Page 4 of Failure to Match

“You’rereallynot thinking this through,” I told her.

“Agreed.” Mitch tapped his knuckles on the table. “Too many things could go wrong. Plus, there would be absolute hell to pay if Jackson ever found out.”

Right. Exactly. “Not to mention I don’t meet any of his physical requirements.”

I was blonde, five-foot-seven, and twenty-eight.

Jackson Sinclair only dated brunettes between the ages of thirty and thirty-six, and they had to be at least five-foot-ten. His last match (number sixty-seven) was a former Miss World winner and current CEO of a major PR company. He’d take one look at me, turn around, and leave. Just like he had with Allison Park (number twenty-nine), who’d then spent a full hour screaming at me over the phone like it was somehow my fault.

After that, Vivian had called Minerva to ask that Jackson at least respect the one-hour requirement Charmed had for all first dates, the point of which was to ensure our clients gave their matches an actual chance.

Alice shrugged. “We’ll get you a wig and a pair of platforms, put you in a dress long enough to cover your feet, and have you arrive early so you’ll be seated by the time he gets there. He’ll be none the wiser.”

“If it’s that simple, why don’t youdo it?” I challenged.

“I’m five years younger and two inches shorter than you, Jamie. Even if you put me in heels high enough to meet his stupid height requirement, I wouldn’t be able to walk in them. Plus, you’ve been doing this for a lot longer than I have, you have a ton more experience dealing with clients, and you’re kind of amazing at reading people.”

Bullshit. “Gentle reminder that I was friends with Ria for a decade before she met your brother and didn’t realize her nostril flared when she lied until he pointed it out.”

They were now married—her brother and my best friend. That was how Alice and I initially met. I’d done this to her. I’d gotten her this mess of a job.

“You were too close to Ria. That’s your blind spot, but it won’t apply to Jackson.”

“I can see his face just fine on the screen if you’re wearing a camera,” I said. “And he probably won’t even notice your height if you’re seated?—”

“No,” Mitch blurted abruptly. “No, uh, that’s not… Jamie should do it. I vote for Jamie.”

Alice frowned at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Your torso,” he responded.

“Excuse me?”

“Your… uh, it’s the height thing. Even if you’re sitting down, he’ll be able to tell… because of your torso. It’s… short,” he explained eloquently.

Alice stared at him for a full, wordlessly unimpressed minute before turning back to me. “There you go. I can’t do it; I’ve got a short torso.”

Mitch’s neck was purple.

“I don’t care. I’m not doing it,” I said. “I’m not.”

“Fine.” Alice let out a long breath. “Then I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”

Yes. Fine. Great.

We’d figure something out. We always did.

“It’s not like abadtorso. It’s just compact.”

She shot him another lingering what’s-wrong-with-you look before getting up. “I’ll grab us coffee. We’re going to need it.”

Mitch deflated the second she was gone, his forehead hitting the table with a sadthump.

“Smooth,” I said.

“Shut up.”

2

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