Ashley

If you're a matchmaker throwing a costume ball, you only have a few obvious costume choices. Cupid. But he is a male figure, often a boy. I could pull it off, but his mate is Psyche, not an easy costume for anyone to recognize, or pull off, especially Lazer. I needed costumes for a couple.

On the surface, Aphrodite seems like a good choice—what could be better than the Greek goddess of love? For one—her mate, Hephaestus, who is ugly and deformed, totally unlike Lazer and not his idea of a perfect costume. Two—you end up looking like a generic Greek and have to explain who you are. And then there's her reputation for having many lovers and cheating on her mate. Not the message I wanted to send. I was all about one true mate, loyalty, and lifetime companionship. Those were the goals, anyway.

The Queen of Hearts has a cruel streak, at least the Lewis Carroll version of her does. But she does have her King of Hearts, and stereotypes are meant to be broken. Some of my clients might even say I've been quite cruel and heartless with my rules and the way I push them to be better versions of themselves. But most of them thank me in the end. So the Queen of Hearts it was. Bonus—I got to wear a crown and a lovely full skirt and high-back collar.

There were many benefits to being engaged to a billionaire—getting couture custom-designed ball costumes and masks was one of them. In the case of my particular billionaire, however, his cosplaying friends were my designers, aided by their famous connections. Austin's wife's aunt—try saying that fast—designed costumes for a popular TV show featuring a handsome Scottish laird. The aunt's boyfriend has been one of the film industry's top costume designers for decades, and won many awards. All of them insisted on designing for Lazer and me.

Lazer spared no expense on the materials for their creations. I should amend that—my crown was made of crystals, not diamonds. There was no reason to be too extravagant. I didn't want anyone koshing me on the head to get my crown jewels. A queen's head is always in jeopardy, it would seem.

The King of Hearts is usually a comical figure. Lazer's portrayal was definitely not. He was going more for the "king of every woman's heart" look. He had a crown, too, and wore his hearts on his sleeve, as did I. And on the skirt of my dress.

I was exceptionally happy with our costumes. Very pleased.

The ball had been more work to plan than I'd originally imagined. Just try getting a venue on such short notice, even with Lazer's connections and the favors owed him. Fortunately, there was a last-minute cancellation at the Millennium Ballroom that allowed them to return a favor they owed Lazer. An engaged couple had cancelled their wedding.

I was happy to snap the ballroom up—the venue was perfect. As a matchmaker, I believe in love. For the aspect of love dying, I was sad for them. For realizing their mistake ahead of time and have the courage to cancel if marrying was wrong for them, I silently applauded them. The Millennium was one of the city's only historic ballrooms, a large one capable of holding nearly three hundred people.

Built at the turn of the twentieth century, it had a dark, elegant Victorian feel. Heavily ornate, it flaunted vaulted ceilings, great architectural detail, and a balcony encircling the polished dance floor from above. And it was in the heart of the city and renowned as the place to go ballroom dancing. What more could we ask for?

I was determined that our ball wouldn't be just any party. It would be the talk of people for the rest of their lives. Record numbers of our clients would meet their matches. The story of this party would be the romantic story of their first meeting that they would tell their grandchildren.

Yes, I dreamed big. I fantasized. Always dream big. If you hit a mark slightly less grand, you'll still have reached more than you imagined possible. That was my theory.

We were expecting to be at capacity—three hundred people had responded yes to our invitation. Fortunately, in relative even numbers of men and women. We also had a waiting list in case of any last-minute cancellations. In a crowd as large as we were expecting, and within a limited time, I couldn't leave chance meetings to decide people's fate. I pictured my clients wandering around the ballroom, lost, looking for love and finding too many mismatches to make them happy. It was a nightmare in the making.

I had to encourage matches to meet. The best way to break the ice at any gathering is a game. My game was simple—I made every guest register their costume. With that information, we sent each person and their potential match, or matches, fun, funny descriptions of who they were to look for in the crowd. Intriguing, I hoped. The prize for succeeding was simple—an evening with your potential soul mate and an entry in a prize drawing for a dream date at our expense, with coaching by me. Now who among my mate-seeking clientele could resist such a prize?

Everyone would be masked, right down to the band and the waiters. Costumes weren't exclusive. There were dozens of superheroes coming. Being masked and anonymous, at least at first, should help some of my shy, more timid clients approach people. It could also backfire on me if guests didn't like what they saw when the masks came off.

And, worrying me at least on some level, costumes have a way of making people act differently than normal. It was an expected risk and one I was willing to take. I hoped it wasn't a mistake.

As always, I had rules. One of them was that masks would remain on at all times in the venue. Outside the ballroom, the clients were on their own and could follow their own rules.

Music was another impediment to the social progress I had in mind for my guests. Dancing was a mating ritual—seductive, romantic. But loud dance music could overwhelm conversation. I had hired a band for the evening, and a pair of dance instructors to give a few brief lessons and help the clumsy among the guests find their groove.

Would a classically inspired ball work in the modern world? We were about to find out.

---

Laura

I wasn't sure—my swan outfit might have been too obviously bridal. Steph made an artistic change as she designed it. The mermaid bodice was more heavily sequined and pearled than her original sketch. The effect was gorgeous. The bodice shimmered even in dim, soft light and fit me like second skin. I was corseted in to within an inch of my life, barely able to breathe. And yet I had never felt more beautiful.

Steph had spent hours making sure every piece of my costume fit perfectly. The only pieces of the costume I'd balked at were the boots—they gave me a good three inches. I was already a woman of Amazonian proportions. Unless there were several pro basketball players at this thing, I was done for.

Steph had encouraged me as she helped me get ready, as she always did. "Come on. You're tall. Accentuate it. Wear your height with pride and confidence. Confidence is hot. Men love it. And, really, what are a few more inches?"

I'd sighed, heavily.

Steph laughed. "You have to trust Ashley. She said she's found you someone tall. Think of the advantage you have over everyone—at least your match should be easy to spot in the crowd."

"And so should I."

She handed me my swan mask, which she'd been keeping from me. It was beautiful, a work of art. But it was piled high with winglike feathers…

"Confidence." She helped me tie it on. "It only adds another inch or so. No one will even notice it above the height of your hair."

I growled at her.

"Shut up and let me finish your makeup. We have to emphasize the lower half of your face. It's all that's visible beneath the mask. I'm thinking a vibrant, seductive, yet femininely pink, lipstick. I have just the thing." She reached into her makeup kit. "One of the makeup artists at Flash recommended it. He's been helping me. He's really into this project and intrigued by the thought of making you into a hot, yet not smutty, swan."

"You told this friend I'm an ugly duckling, I suppose."

"Absolutely not."

"This 'friend' is…" I raised my brow.

"Very definitely gay, so shut up. You know, you should be nicer. I could do some real damage to your face." She waved a makeup brush dramatically.

I laughed. "Yeah, lethal. I'm shaking in my super-tall boots."

"You should be." She sighed. "Have I told you how jealous I am of you going to this ball?"

"Only a million times. But let's make it a million and one, what the heck?"

She rolled her eyes comically.

"I told you—sign up. Put your name in the Pair Us member database and see if you win the lottery."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to go old-school matchmaker yet."

"You mean you're still hoping He Who Shall Not Be Named will come around."

"Stop talking so I can work on your mouth. It's hard enough to color inside the lines without you yakking."

Steph was brilliant with makeup and hair. I often wished I had her skills.

"Remind me—why, exactly, did we do a smoky eye when my eyes are beneath a mask?" I asked. "Why did we make them up at all?"

I didn't know why I hadn't thought about that as I let her put false eyelashes on me. Maybe because I hadn't seen the finished mask until now—it was magnificent, a Venetian-style mask embellished with sequins and seed pearls. Most masquerade masks have large openings for the eyes. This one did as well, with a key difference—the eyeholes were covered with fine white tulle. I could see out just fine, but the tulle masked my eyes almost completely to an onlooker.

"Because you never know when the mask might come off." Steph smiled sweetly, as falsely innocent as she could possibly be.

"Not in the ballroom," I said. "Not if I don't want to be thrown out on my sequined swan's ass."

"Good point. Now shut up. I don't want to remind you again."

I sat still and pursed my lips when she told me to.

Finally, she stepped away so I could admire myself in the mirror. "Well? What do you think?"

I turned my head side to side and admired my reflection. "I think I need to hire you to go everywhere with me as my personal makeup artist." I stared at myself and preened, very swanlike. "I'm almost speechless."

"You're never speechless." She grabbed a bottle of perfume and aimed it at me.

I raised an eyebrow.

"So he won't forget you. Look up." She squirted my neck.

I inhaled deeply. "That's…wow…seductive. And heavenly." I squinted at the bottle. "What scent is it? Is it new?"

"Observant. It's fresh from Paris. Made by a little boutique perfumery that will soon be the next big thing. It's not available here yet. It won't be until Flash features it.

"I borrowed this bottle from my buyer friend who's working the deal. I'm jealous of her, too. She has the whole line. All of their scents are exquisite and unique." She held the beautifully designed bottle in front of me so I could get a better look. "You'll be the only woman in the room wearing this. I guarantee it. This will be the way your match will find you again—through his nose."

"You're assuming he'll have a good nose for perfume."

"Oh, honey," she said. "He won't need anything more than a regular nose to be entranced by this."

And so, expertly perfumed, I worked my way forward in line toward the actual main ballroom of the Millennium Ballroom complex.

The Millennium was located in a historic brick building downtown and contained the main ballroom, a smaller ballroom, several dance studios, two restaurants that also catered ballroom events, and a suite of private rooms that were used as bride and groom rooms for weddings. It was lucky that the weather was mild and dry—the line spilled out of the building and onto the sidewalk. The rules on the invitation had said the masks could come off outside the building, but they hadn't anticipated the line spilling outside. They changed the rules on the fly. Staff walked the line, asking everyone to don their masks for the duration.

As this was the singles' social event of Pair Us and the season, everyone seemed to have the same idea as I'd had—arrive early. Fortunately, I was further toward the front of the line than the back.

The atmosphere was hard to describe, a mixture of emotions, some with names, some without. It felt a bit like Christmas and Valentine's Day wrapped into one—all the excitement of anticipating a wonderful surprise gift with the thrill of romance thrown in.

If you enjoyed people-watching, this was the place to be. The selection was wide and varied, both physically and personality-wise. People bounced and fidgeted, full of nervous anticipation. Apprehensive, flirty smiles stole the day and vibrated down the line in a kind of mating ritual version of the wave. When, since high school, had any of us been ensconced like this in such a large group of our single peers?

Flirting styles were on parade. Some preened. Some strutted. Some charmed and flirted ceaselessly. Coy. Cocky. Demure. Hard to get.

Others looked around suspiciously. Others jealously, as if some marauding interloper would steal their love before they found them. They especially gave casual passersby the stink eye. Anyone out of costume was suspect.

It was see and be seen, and the question on everyone's minds was simple—will I meet the one tonight? Is he, or she, standing next to me? Or around the corner just out of sight? Will I recognize the one on sight? Or will their mask blind me to their true identity as my soul mate?

And then there was costume envy. Nearly everyone had gone all out. Ashley's clients were moneyed and had spared no expense. The members were trying to attract their attention and had likewise put their all in. The getups ran the gamut from elegant to slutty, a little something for every taste.

My steampunk swan compared favorably, very favorably, at least in my opinion. Steph had done a spectacular job on it. I was, rather unfortunately, surrounded on either side in line by groups of women. No striking up a conversation with some big, tall match of mine in line. That story wasn't destined to be mine. Because the sense of competition among women was so strong, I kept mostly to myself, with an eye out for tall men. I was disappointed—no very tall guys yet.

Finally, I worked my way to the front of the line and presented my invitation on my phone to the masked attendant as soft strains of a waltz floated out toward us. I received a text almost before he was done scanning my invitation in.

He smiled. "Your hints, ma'am. About who your match is. Decipher the cryptic message, match it to the man, or men, it describes, and our hostess believes you'll find a lifetime of love and happiness. Please." He stepped aside and held the door open for me. "Enjoy your evening, and good luck. True love lies just inside this door."

Leaving nothing to chance, are you, Ashley?

I was momentarily caught, and stunned, by the beauty and lushness of the ballroom. I was so entranced that I took it in without glancing at my text. Everything was perfect and romantic, down to the tiniest detail. Tables set for two surrounded the dance floor, a red rose in a vase at the center of each, napkins folded in complicated designs in water glasses, with white china place settings and sparkling silverware. A glittering crystal chandelier from another era sparkled above the dance floor in lieu of a disco ball, casting its shards of rainbow light. The air was perfumed with delicate floral undertones and the delicious smell of dinner emanating from the kitchens.

The bar sat immediately to my left as I walked in, already drawing a thirsty, flirty crowd. A band and strings sat above it all on a center stage along the far-right side of the room, a DJ booth next to it. People were already milling around on the second-floor viewing balcony, warming up their pickup lines, testing out their come-hither glances, and scoping out the crowd like sentries on guard duty. People laughed as they bent heads close together, trying to decipher their clues. The noise level was on the rise. The heat was rising, too.

My heart raced. I felt like Cinderella as I stood there, admiring it all. It was only when someone jostled me as they walked by that I remembered my text and read it.

Across space and time, there's no one more fine. Serenity will be yours if you let this man smuggle your heart. Tall, dark, and handsome—just the way you like them. He could be the one if you let him take you to the outer limits.

My brow furrowed. My pulse raced. The description sounded a lot like a certain space cowboy in pop culture. Maybe Steph was right after all.

The room hummed with the sounds of laughter and flirtation. I was struck, quite suddenly, by hope. The one could be here. I just had to find him. But was my one Dylan? And were second chances ever really possible?