her fire-engine red lips. “It’s something.”

Monica ignores the sarcasm in Luce’s tone and sighs, looking past the statue to Steven across the room.

“I think he’s the one,” Monica says.

I shoot Luce a sideways glance over Monica’s head, and Luce rolls her eyes. Monica always thinks they’re the one: the guy who owned a gym and was screwing the dance instructor behind her back, the stockbroker who went half on the dinner bill and refused to invite her to his apartment, the jazz singer who only called when he was blowing through town.

Monica’s radar with men constantly points her in the wrong direction, and as I watch Steven’s gaze land on a waitress’s ass, I’m positive it’s now officially broken.

Steven spots the three of us staring and shoots us a cautions smile, no doubt wondering if we caught his wandering eye. Monica waves, oblivious, as he tucks a blonde strand into his bun and walks out of view.

“Is he hung like an elephant, or is there something I’m missing?” Luce says.

“He’s creative.” Monica frowns. “Funny, smart, kind—”

“Nothing more charming than a starving artist,” Luce says.

“These things sell for twenty grand a pop.” I point to Mr. Condom in front of me, and Luce’s eyes go wide.

“I stand corrected,” she says.

Monica folds her arms over her chest. “It’s not about money.” She looks at me, then at Luce. “Or sex.”

“I know, honey.” I tuck my hand into her arm and try to sound sincere. I want Steven to be the right guy for her, and I could be wrong. But I’m not sure Monica will survive one more heartbreak. And the day Monica loses hope in the opposite sex, romance will be officially dead.

Monica nudges me with her hip. “Speaking of ridiculously too hot for their own good, how’s Zac?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?” Luce hitches an eyebrow. “You stayed at the man’s place for two days, and your cheeks turned into tomatoes the second Mon said his name. Please tell me it means what I think it does.”

I pull my thumbnail between my teeth and grin at them. “Let’s just say his wallet isn’t the only thing that’s well-endowed.”

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