When I wake up on Saturday morning, all I want to do is pull the covers back over my head and hide for the rest of the day. Normally I’m a pretty get-up-and-go person, but after two more weeks of trying—and failing—to find an investor, I think I deserve a moment to wallow.

Perfect Match is still hanging on life-support. Since my encounter with Jack Callahan at the gym, I’ve racked up a dozen more “No”s, the last one delivered by a guy who looked young enough to be in high school, with a suit so slick you could have skated on it. Another trust-fund kid playing at entrepreneur, who had the nerve to ask me out after he’d finished turning me down.

I could turn to family if I wanted to go that route. My brother, Drew, has a hefty bank account, thanks to his music superstardom. I know he’d help out in a flash if I asked. But I won’t. I want to succeed because of my own work and ideas, not family connections.

Or fail miserably, as the case seems to be.

My phone buzzes with a message from my friend about brunch, so after ten more minutes of moping, I shove the covers off and stumble the five steps to my tiny bathroom—bumping my hip on the dresser as I go. Really, I love my apartment. I’m thankful just to live in Manhattan, even tucked in a corner of the Upper West Side, and finding a rent-controlled place was the biggest score of my life. But after spending the better part of three weeks in fancy offices, boardrooms, and lofts, it’s hard not to notice the little things. The spidery cracks in the paint on all the ceilings. The warped floorboards where some tenant before me left the window open when they were out of town during a blizzard. The ancient radiator in the kitchen that whistles almost as loud as the kettle.

Still, it’s my home, all five hundred square feet of it. I’m not sure I’d move even if Perfect Match takes off. But I could at least pay for some renos. Barb, my landlady, pretty much gives me free rein, saying, “Whatever makes you happy, honey!” Now that her kids are out of the nest, she turns the mothering vibe on every tenant under forty. And hey, there are a lot worse characteristics for a landlord to have.

Always punctual, my next-door neighbor and long-time friend Tessa knocks on the door at ten-thirty sharp. “Hey, Mac!” she smiles. “Ready to go?” Also as always, she looks like she could be heading off to her insurance office job, not a casual lunch. Neat blouse, sensible jeans, plain Mary-Janes. Her long, wavy chestnut hair is pulled into a broad clip at the back of her neck, and she’s wearing a single strand of pearls that I know for a fact isn’t her style, but her boyfriend gave them to her, so she feels obligated to wear them. Sure, she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she’s got a wild side, I swear. Drag her onto a dance floor or out to an amusement park, and it cracks through. I’ve never seen anyone scream as loudly or joyfully while ricocheting through a loop-de-loop. Or maybe I’m just impressed because I spend the whole time with my eyes squeezed closed trying not to vomit?

“Two seconds,” I tell her, yanking a sweater over my head and smearing some lip balm on.

“You had a few more pitches at the end of the week, didn’t you?” Tessa asks as we head one floor down. “I know you were awesome—did any of the investors see the light?”

I grimace. She gives me a hug of sympathy. “Ugh. That bad? I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Nope. It’s theirs for having their heads too far up their asses to see what a genius you are.”

I laugh. “Thanks. But hey, at least none of these guys stripped naked in front of me.”

Tessa purses her lips. “I can’t believe Jack Callahan did that. Isn’t it harassment?”

“To be fair, I did walk into the locker room on him,” I point out. “And hey, if I had an ass like that, I would show it off everywhere too! Seriously,” I add, “I’d be walking half-naked to the grocery store. Subway station. Laundromat.”

“Exactly the way to meet your perfect match,” Tessa cracks. We laugh.

We have to rap on Jill’s door three times before she answers—in a towel from the shower. “Sorry!” she chirps. “Late night at the bar. Slept through my alarm.”

Which could mean she didn’t even set it, but we were prepared for that. Brunch actually starts at eleven.

“I met the cutest guy,” she says as she lets us in. “Oh my god, Mac—you’d have been drooling over him too.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Did you break your ‘no numbers while you’re on the job’ rule?”

“No.” She shoots us a sly look. “But I need some perks if I’m going to keep waitressing, waiting for my big break.”

Jill goes on to chatter about her latest theater auditions as she rubs her hair dry. Her shoulder-length style is bright red—this month, at least. But then, Jill can pull just about anything off. She throws on a ruffled wrap dress with a plunging neckline and links arms with us on the way to the stairs. The building does have an elevator, but, well, let’s just say ninety-nine percent of the time, walking is faster. With significantly less chance of spending a few hours stuck between floors.

We head down the block to our usual brunch spot and grab a table in the window.

“. . . So I know you can’t get much more off-Broadway than that,” Jill says. “But maybe the director can pull it all together in time.”

“We’d love to come see the play,” Tessa jumps in. “Right, McKenna?”

“Of course.” I give Jill a thumbs-up. We always go to her plays, as terrible as those off-off-off-Broadway productions usually are. Jill is always as brilliant as the script and the directing allow. It really is ridiculous that Broadway hasn’t let her in yet.

“Enough about me!” Jill takes a sip of mimosa. “How’s pitching? When can I start shouting about that app from the rooftops?”

I cringe, and Tessa pats my arm. “I think that’s a bit of a sore subject.”

Jill’s face falls. “Oh, honey.”

“It’s not that I can’t take some criticism. It’s just—” I run my hands back through my hair, frowning at the menu. “Maybe, if I was sure the problem was I didn’t have a solid enough product or pitch, it wouldn’t be so frustrating. That would be something I could fix. But half of these guys take the meeting as an opening to hit on me. And the other half stop listening before I get one sentence in and make a bunch of comments that show they can’t imagine I have any clue how to even start up a computer because I’m a woman.”

Jill winces. “That really sucks, Mac.”

I nod. “The worst part is, some of them, without even listening to me, go off on a tangent about Shelby Summers. Shelby.” I wince at the name. “They think if I want to get this app made, I should have a ‘platform’ like she does. You know, a best-selling self-help book that tells women the only way to land a man is to pander to chauvinistic bullshit all day?”

It probably wouldn’t sting so much if I didn’t know Shelby personally. We went to college together, did our theses about the psychology of relationships under the same supervisor. I watched first-hand as my knuckling down on the work got overlooked every time she fluttered her eyelashes at one of the male profs.

That’s the Shelby approach to dating in a nutshell. Play hard to get, flirt and back off to make him chase, cater to every physical whim he has. Hell, dye your hair blonde if that’s what he goes for, who cares if it’s 2018, not 1950? And then she has the balls to say it’s all “empowerment” because the women are getting what they want in the end. How can anyone really want a guy who thinks he pretty much owns you? It’s like The Rules 2.0—and a runaway bestseller, of course.

Those fake relationships always end badly anyway. It’s hard to maintain a pretense your whole life. Either your feminine facade will crack and you’ll have to find out your partner isn’t into the real you, or you’ll end up miserable suppressing who you really are. What’s the point of being with someone if it’s not you who’s with them? That’s part of the whole Perfect Match algorithm: making sure people are matched up for who they are, not who they’re pretending to be.

I don’t say all that, because Tessa and Jill have listened to me rant about Shelby too many times already.

“I don’t see how the app isn’t your platform,” Tessa says. “You can back up everything you claim it does. Why doesn’t that count?”

I shrug. “They want me to be some big TV personality, I guess. Going on talk shows, writing books all about getting a man, like she does. But somehow I don’t think they expect the same thing from every guy who comes to them looking for funding. But you know what, I’m just going to keep at it. I’m not quitting now.”

“Atta girl.” Tessa clinks her glass to mine in a toast, and I quickly change the subject before I sink back into failure and gloom. I almost manage to forget about work stress as we get chatting about Jill’s Tom Cruise sighting earlier in the week—“The camera adds two feet”—and Tessa’s trip with her boyfriend Doug to visit his new niece.

“It was so sweet seeing him holding her,” she gushes. “I really think he might be getting into that settling-down mindset now.”

Jill and I exchange a glance. When Tessa isn’t around, we refer to Doug as “Drippy Doug.” He’s so not worthy of Tessa’s smarts or her kindness. Bland as white bread, with a stick up his ass, too. I’ve tried to be friendly every time I’ve bumped into them in the hall, but he always seems to think his phone is worthy of more attention than his girlfriend or her friends. I know how he sounds when he’s climaxing—thank you, thin apartment walls!—but I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t know my name.

Sometimes, I wish life worked like one of the rom coms I secretly love. A little cheesy, sure, but sweet and heartfelt too. And everyone gets what they deserve. Tessa would be played by a ‘90s-era Julia Roberts, and Drippy Doug would be kicked to the curb in the first act, while she gets swept off her feet by someone who really deserves her.

I like to think Perfect Match will get real life a little closer to that ideal. I’m dying to see who Tessa could match with—almost anyone would be better than Doug. But friendship needs respect and boundaries. Until she comes to her senses, we have to keep our mouths shut.

As we dig into brunch, the couple at the table next to us gets up. The wife leaves the Saturday paper behind. It must be the business section on top, because Tessa glances over and makes an exclamation. She grabs the paper.

“It’s Mr. Sexy Ass!”

Jack Callahan’s handsome face smirks at me from the article’s photo, his blue eyes as striking as ever.

“Who’s he flashing this week?” Jill giggles, but I sigh.

“I really thought I had him for a minute there. But no dice. He dismissed the whole idea. All the risks he’s willing to take, and the idea of measuring compatibility is just too much for him?” I shake my head.

“Maybe you should try again,” Tessa says. “Now that he’s had some time for the pitch to sink in.”

“Yeah,” Jill agrees. “Show that guy he can’t just ignore you.”

“I’ve tried,” I say. A few days ago I had a similar idea, but when I called into his office, whoever picked up told me he was booked solid for the next few months now. Of course, I have no idea whether that’s true or he told them he never wanted to see McKenna Delaney again. “I can’t even get an appointment with him now. Not after that locker-room stunt I pulled.”

“So catch him somewhere else. Somewhere better for talking than the climbing gym—with more clothes on.” Jill winks at me. “Those playboy types are always out on the town. You should find out where he goes for drinks. Do a little schmoozing.”

Find out where he goes for drinks. An idea blinks on in my head like a cartoon light bulb. Wait a sec. I can do even better than finding out. A smile slides across my face.

“You,” I tell Jill, “are absolutely brilliant.”

---

“So can you do it?” I ask eagerly.

“Well, sure. Piece of cake.” Warren looks from me to his laptop and back again. His curly brown hair is gelled back, and he’s wearing contacts instead of his usual glasses, which makes me suspect my urgent weekend call interrupted one of his Skype dates with his “girlfriend” in Berlin. My bad. But he did rush straight over to the office, so they couldn’t have been doing anything too, er, intimate. However exactly that works when you only interact via computer screen.

“Just to be clear,” he continues. “You’re asking me to hack into one of the biggest dating apps in the world so we can set you up on a date with Jack Callahan?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.” Riley beams on my other side, dressed in skin-tight yoga gear. “This is so awesome. And so completely unfair that I can’t Snapchat the whole thing.”

Warren shoots her a look, and she holds up her hands. “I really won’t! I promise. No one will be facing criminal charges just for the followers. But we would get so much attention. I’m just saying.”

“And you’re okay with us using your photos?” I say to her. “He’d never swipe right for me, not after our last encounter.”

“Sure, sure.” She grins. “All in the name of getting that funding—and my raise. I’ll find my best pics.”

She starts skimming through her phone, and Warren leans closer to his laptop. “Just give me a few minutes,” he says.

I fully believe he can hack into one of the biggest dating apps in the world in just a few minutes. Warren and I met after he hacked a major tech company I was consulting for—just for the LOLZ. He left all the data untouched while sticking animated kitten gifs all over the website. Skill plus restraint plus a sense of humor—not an easy combo to find. So, I talked the tech company out of charging him, then promptly hired him. As long as I keep the kitchenette full of caffeine drinks and Red Vines candy, and don’t make him work before noon, he’s happy.

“Okay, we’re in,” Warren says, literally three minutes later. I let out a little cheer. “Send those photos over, Riley.”

“Here they come.”

She sends over a variety of cute blonde bikini pics: perfect playboy bait. A slightly maniacal light comes into Warren’s eyes as he constructs my fake profile, but it’s kind of endearing. At least, I’d like to think so. And I’m not at all trying to justify asking my employees to hack a website to con a guy into meeting me for drinks.

Then I have an even more devious thought.

“Wait!” I tell him. “If you can hack the system to put me in front of him . . . can you do it to show him other options, too?”

Riley looks confused. “What are you thinking?”

“Well . . . I want to convince him to give Perfect Match a shot, so why not show him the . . . limitations of his existing programs?

Warren laughs. “I see what you mean. Let’s see . . .” He clicks through the profiles on screen, his grin getting wider. “Callahan is going to have a great time with these lovely ladies . . .”

“Perfect.” I grin. “Give him a few not-so-dream dates, and he’ll be putty in my hands.”

I hope.

“All set,” Warren says. “You sure about this, boss?”

“I’m sure.” I feel a flutter of nerves. This is absolutely my last shot to get Maverick Capital on board, and I can’t screw it up. “Jack Callahan won’t know what hit him.”