The Blind Date

recipe. A spoonful of sugar here, a pat of butter there, ten more seconds on the stovetop, and . . . voila!” I kiss my fingertips and then spread them wide in a chef’s kiss move.
“Fine. But we can do all that tomorrow. It’s time to get out of here. Whoo-hoo!” River pumps his fist, miming pulling the quitting-time horn. “You want to come over for a beer, watch the game?”
“No, I think I’ll stay back awhile, look at the numbers a bit tonight. I’ll let you know in the morning if I find anything specific.”
“Sure. ‘Awhile’, you say,” he says disbelievingly, but he has a point. I work late more often than not. “You’re going to look those figures over at least ten times before you stumble out of here. Let me know if you solve this imaginary problem you’re creating.”
River grabs his wallet from his desk drawer, locks it back up, and then holds the door open for me.
“Goodnight,” I tell him, already two steps toward my office.
“It will be for me. Not sure that’s the case for you, man.”
Back in my own office, I’ve already forgotten about River’s assessment. He’s good at what he does and works hard, but that doesn’t mean I can float along the way he’s comfortable doing. I flash back to the meeting with Lady Elisa today. I want those meetings to be full of rave reviews and shocked awe at my success and for Elisa to have no choice but to reward me with more responsibilities and opportunities.
I pull up the app store on my phone, knowing that most users will choose the mobile option over the computer version of BlindDate. I download the app, using a fresh and anonymous email account on my profile and my middle name as my username. I’ve already got a profile from the beta version, and I want this experience to be exactly what a new-to-the-app user would have, so I become ‘Mark D.’
All right, one hundred questions . . . let’s do this. It’s easier to answer the questions honestly, so ironically, ‘Mark D.’ and ‘Noah Daniels’ have a lot in common, and in less than an hour, I’m done.
I make some notes on the experience, both positive and negative. And now, I wait and see what the AI has in store for me to evaluate the next phase.

Chapter 3 Riley
“Oh, God. I can’t believe you just suggested that,” I whine, taking a gulp of my wine. It really is as good as Eli promised, but I can’t take the time to enjoy it when Arielle is throwing out craziness the way she is. “No way, no how. I am not online dating.”
I look to Eli for support, but he takes a proper sip of his wine and side-eyes Arielle. I get the feeling they’ve already discussed this. Discussed . . . me.
It’s barely a quarter past eight o’clock on a Friday night. I should be out painting the town red. Or yellow, in my case, I suppose. But instead, I’m perfectly happy where I am—at home in my apartment, wearing oversized yellow joggers and a white crop top with a smiling-faced, pink-cheeked sun on the left breast, my two besties sitting on my couch while I sit cross-legged on a pillow with the sweetest, cutest dog in the history of the canine species in my lap.
“Raffy, tell Auntie Arielle she’s crazy, totally loony toons, and that your mama is not going to date some random dude from the internet.” I hold Raffy’s fuzzy, fluffy head up, moving his chin to make it look like he’s talking while I do my best to throw my voice despite the fact that I have zero ventriloquism skills. “Rrruf, no interweb, hoomans. Much weird, no normal. Extra cronchy.”
Arielle raises one brow sharply, glaring at me. “Are you seriously implying that you are normal right now?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I studiously avoid her gaze, choosing to look around my apartment. Eli might be disappointed in me for not buying a house, but I love this place. It’s a completely white backdrop for all my favorite things—yellow pillows, poster prints of inspirational quotes, fluffy blankets in white and yellow gingham checks, and all sorts of sun trinkets I’ve bought or my followers have sent me.
Arielle snaps her fingers, demanding my attention. “You said you were ready. Remember the five hundred thousand followers?”
Eli pipes up, “Five hundred and one thousand now.”
“You”—I meet his eyes with no problem— “are no longer my best friend. Get out, but leave the wine.” I snuggle my wine glass to my chest protectively as though he’ll snatch it from me.
Eli stands, and at first, I think he’s actually going to leave despite the fact that I was obviously joking. But instead of heading for the door, he reaches to the far side of the charcuterie board for a small sausage.
Holding it up lengthwise between his thumb and index finger, he suggests, “If this is the only sausage you’re getting, and we all know it is, you should listen to Arielle. She’s got your best interests at heart, and you know that too.”
I’m not one to pout, but I consider letting my lip pop out anyway to see if it’d get me out of this mess. I said I’d date, but I was thinking more along the lines of meeting a cute guy at the farmer’s market.
But when Raffy, that disloyal salt and pepper miniature Schnauzer of mine, hops out of my lap to make a run for the snack and Eli pops the whole baby sausage in his mouth and starts chewing, I realize that maybe he’s right. Maybe they’re both right.
Raffy runs around the coffee table with a case of the zoomies, hoping that his display will warrant one of us giving him a treat. If anything, I’d like to give him a chill pill. “Raffy! Sit!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Arielle sighs. “Raffy, here, boy!” The sausage in her hand gets my dog’s attention, and he sits, pretty as a picture, at