When we have determined your match, we will contact you (and your future spouse) together in one e-mail. We will explain why we feel you have the potential to have a lasting and loving marriage, and we will encourage you to trade a few e-mails to decide where and when your wedding will take place.

  Please note that our sister website, ArrangeMyWedding.com, can help you with any specific wedding-day details, and you are even entitled to a 10 percent discount for using our matchmaking service. Should you require marriage counseling in the early days of your union, we are pleased to offer hourly rates for our personalized in-person and Skype services. It is important to us that you feel 100 percent supported on your chosen path!

  We are so excited for you to begin your journey and expect to share your match with you on approximately June 1.

  Until then, feel free to reach out to us with any questions, Courtney Jane Salinger, and work on preparing your heart and mind to meet the love of your life.

  With affection,

  Dr. Jake, Pastor Ken, and Dr. Sydney Morningstar.

  Your ArrangeMeToo.com Team

  I read the e-mail once and then go back and read it twice more, concentrating on the five list items and stopping each time to stare at the date, June 1, when I will finally be placed in contact with my future husband.

  It’s scary, but also spectacular, to think that the wheels on this deal are already moving. I highlight the list and print it out, pinning it to the corkboard in my kitchen and rereading the tips again. I mean to take them seriously—to do everything I can to be in the right mind-set for my arranged marriage when June 1 finally rolls around.

  And now that I’ve received and read this e-mail? Part of me is grateful Josh was so clear that we weren’t actually on a date tonight, because it makes me feel like I didn’t cheat on the Arrange Me Too process.

  Despite my attraction to him, I’ll force myself to shift gears right away. Besides, being friends with Josh could be a great thing, seen in the right light—it would give me practice time before June. I don’t have a lot of male friends, and maybe Josh would be willing to sit next to me at another show or two—just so I can hone my friendship-building skills before I meet my future husband.

  To celebrate my intentions, I log on to Amazon.com and search the words “engagement ring.” I don’t want something expensive, but it shouldn’t turn green the first time I wash my hands either. I settle on a simple, sterling silver band with a single garnet (my birth stone) and have it sent to my office.

  “This is happening,” I whisper to myself with a hint of awe, just as my phone rings. I pick it up to see who’s calling, then grimace when the word “Mother” pops up on the screen.

  “Hello,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear.

  “Darling! It’s been ages! How are you?”

  It hasn’t been ages. It’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve spoken. Three max, which is normal. It’s not like we talk every day, or even every week. My parents made it clear to me from a very early age that they are very busy, very important people, and having a child wouldn’t change that.

  “I’m well,” I say. “And you?”

  “Quite well. Wasn’t the weather glorious today?”

  “It’s certainly getting warmer.”

  “We were at the Drury’s for lunch and had drinks alfresco on the patio. In April!”

  “What a treat.”

  “How’s work? Going well?”

  “Mm-hm. Very well.”

  “Another few years and you may be up for partner.”

  “That’s the plan,” I say.

  “Darling, I’m calling because the Fredericks have two extra seats at their daughter’s wedding next Saturday, and Simi wondered if you’d like to come.”

  This isn’t as unusual as it sounds.

  Rich Connecticut types who have already paid their country club catering for so many meals can’t bear to have some of it go to waste due to last-minute cancellations, so they’ll invite their friends’ single children to attend the event and fill the empty seats. Matchmaking is often a secondary goal of such an invitation, however, so I’m immediately wary. When you’re ready, stop dating.

  “Darling? Are you free?”

  “Who is the second seat for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that the Fredericks have two extra seats. If I’m taking one, who’s taking the other?”

  “That’s the best part! Have you met their nephew, Brant? Brant Summerfield? He can sit next to you, and they’ll shuffle Reginald’s aunt to another table.”

  “Mother, you know how I feel about blind dates.”

  “Darling, he’s a catch, I promise. Plus, you’d be doing Simi such a favor. Please say you’ll come. We haven’t seen you since Easter.”

  I’m overdue to visit, and I’d like to see my parents, but I can’t agree to a date. It wouldn’t be right.

  Suddenly, I think of Josh. He has no interest in dating me, but if he’d go with me, as an escort and nothing more, I could (1) please my mother by attending, (2) sidestep a blind date with Brant Summerfield, and (3) maintain a clear conscience, since I wouldn’t actually be on a date.

  “May I bring my own escort?”

  “My dear! I had no idea you were attached to someone! Of course. Do we know him?”

  “No. He’s a playwright.”

  “Oh, darling,” she says, her cultured voice lowering with disappointment. “Tsk.”

  “It’s casual,” I say.

  “If it’s so casual, then come and meet Brant instead.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well. You know I’m the staunchest supporter of the arts. Does he have a tux?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Well, you can sort that with him, I suppose. His name?”

  “Josh Dalton.”

  “Dalton. That’s promising! Of the New York Daltons?”

  I grin. No charge for the squalor. I doubt very much he has a trust fund if his bartending income is so important and he lives in a Hell’s Kitchen hovel.

  “No.”

  “Boston?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Philadelphia?”

  “Mother.” It occurs to me that I have no idea where Josh is from. In all the times we’ve chatted, I’ve never asked, which makes me feel a bit ashamed. “We’ll see you on Saturday.”

  “Go directly to Riverside Yacht Club from the train, darling,” she says. “See you there at six.”

  “Six it is.”

  “How lovely. Don’t forget your girdle, darling.”

  For the love of God. “Good-bye, Mother.”

  I press “End” on my phone and place it on the table.

  Tomorrow I’ll track down Josh to see if he’ll be my date—er, um, escort—to Hope Frederick’s Greenwich wedding. Fingers crossed he’s willing and able, because his disinterest in dating me has suddenly made him the safest man I can think of.

  Then, with that settled in my mind, I open my e-mail again and reread the instructions from my Arrange Me Too experts over and over again until my dinner arrives.

  CHAPTER 6

  Josh

  “Call for you.”

  I look up from rewrites to find the receptionist standing in the doorway of the studio where I’ve been writing all afternoon. “Huh?”

  “Phone call.”

  Phone call?

  During my five years in residence at the New Dramatists, I can’t ever remember someone calling for me. Anyone who wants to talk to me has my cell phone number. Unless…

  My heart lurches.

  …it’s someone who’s heard about one of my plays!

  I jump up from my desk so fast the chair crashes back on the floor, but I ignore it as I hustle to the front office. I’ve heard of stuff like this. The Call. Someone who’s gotten wind of your play, your concept, your name—the friend of a friend of a college professor, or the co-worker’s sister’s uncle who happens to be a producer looking for new blood.

  I get to the office, and just for a minute, I stare at the phone sitting on the receptionist’s desk with the red “Hold” button blinking slowly.

  Could this be it? The often-dreamed-of “before” moment, after which my entire life changes?

  I clear my throat, pick up the receiver, and press it to my ear.

  “Hello? This is Josh Dalton.”

  “Hi. It’s Courtney.”

  I blink.

  “Who?”

  “Courtney,” she says. “Courtney Salinger? From Tidewaters? From yesterday—”

  “I know who you are,” I say.

  “Oh. Okay. Um, well, I hope I’m not bothering you, but I had a favor to ask.”

  “Why are you calling me here?”

  I don’t mean to be rude or abrupt, and honestly, there is a part of me that’s glad to hear her voice. But most of me wants to punish her a little for inadvertently getting my hopes up so high.

  “Sorry.”

  The small sound of her voice makes me feel bad. “It’s okay. Sorry for the attitude—I just, um…I’ve never gotten a call here before. I thought that maybe…”

  “Oh, my God! You thought I was calling about your play.”

  “Context is everything. When I’m here…”

  “…you’re a playwright! God, I’m so sorry, Josh. I didn’t mean to do that to you.”

  I lean against the wall of the small office, a smile teasing at the corners of my mouth. I can see her face in my head so clearly—her sweet, apple cheeks and lush, pink lips—as she apologizes so earnestly. Where is she right now? At work? In another one of those white silk blouses, wearing little pearl earrings that tempt me to lap the skin around them?

  “It’s okay. What’s up? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.” She pauses. “I feel like an idiot now.”

  “Nah. It’s okay.” The receptionist returns to her desk with a cup of coffee and gives me a look pronouncing this space her domain. “Listen, can I call you back in two minutes?”

  We swap numbers and I return to the studio I’m using today, closing the door before dialing her number.

  “Hi, again,” I say, easing into my chair and putting my feet up on the desk. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay for a Monday,” she says, then adds, “Did you know that twenty percent of heart attacks happen on Mondays?”

  “Cheery.”

  “And sixteen percent of suicides.”

  I laugh. “Wow. Thanks for calling to tell me that.”

  “I’m nervous,” she says. “I don’t call guys very often.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She pauses, and I can almost hear her gulping as she gets to the point of her call. “But we’re friends, aren’t we? And friends can call each other.”

  “Sure,” I say. “We’re friends.”

  …if your definition of “friends” is two people of the opposite sex who are clearly attracted to each other, and but for better circumstances would have woken up next to one another this morning. Sure. We’re friends. Let’s go with that.

  “Phew. I thought so, but I needed to make sure.” I’m about to ask why when she continues: “I need an escort to a wedding on Saturday night, but obviously I can’t bring a date.”

  “Obviously?”

  “The matchmakers?” she reminds me.

  I flinch, taking a deep breath and letting it go in a long-suffering huff. “I’ve been meaning to ask: Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “What?”

  “Your matchmaker service?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “It’s an excellent idea. It’s working.”

  My feet hit the ground as I sit up straight. “You’ve been matched?”

  “No!” She chuckles softly. “Not yet. But I’ve been accepted into the program. I’ll meet my husb—um, my match, by June 1.”

  You were about to say “husband,” I think, every muscle in my body bunching with resistance at the thought.

  “That’s soon,” I grind out.

  “Yes.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, they advise that I should stop dating other people now. You know—so I can prepare myself to meet the guy they choose for me. But my parents want me to go to the wedding of one of their friends’ daughters. If I show up alone, they’ll try to set me up, so I need an escort. Someone who understands—”

  “That you’re not actually available.”

  “Exactly! I knew you’d understand.”

  “When is it?”

  “Saturday night in Greenwich. We could meet at Grand Central at five o’clock and take the train out together. You’re invited to stay overnight at my parents’ house, as well.”

  “I have to work on Sunday morning.”

  “Then my parents’ driver can drop you back at the station on Saturday night.”

  Parents’ driver? “What kind of wedding is this?”

  “Have you heard of the Fredericks? Samantha and Reginald Frederick? Samantha, whom we call Simi, is my mother’s best friend.”

  Samantha and Reginald Frederick? Fuck, yes, I’ve heard of them. Anyone who watches PBS’s Masterpiece Theater has heard of them. They’re the people thanked for “their generous donation” by name just before each new episode airs.

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “Do you have a tux?”

  Actually, I do. It’s a good investment when you are occasionally invited to Broadway and off-Broadway premieres and want to be taken seriously.

  “Yes.”

  “Great! So, you’ll do it? You’ll come with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me at the clock at Grand Central on Saturday? Five o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  “Thanks, Josh,” she says softly. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I place my phone on the desk and lean back in the chair again, staring up at the ceiling.

  This girl. With her weirdo statistics and hot body, her blind trust in this marriage service and the way she underplays a connection like the Fredericks. She is so fascinating to me, if I don’t watch it, I’m going to fall for her…which is definitely not allowed.

  I sit up and open my laptop, glancing at the scene I was tweaking before I impulsively click on Chrome. The search bar comes up, and I type in the name I’d overheard her mention to Dina at the bar: “arrange me too matchmaking.” A second later, a glossy website comes up with pictures of happy couples and three smiling “experts.”

  I groan, shaking my head. “What a load of shit.”

  I spend half an hour checking out the website, rolling my eyes at the “testimonials” (which sound canned to me) and scoffing loudly when I note the “processing fee.” Four hundred dollars is a small fortune to someone like me, but frankly, it doesn’t feel like enough for a top-notch matchmaking service, which is confirmed by a quick web search that finds a high-end Manhattan matchmaker charging $10,000 for a six-month contract. And I really don’t like it that all they actually promise to deliver is an e-mail address. Four hundred beans for an e-mail address? As far as I’m concerned, this has “scam” written all over it. How come someone as smart as Courtney can’t see that?

  I have to go on two hundred more bad dates. Two thousand. Hell, I might have to put up with a million jerks to try to find someone nice. Do you know what that does to a person’s heart?

  She laid it all out for me the first night we talked about it. She’s sick of the dating game. She’s confused by it. She’s disheartened. She’s desperate enough to sign up for a service that will give her some random guy’s e-mail address with the promise that he’s “the one.”

  And what about that guy?

  How will she know if his intentions are good? How will she know if he’s a decent person, let alone the right person for her? She’s got so much riding on this, so much blind faith in the process, they could sell her just about anyone, and she’d try to make it work.

  She could get hurt.

  Badly.

  I slam my laptop shut.

  “Not my problem,” I say aloud. “Not my problem and I’m not making it my problem.”

  We’re friends, aren’t we?

  I grimace, tenting my hands on the desk and resting my chin on them. Would I let Sammy willfully do something like this without trying to warn her off? Would I stand by and watch her make a huge mistake and say nothing?

  No way. I wouldn’t let any of my friends walk into a shitstorm without at least a warning first.

  If Courtney and I are going to be friends, I have a responsibility to try to talk her out of this, or at least open her eyes to the dangers of the situation. It has nothing to do with the fact that, given different circumstances, she’d be at the top of the list of women I’d like to date. It’s just about doing the right thing.

  I’ll talk to her this weekend, I tell myself, then reopen my laptop and try to get back to work. It’s futile. Hurricane Courtney has already ripped through my quiet afternoon and left my concentration in shreds.

  ***

  Standing at the iconic clock in the middle of Grand Central Station, I scan the Vanderbilt staircase for Courtney.

  I saw her briefly last night at the bar, but she was with a bunch of people from work who had a big table in the back. As she left, she stopped by the bar and reminded me about meeting her this evening, but that was the extent of our conversation.

  As if I could have forgotten our nondate date.

  I wrenched my neck last night while straining for a glimpse of her from my station at the bar. I could barely think about anything except the fact that she was near; disappointed that she wasn’t keeping me company at the bar, I was still glad just to know she was around.

  And now here I am, dressed in my secondhand tux, standing by a gold clock, and waiting for her to arrive. Any onlooker would think it romantic. Any onlooker would be wrong.

  I tell myself I shouldn’t feel slighted that Courtney asked me to be her escort, not her date. Hell, it’s my doing. I friend-zoned her first, after all. I can’t do that to her and then be a dick about it. I’ll take responsibility for my actions and be a friend to her. It’s the least I can do, right?