“. . . So that’s when I became a tattoo artist. There’s something about like, drawing blood that really gets me off. Do you have any ink?”

The woman across from me has a terrifying glint in her eye, like she’s about to pull a tattoo gun from her purse and pin me down on the bar right there.

“Actually, no,” I reply carefully. She was hot on her RightNow profile, but she didn’t say anything about a blood fetish. “I don’t.”

The glint gets brighter. “Virgin skin!” she exclaims. “You gotta come by the shop. I see you with like, dragon wings. It would only take twenty hours, but the pain is the fun part, right?”

I clear my throat and pretend to check my phone. There’s hot, and then there’s a felony waiting to happen. “This has been lovely, Mona—”

“Moira.”

“—but I have to get going. Thanks for the drink.”

I text my driver to meet me in front of the bar, and make a polite retreat-slash-escape.

“Back to your apartment?” Henri asks from the front seat.

“Hold that thought,” I say. It’s still early, which means there’s more than enough time to find different company for the night. Not that I’ve had the best record. For the past week, every woman I’ve met has turned out to be . . . well, utterly insane would be the polite way of putting it. Sure, their profiles were all attractive, but the minute I got them alone, they flipped a switch. First, there was the amateur masseuse, who almost broke my back. Then there was the blonde cutie who invited me back to her place, only to reveal a bedroom piled high with creepy glass-eyed dolls. Last night, I barely escaped from a woman who’s four ex-husbands had all died under suspicious circumstances—But luckily, they’d all updated their wills to leave me their assets—and finally, we have tonight’s charming entertainment: the serial killer Kat von D.

I open the app, determined to be more selective this time. But luckily, the first face that pops up is a 10: blonde, cute, perky, and twenty-two. She even lists her hobbies as baking and amateur gymnastics.

Just my type.

I swipe right and shoot her a quick message, and she immediately replies.

Just finishing dinner with friends in Soho. Fancy a nightcap?

I type back. Zero Black, see you there.

I direct Henri to the restaurant and use the ride to scan through work emails and messages. It may be Friday night, but I didn’t get where I am today without taking care of business. I find a couple of issues with the acquisition contract for one of my new companies, and tell my assistant to set a meeting with legal first thing Monday morning. By the time we pull up, I’ve saved two million dollars in royalty fees, short-sold some stock in an overvalued company, and confirmed a restructuring that will revitalize a manufacturing plant in Idaho.

And they say taking the subway is economical.

I walk into the restaurant feeling ready to celebrate. Hopefully, with the gymnast blonde, back at my place: clothing optional. I check the app again for her photo, then scan the packed room, looking for her.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn, ready to flash her my best seductive smile, then stop.

“Looking for someone?”

It’s not the blonde. Not even close. It’s the smart-ass brunette who stalked me to my gym two weeks ago.

“McKenna Delaney,” she introduces herself again.

“I recall. Look, following me once was charming and persistent,” I say, controlling my annoyance. “Twice is bordering on harassment.”

“I’m not following you,” she says. “I’m your date.”

“No, I’m meeting Andrea. Yea high, perky, loves puppies and . . .” I trail off. McKenna is still smiling at me, looking smug. “She’s not coming, is she?”

“Afraid not. Why the long face?” she asks. “You could just use your app to find someone else. Or has it not been delivering lately?”

“How do you know—?” I stop, finally putting it together. Her smug grin, the fake profile . . . the parade of terrible dates I’ve been on this week.

“You set this up,” I say accusingly.

“And?” She shrugs. “You know that saying, ‘All’s fair in love and war’? I think they should probably add business to the list.”

I open my mouth and then close it again. Dammit, but I’m impressed. She would have had to hack into the other app, select women she knew were all wrong for me, and design the fake profile, too.

“How did you know I’d swipe right on your fake profile?” I ask.

She snorts. “Puppies? Baking? Gymnastics? There isn’t a straight guy in Manhattan who wouldn’t swipe for that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you saying I’m predictable?”

“No, I’m saying everyone is,” McKenna declares. “At least when it comes to dating. Which is how Perfect Match is going to take over the world. Come on, let’s sit down, have a drink, and talk about this properly. What have you got to lose?”

Not a night of hot, flexible sex—at least, not anymore.

“Fine,” I sigh. “But it’s too loud to think here. Come on.”

I usher her to the member’s-only room in the back—and take a moment to check out the woman who bested me. This time, at least. Last time we met, she was wearing some sensible suit, but tonight, she’s in a sexy pencil skirt that hugs her curves just right. With those square, black-rimmed glasses balanced on her nose, she looks like a stern, sexy librarian.

I always had a thing for librarians.

In the back, I nod to the doorman guarding an unmarked door. He opens it for us, and I lead McKenna into the private club. You need to play in the big leagues to drink back here: Fortune 500 CEOs, hot start-up entrepreneurs, and the biggest financiers around. Most of the faces are familiar, and I take my time greeting them all, from the CEO of New York’s biggest financial brokerage, to an international retail baron.

My favorite waiter appears the second we’ve sat down at a booth in the corner. “What can I get for you tonight, Mr. Callahan?”

I skim the wine menu. “Anything special I can get uncorked, Ricky?”

He nods. “There’s a 1985 Cabernet Sauvignon we just got in that I think would suit your tastes.”

“Perfect. I trust your judgment. Bring it over.”

I finally look to McKenna, expecting her to be impressed by the show, but she’s just watching me with a faint smirk on her face. “Are you done?” she asks. “Or do you want to take out your wallet and flash me a stack of hundreds, just so I get the message?”

I narrow my eyes. “For someone who wants a favor, you’re going about it in a funny way.”

Her smile drops. “Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not, but that’s OK.” The sommelier returns, and I take a sip, tasting the wine before giving a nod of approval. When he’s poured us both a glass and retreated, I settle back and wait for the hard sell.

“So what’s your approach tonight?” I say. “I already told you I don’t believe you can reduce romance to a formula.”

“And that’s totally fine,” McKenna says. Now that I can pay a little more attention, I can see her shifting into business mode. Her back draws a little straighter, her eyes flash with determination. “You don’t have to believe Perfect Match is going to work. You just need to believe that we can convince everyone else it’s going to work.”

I take another sip of wine, getting comfortable. “Go on.”

“You know the value of Tinder, Bumble, all the big dating apps. Anyone who invested in those made a huge return. Finding love is a basic human drive. You give people something that sounds even a little different from what’s already out there, and they’ll jump all over it.”

She makes a fair point. I did actually check the numbers for the dating industry the day after her first pitch. Just for my own curiosity. And yes, the numbers were huge. It’s a billion-dollar market—if you have the right product.

“And you’re sure your app has what it takes?” I ask.

“I’ve got stats galore for the data-minded. And for everyone else, I already have hundreds of successful matches. We’ve worked out all the kinks in the software. The last round of recruits reported a completely smooth and satisfying experience.”

Kinks. Smooth and satisfying experiences. My mind is going places it shouldn’t be—yet. There’s still plenty of time for that. She’s covered her bases, I’ll give her that.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I say, still watching her. She doesn’t flinch from the eye contact, just holds it with a shrug.

“I’ve put in the work. If you invest in us, you’ll see that I don’t do anything half-assed. This is the project I’ve been wanting to launch for years, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to see it succeed.”

She’s matter-of-fact, and I believe her.

“Look,” I sigh, almost not believing I’m even thinking about this. “I invest in people. I absolutely believe in taking risks. But that’s because I want to see the companies I fund go big. I don’t care about the next ten-million-dollar company, I want the next billion-dollar one.”

“And you think you’ll find that with sportswear? Publishing? Subscription coffee companies?” she says, naming my last few investments. Sure, I have a diverse portfolio, and my level of success means I can take a chance on some long shots, but they all have one thing in common: vision from the founders, and a total drive to succeed.

Check, and check.

“You’ve done your research,” I allow.

She smiles. “How do you think I got even this far? Developing a business isn’t for the faint-hearted.”

Especially when you’re a woman.

She doesn’t say it, but it’s not as if I don’t know that every person I shook hands with on our way through the VIP section was a man. If she knew a little more about me, she’d realize I know a little something about being the underdog. Having to work twice as hard as the people around you to get the same result. Knowing one little slip could set you back a year when for someone else in the same position it’d get brushed off. All because of circumstances you were born into through no choice of your own.

I don’t talk about my background, though. It is history, and I’d rather it stayed there—while I enjoy the luxurious present I’ve built. But the thought does give me pause.

McKenna seems to take that moment as a hesitation. “This is what I’m thinking,” she says, leaning forwards. Her brown eyes gleam gold in the candlelight, lighting up her whole face. “You like taking risks? Give the app a whirl for yourself. See if I can prove you wrong about the formula. I dare you.”

Does she now? “Those are fighting words. What exactly are you proposing?”

“I use Perfect Match to find your perfect woman. You can test the app for yourself—as a user. I guarantee, I can do it.”

“I don’t believe you will.”

“That’s why it’s a dare,” she says. “What have you got to lose? Either you prove me wrong, or you’ve found the love of your life. Unless you’re afraid of losing a bet . . .”

She gives me a teasing smile. The competitor in me is already rising to the challenge. “And what do you want if you ‘win’?”

She straightens up. “You agree to fund the app. One million in investment, in exchange for a minority equity stake. And the full weight of Maverick Capital, with all your connections.”

A million is nothing to me, but my time? That’s a pretty valuable commodity.

I pause, thinking it over.

What do I have to lose? If she knocks this out of the park, then we both win. I don’t believe for a second she’ll find me my soulmate, I don’t believe in that romantic bullshit, but it might be fun watching her try.

I hold out my hand to her. “All right, Ms. Delaney. Sixty days to find me my soulmate. You’ve got yourself a deal.”