As I predicted, that speech I made last night at dinner really endeared me to Stephanie. We had a wild night on the boat afterwards, and she said that she was even open to the possibility of inviting a friend or two into our bed. And she knows the perfect girl – her college roommate! That was music to my ears. I’ve been looking for some variety in my threesomes, and I’ve noticed that it’s more effective if the girl finds the other girl to join us. That way I don’t look like a slime ball.

Stephanie had an appointment with a plastic surgeon about a possible breast augmentation down in Newport Beach the following morning, so she took off at three a.m. to beat the traffic and get an hour or two of sleep. Apparently, canceling it was out of the question – she has been waiting for it for a month. Watching her drive away in her white BMW convertible, I suddenly wondered if I was in love. Everything about that girl is perfect physically. She doesn’t want to stay the night and she’s into threesomes. What more does a man want? What more do I want?

Instead of sleeping on the boat, I decide to take the opportunity and drive back to my place in Malibu, also to beat all the traffic. I cruise down Pacific Coast Highway at 80 miles an hour and arrive at my house in record time. After stripping off all my clothes, I fall into a dead sleep.

“Well, well, well,” I hear a woman’s voice somewhere in the distance. “It’s almost eleven and Mr. Logan Davenport, an unemployed billionaire, is still asleep.”

The woman speaks in a thick West Texas accent while tapping her heel on my marble floor.

“I had a late night,” I mumble into my pillow.

Click. Click. Click. She walks across the floor, grabs the remote to the blinds and pulls them up. The sun hits me like a brick. I grab another pillow and cover my face with it.

“I had a late night, Aunt Dolly,” I moan.

“Yes, I can see that. But half the day is nearly gone already.”

“I can because I’m retired,” I say, rubbing my eyes and finally sitting up. “I can do anything I want to do.”

Aunt Dolly smiles a wide toothy smile. Her veneers are bright white and her matte red lipstick is perfectly applied. There isn’t one line on her face, and her hair is as big and platinum as ever. “The bigger the hair, the closer to God,” is a popular saying in Texas, but Aunt Dolly takes it to a whole new level.

“You may be retired, but you are also only 30 years old. You can’t just do nothing all day.”

“I don’t do nothing. I surf. I go out to lunch. I go on dates.”

I do plenty of other things too, which I can’t really mention to her. Or anyone else for that matter.

“Oh I know all about your dates,” she waves her hand dismissively. I chuckle and sit up in my bed. I can’t really get out from under the sheet, because I’m completely nude. Noticing my conundrum, she walks out of my room.

“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen,” she says. “I have to talk to you about something important.”

I pull on a t-shirt and shorts and follow her out. Marilyn is in the kitchen cooking something delicious on the stove.

“Why did you let her in?” I ask jokingly.

Marilyn turns around.

“Because it’s Dolly,” she says with a smirk. “I always let in Dolly.”

Aunt Dolly smiles and tosses her hair with attitude.

“But I’m the one who pays you.”

“Not enough to not let in Dolly!” Marilyn announces.

I roll my eyes. Marilyn adores Dolly. They’ve been friends ever since she came to work for me. If she wasn’t so happily married, Dolly would undoubtedly set her up with one of her millionaire clients, and I’d be out of a great housekeeper.

I follow Aunt Dolly out to the porch. Marilyn brings us a tray of fruit, juice and coffee. The Pacific Ocean is unusually calm today. The sun is blistering hot and there are three pretty girls frolicking in the waves. I yearn to grab my board and join them.

“I found the perfect date for you,” Aunt Dolly announces. I shake my head. Not again. Aunt Dolly has been trying to set me up with someone for years. And for years, I’ve politely declined her offer.

“I’m not really interested in meeting one of your gold diggers. I can find plenty of them myself.”

“I do not deal with gold diggers, you know that,” she says sternly. This is a sore subject for her. I know I’m being unfair. She is careful to weed those girls out. She refuses to meet my gaze. I know that I’ve offended her. This conversation won’t go any further until I apologize.

“Okay, I’m sorry. But I can find my own dates,” I say.

“She’s completely different from anyone else I’ve ever met. And definitely not like all those stupid, hot girls who are just after your money, who you find so charming.”

“So she’s not hot?” I ask. “Thanks.”

“She’s not a model, no. But she’s plenty gorgeous.”

“She sounds boring.”

“Oh trust me, she’s anything but boring.”

I want to ask her more about what she looks like, but I know that will make me seem shallow.

“So what’s so special about her?”

“It’s hard to explain. She’s got this zest for life. This attitude.”

“So she’s a bitch?”

“No.”

“Zest for life? What’s that a euphemism for? Opinionated? Overbearing?”

“Exciting.”

I shake my head. I’m not convinced.

“How old is she?”

“25.”

“What does she do?”

“What do you care? None of the girls you date have jobs.”

“Good point,” I laugh.

“It just so happens that she runs her own business. She has a floral shop in Topanga Canyon.”

Hmm, that’s interesting. I’ve never been with anyone from Topanga Canyon before, but I’ve heard the rumors about the hippie girls who live there. They are very open-minded, sexually adventurous. I want to ask Aunt Dolly about it, but I don’t know how to phrase the question delicately, so I don’t look so much like an asshole.

“Is she one of those love the earth, flowers in her hair girls?”

“Are you asking if she’s a hippie?”

“I guess.”

“I don’t know. She definitely bathes and shaves if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not exactly what I was getting at,” I mumble.

“I don’t really know anything about her politics,” Aunt Dolly says, trying another angle. Now we’re way off course. I don’t care about politics. I mean, I have my own opinions, but I’ve noticed that there are open minded and sexually adventurous girls on both sides of the political spectrum, so I don’t discriminate.

“What makes you think that we’re going to be a good match?”

“Because she’ll keep you on your toes.”

I’m intrigued. Not so much by the fact that Aunt Dolly thinks that this girl will keep me on my toes, but by the fact that she lives in Topanga Canyon. Plus, she runs an actual business. That will be quite a change – to go out with someone with a job!

I take another sip of my orange juice and look over at Dolly. She stands out like a sore thumb, but it’s not just in Malibu. With that hair and jewelry and boobs, she would stand out anywhere. Aunt Dolly is my mom’s half-sister. My grandfather left my mom’s mom and moved to seek his fortune in West Texas and married Dolly’s mom. I met Aunt Dolly for the first time when I was 14 when she just showed up at our door in Chatsworth, California. My mom, who likes to wear sweats around the house, was horrified because Aunt Dolly was dressed in Chanel from head to toe. We have been close ever since. She’s outgoing, exuberant and knows how to have a good time. She loves to spend money, but she also loves to give it away. Despite the clothes, the jewelry and the shoes, she has absolutely no attitude. She doesn’t act like she’s better than anyone else and has a heart of gold.

When she arrived in Los Angeles, Aunt Dolly’s matchmaking business was already making close to half a million dollars – and that was in the late 90’s –but it really took off once she got established here. That’s when the millionaire and billionaire clients started to come around.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve always found what you do a bit odd,” I say chucking a grape into my mouth.

“I know.”

“I just don’t really get why people would pay you so much money to find them a date. Can’t they do it on their own?”

“What I do is not find people dates. It’s so much more than that. I set them up with people who are their best fit.”

“And they don’t find these people themselves?” I ask. “Don’t people know what they like?”

“Okay, how about this for an analogy,” she says tapping her long nails on the table. “People can pick out their own clothes, right? They know what they like.”

“Yes.”

“But there are people out there who are professional stylists. That way when you go out to a premier or some fancy party, you can look your best. You may know what you like, but you’re not someone who deals with clothes exclusively. You don’t know all the latest styles and fashions. So you hire this stylist to curate a collection of options for you so you’re not overwhelmed by all the choices. You’re paying the stylist for their opinion.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I concede. “But what about all those online dating sites? Aren’t you afraid that you will be replaced by a computer? An algorithm?”

“No,” she shakes her head confidently. “I can’t be replaced by technology, because computers aren’t sentient beings. Yet. When that happens, we’ll talk.”