It doesn’t matter if you’re in the bedroom or the boardroom, a strong finish matters. It’s what they remember, after all. Who cares about the hours of foreplay—metaphorical or otherwise—if your partner can’t get you there in the end? So, it’s perfectly reasonable that for my, ahem, big finish, I’ve decided to sum up all the graphs and charts in my presentation with a photo of two very attractive, very naked people on the verge of the big O.

“Perfect Match is different from all the other dating apps,” I say. “It will help users light a fire between the sheets, sure, but my patented algorithm doesn’t just match personalities, it uses cutting-edge relationship research to create the conditions for a successful long-term relationship—from the first impression all the way through to the end of the night. Data doesn’t lie, and with this technology, we can give everyone the happy ending they deserve.”

My audience of two gives a resounding round of applause. But then, I kind of pay them for 24/7 validation.

Riley, my social media assistant, adds in a little whoop of approval. “Love it.”

Warren, my computer programming genius, offers a thumbs-up. “You’ve sold me. I mean, if I had a couple million dollars lying around to invest.” He pauses, eyeing the image still up on the screen. “Are you sure the stuffed suits aren’t going to find that last pic a little too . . . dirty?”

“If they do, then they’re not the right investors for us,” I say. “And at least they’ll remember me!”

“I think it’ll go over just fine with Jack Callahan,” Riley says with a sly grin. “From what I hear, he’s the hottest capital guy around—and I mean panty-melting hot. He’s working his way through the Victoria’s Secret angels on a rotating schedule.”

I’ve heard that too. Not the kind of guy whose attention I’d be hustling for in any other circumstances. But Callahan is also known for being a maverick, taking risks on unknown start-ups. At this point, that’s clearly what we need to get this app off the ground.

“Exactly,” I say. “As long as I can convince him to care about the little people who need a bit of help finding a date, we’re good.”

“If anyone can do it, you can, Mac.” Warren gets up from the “boardroom” table in what is actually our tiny break room. “When’s your appointment?”

I check my watch. “An hour. I’d better get going soon.”

My heart starts beating a little faster at the thought of it. I’ve been pitching for months—with no success. But this is the big one, I can feel it, and I’m determined to make an impact.

Riley pushes back her chair and flicks her sleek blonde hair back over her shoulders. “I’ll walk you down.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Are they casting again downstairs?”

She shrugs innocently. “They might be.”

There are certain fringe benefits to having an office space over a porn studio run by women. One being the excellent rent price. Another being the eye candy. It seems like at least once a week there’s a line-up of highly attractive men hanging out in the hall below. It’s basically the perfect setup, as long as you can get past the moans and pants that periodically filter up through the air vents.

I grab my laptop off the counter of the kitchenette. “Just as long as you don’t spend too long ogling. We’ve got to keep recruitment up.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You know I’m excellent at multitasking.”

I pop into the bathroom before heading out. My lucky pitch outfit is looking great. Not a crumb on my chic dove-gray pants. Not a wrinkle on my favorite white silk blouse. I smooth down a few flyaway strands of my straight brown hair, resisting the nervous urge to tuck it all behind my ears. Dab on a little more peach lipstick, straighten my black-framed glasses, and I’m ready to conquer the world. Or at least Jack Callahan.

There is indeed a line of buff young men in the downstairs hall. Riley offers them a little wave as we go by. “You know if you’d let me post some pics of those dudes on our social media accounts, we’d double in followers in, like, two hours.”

“Says the girl who built her personal empire by pairing Taylor Sweet lyrics with cute puppy pics?” I tease.

“Hey!” Riley protests. “It’s ironic.”

“I don’t think the Alvero sisters would appreciate us poaching all their talent,” I tell her. “But, y’know, if you see one particular guy you think would be the perfect poster boy for the ads, go ahead and chat him up.”

Riley bumps her fist. “Yes. That is exactly the kind of life mission I need.”

Maybe as a thank you, she flags down a cab for me after we’ve grabbed cappuccinos to go at our favorite spot on the corner. “Break a leg!” Riley calls cheerfully as I slide into the back. I take a deep breath, settle into the seat, and give the driver the address of Callahan’s Soho office space.

I’ve got this. I spent years in college studying behavioral psychology to understand what makes people tick . . . and then several more years developing and perfecting this app. I know it works. I know how and why it does. All those freelance jobs I took to pay the bills in the meantime, all those late nights and next-morning caffeine hangovers are going to be worth it. I just need an investor to take it to the next level.

All that’s standing between me and global dating dominance is walking into Jack Callahan’s office and knocking his socks off. And unlike all the other start-up proposals he probably hears, this one can actually do some good. All those people getting their hearts unnecessarily broken, wasting their time with a partner who’s never going to be what they really need. The research is all there. Why shouldn’t they have the power to use it? Perfect Match is going to make it so easy for them to find their way into happy coupledom.

If you think about it, it’s practically a charity mission.

Except with the potential to make millions and millions of dollars.

We pull up on a street packed with sleek, modern offices and converted warehouse buildings. I take a deep breath, leap out of the cab, and stride up to the glass doors of the converted warehouse building—and at the same moment a guy in a Knicks T-shirt and a baseball cap comes loping out. He bumps into me and keeps walking, so busy typing on his cellphone that he doesn’t even notice I’m here—with hot coffee splashed all over my blouse.

No!

I scoot over beside the door and grab a tissue from my purse. I blot frantically at the coffee stains, but that only makes it worse. I’ve still got a splotch of brown all down the front of the white silk, only now it’s decorated with little shreds of tissue.

So much for my lucky outfit. I’ve only got five minutes before my appointment now, so there’s no time to run home for a new shirt or even to buy one.

Okay, McKenna, you’ve still got this. I take a deep breath and think fast. Maybe I can turn it into a joke—how that guy clearly wouldn’t be the perfect match for me. Callahan will be impressed by how unflappable I am and write me a check on the spot. In my dreams.

I sigh and brush off the tissue shreds as well as I can and take the elevator to the top floor. I step out into an open-plan reception area with Maverick Capital in bold metal letters against one wall. It’s all soaring ceilings and exposed brick, with sunlight streaming in from a skylight, a breath of fresh air after all the stuffy wood-paneled offices I’ve been traipsing around in this month.

Past the receptionist’s desk, the layout is a casual blend of open concept seating areas surrounded by walled-off private areas. Logos for companies Callahan has invested in and brought in house hang on some of the doors. The door right behind the receptionist has Jack Callahan’s name on the plate, which looks like it’s framed with real gold. Typical boys’-toys bragging. But hey, if he can throw money at that, why not throw some at me too?

I walk up to the desk, holding my purse in a way that covers some of the stain without looking totally awkward. I hope. The receptionist glances up from her laptop. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a neat bun, but the loud print of her dress says she’s not totally straight-laced.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Callahan at three o’clock.”

The receptionist’s smile twitches downward. “I don’t think that can be right.” She runs her finger down the page of the agenda open at the side of the desk. “No, I don’t have anyone written in. Maybe you have the wrong day? What’s your name?”

My pulse skitters. “McKenna Delaney,” I say quickly. She flips a page, and then another. How can I not be in there? It took me months to get a meeting scheduled, and I know I double-checked the date. Triple-checked, even.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist says. “I don’t see you in here at all.”

I flush. “I spoke to someone here weeks ago. A young guy, it sounded like. I didn’t get his name, but whoever it was, he confirmed the appointment.”

“Sorry.” She shrugged. “That must have been one of our temps.”

“Is there any way you can squeeze me in? I just need ten minutes. Five!” I blurt desperately. “I can wait until whenever he has an opening.”

The receptionist looks like she’s wavering. I have a little flare of hope. Then she sighs. “I really am sorry,” she says. “But Mr. Callahan has already left the office for the day. I could try and squeeze you in . . .” She clicks at her laptop. And keeps clicking. “Early June?”

Six months away? My heart sinks, but I manage to hold my smile in place. “Okay. Thanks all the same.” I lower my bag and remember my mess of a shirt. “Do you have a bathroom I could . . . ?”

“Down the hall.”

“Thanks.” I follow her directions to the restroom, feeling dejected. There has to be a way I can get in to Callahan sooner. I feel like I’ve been waiting forever for my break, and Maverick Capital is still my best shot.

I lean over the sink and rinse the front of my blouse, doing a complicated limbo to dry it under the hand-dryer. The result is still beige and stain-y, and I wince. Clearly, it’s time to find a new lucky outfit. I head back out, looking for the elevators, but when I reach the reception area, the front desk is empty.

Empty, with the laptop still open.

I shouldn’t . . . Should I?

I quickly look around. The auburn-haired receptionist is nowhere to be seen.

The coast is clear.

I hurry over to the desk, and sneak a peek at the screen. Sure enough, she still has Mr. Callahan’s schedule open. Today, three o’clock. Nothing’s written down other than the initials FIC and an address in lower Manhattan.

Bingo.

I scribble the address down, and dash back to the elevators before someone busts me. The schedule didn’t say how long Callahan would be at this place, but it’s not far away. I have my presentation all set to go for a projector, but I don’t need the bells and whistles. My data can speak for itself—anytime, anywhere.

Or maybe not. The cab pulls up at the address, and I step out to find the big concrete face of a gym. Finnigal’s Indoor Climbing the sign says. FIC. My heart sinks. It’s not exactly the best place for a venture pitch, but I’m here now. Mr. Big Shot has to give me some points for perseverance.

I walk in and pretend not to notice the once-overs I get from the guys behind the front counter. No doubt they don’t get a whole lot of clients showing up in full business dress. The older guy looks like he’s probably more in charge, so I turn on a friendly smile—and try to mask my desperation.

“Hi. Jack Callahan told me I’d find him here,” I cheerfully lie. “Is it okay if I just pop in so I can have a quick chat with him?”

The guy looks skeptical, but the fact that I know Callahan is here must sell him. He nods. “Sure. He’s on the left wall at the far corner. I’ll show you. But if you decide you’re climbing too, you’ve got to come back to pay and get properly equipped.”

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s no chance of that.” Even stepping through the inner doors into the vast climbing room, I have to suppress a shiver. How can anyone enjoy hanging around twenty or thirty feet off the floor, with nothing but a rope between them and falling on their heads? No, thank you, I prefer to stay firmly grounded.

The guy points out a figure at the other side of the room, almost halfway up the wall. I hurry over, but my spidey sense starts to tingle as I get closer. Something about Callahan seems oddly . . . familiar. But I’ve never been here before, and I’d definitely remember if I’d been introduced to him. Aside from the fact he’s a famous investor who would put the Shark Tank team to shame, he’s got rippling muscles and an ass that would make the porn producers downstairs offer him a lifetime contract.

Callahan turns to adjust his rope. My steps falter.

Oh crap.

Yes, I have seen that handsome face before. At least, the lower half of it. The rumpled black hair was covered by a baseball cap at the time, but Callahan is still wearing the same Knicks tee as from an hour ago.

He’s the thoughtless asshole who bumped into me and spilled my coffee all over my lucky blouse. And now I have to convince him to give me a million dollars.