Evie
You just know when some things go together.
And I know this adorable and badass teal leather skirt will pair perfectly with my friend Olivia’s scarf. Plus, hello. This skirt is less than forty dollars. Can you say deal? Come to Mama.
I zoom in on the skirt, snatching it from the shelves and wielding it like a prize. “Olivia, this would go amazingly with your coral scarf,” I tell my client and friend. “The light silky one.”
She gives me a quizzical look from across the rack at the consignment shop in the Village I’ve scoured today. “Are you sure, Evie?”
“Have I ever led you astray?” I ask, eyeing her engagement ring. It’s a stunning emerald cut, and I helped her fiancé, a deliciously hot vet—meow—pick it out for her.
“Never, ever. But are you sure? Turquoise and coral?”
I count off on my fingers. “Turquoise and coral. Purple and gray. Pink and yellow. They’re beyond blue and orange, and red and black. They’re unexpected combos. Like a hacker and a vet.”
I could color match by the time I was six. I could pick outfits with an uncanny ease and sense of fashion. Over the years, that keen sense of pairing evolved from the chocolate-goes-with-strawberry variety to this-man-will-fall-madly-for-this-woman.
Olivia is one of my people, a brunette, green-eyed, blissfully-in-love ethical hacker who’s paid gobs to break into bank security. Earlier this year, I linked her up with a smoldering and ridiculously fit vet on the Upper East Side who handles all the teacup chihuahuas and poodles in the city, it seems.
“I’m buying the skirt as a gift. Wear it to the upcoming gallery opening.”
“Herb and I can’t wait for the event,” she says.
See? That’s one of the ways I knew she and her beau would be perfect together. They share a deep and abiding passion for art installations—the weirder the better—and that’s what I’ve found the online dating sites of the world disregard. What’s under the surface in a match. Like his name. His parents saddled him with one of the worst names in the world to give a modern man. Herbert is just, well, it’s a turn-off. But I knew Olivia would look beneath the surface. That’s what she does for a living. That’s what she does with people, too, and now they’re slated to marry in a few more months.
She grabs a trucker hat from a shelf, the mesh variety with a silhouette of a woman on the front. She positions it jauntily mere inches above her pretty brown hair. “Perfect for my next business meeting?”
My blue eyes turn to daggers. “Don’t. Lower. Your. Arms.”
She laughs. “I wasn’t going to actually put it on.”
I breathe again. “Good. I can’t help myself, though. I see a hat near a friend’s head, and all my training kicks into gear.”
“Anti-lice training?”
“Yes. Exactly,” I say, as if it’s a joke, though truth be told, it is not a joke. I wear a scarf on my head at theaters to protect my blond locks, I travel on planes wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and I never, ever rest my head on anyone else’s pillow.
It’s just better to be safe than scratchy-headed.
“I should get this for my brother, though. Once, you know, I’ve sanitized it in a vat of color-safe bleach.”
“Does he like mesh trucker hats with hot chicks on them?”
She eyes the hat suspiciously and sets it down. “Come to think of it, no. I’m just tired of seeing a New York Yankees hat on him all the time.”
I point at the mesh hat as I consider a black lace vintage skirt. “I’m not sure that’s an improvement, though. Wait. Which brother are we talking about? The hot nerd or the hotter nerd?”
She laughs, then sticks out her tongue. “Can we please not refer to any of my brothers as hot?”
“Even though that’s what half of New York City calls them?”
Olivia’s brothers are gorgeous identical-twin tech multimillionaires. I know them both from the softball league my brother, Patrick, convinced me to join. Though, to be fair, join is a euphemism for my role. Due to an extreme allergy to competitive sports in any way, shape, or form, I don’t actually play softball. Instead, I manage the team. But that suits my organizational heart much better than digging my heels in at home plate and trying to whack a ball whizzing too fast near my face.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, I still think of my brothers—both of them—as complete and utter ding-dongs,” she says as we walk to the counter. “Case in point. Dylan put an ad online yesterday, looking for his soulmate. He’s such a doofus.”
My skin prickles, like spiders are crawling down my spine. “LIKE ON TINDER?”
Oops. I think I just spoke in shouty caps.
Look, I’m not technically opposed to hookup sites. I get that they fill a certain human need. A primal urge, you might say. But the problem is, they’ve numbed men and women from taking their time to get to know someone and finding real love.
“It was something else. I’m trying to remember.”
“Please say it was an elite matchmaking online site where the registrants need to pay fees in the triple digits at least,” I add, worry in my tone. Even though I’m a professional matchmaker, I can coexist quite nicely with my online counterparts that actually require a certain degree of vetting.
Olivia winces, and a heavy sigh follows. “It was one of those plenty-of-sharks-in-the-sea places.”
“No!” I am the Wicked Witch, melting. I snap my gaze from the rack of vintage skirts on my right to the cute Peter Pan dresses on my left, hoping I didn’t actually scream that out loud.
“’Fraid so,” Olivia says, confirming my worst professional fears.
I press my hands together in prayer. “Say it isn’t so. Say you’re teasing. Say you’re pulling my leg.”
Olivia grabs her phone and shows me the ad.
With each line, I wither inside. I park my hands on her shoulders. “I implore you. For the love of all that is good and holy, for all the women in the world, we can’t let him do this.”
“Why?” Her voice seems laced with genuine surprise. “Dylan is a master at all things online. He lives and dies by the Web.”
“Two words. Gold digger. He’s going to be besieged with women, and he’s too sweet to know what hit him. He’ll be like a puppy dog. You see what it’s like at softball games. Sometimes women are there checking out both of your brothers.”
She sneers. “And he still thinks the women at softball are cheering him on for hitting a home run. He’s competitive like that.”
“My point precisely. He’ll be swarmed with catfishers. Your brother is ridiculously rich and completely clueless and adorably hot.”
She screws up the corner of her mouth. “That does kind of describe Dylan to a T, minus the adorably hot part. But what are we supposed to do?”
“Help him,” I say, pleading. “This is like Wonder Woman walking past the wounded. She can’t leave them behind.”
She blinks. “But your clientele is women. You’re the Stud Finder.”
“My clientele is mostly women,” I correct. “Because that’s who usually comes to a matchmaker. But darling, I have to know the men, too. How else would I have paired you with Herb the hot vet?”
She smiles, her straight white teeth gleaming. “I do love my Herb.”
As the Stud Finder, I help well-off single women in Manhattan find men who won’t fleece them—men who will love and cherish them. I’ve made a fantastic living, thank you very much, with my eyes. That sense of color matching? My fashion skills? My knowledge of personalities? I parlayed that into a psychology degree, a career as an executive recruiter, and now I use it as the head of an elite matchmaking business. I’m outgoing, I speak my mind, and I know nearly everyone in New York City. I’ve become the shield, the sword, and the lubricant for dozens of women to find their Mr. Right.
That’s because I don’t go for the obvious matches.
Forget the football player and the cheerleader, the beauty and the beast, the virgin and the billionaire. My skills lie in finding subtler combinations and unexpected pairings. The philanthropist and the man who photographs dogs for rescue organizations, the magazine editor and the venture capitalist, the best-selling romance novelist and the hot, young comedian who makes her laugh.
Those are my couplings.
While I have very little in common with Dylan Parker, I can appreciate all he brings to the table. And that’s why, even though my clients are usually women, I know I have to help him. I simply can’t let a man who’s that much of a catch take this sort of risk.
“I volunteer as tribute.” I raise a hand high. “I will find the perfect woman for your brother.” The Stud Finder will become a Studette Searcher.
“I’ll run it past him to make sure he’s game, and I’d love to pay for your services.”
I furrow my brow and shake my head. “Your money is no good here. It’s my gift to you. An engagement gift,” I say with a wink.
She drops her hand to my arm. “Evie, you don’t have to do that. I’m more than happy to pay. He’s my brother, after all, no matter how challenging the case is.”
I laugh. “All the more reason for me to do it pro bono. It’ll sharpen my skills to handle tough cases.”
“Then I suspect he’ll have an even harder time saying no. He can’t turn down a deal.”
Nor can I when it comes to clothes. I buy the skirt for Olivia, and that cute black one? I grab it on the way out, and plunk down twenty-two dollars. That is one hell of a steal.