Page 13 of Confessions of a Canine Drama Queen

The elevator moved silently upward, and August clutched her small evening bag to her stomach. All she knew about her date was that his name was Asher Benson, he was thirty-three and worked in finance, and he’d never been married nor did he have any children.

Oh, and apparently Maxine was confident their personalities would be well suited.

The elevator pinged and August walked out. The restaurant was dimly lit but had a view of the city that almost snatched her breath away. Tables were sprinkled around the room and along the window, with several velvet-lined booths running across the back wall. Trails of lights draped from the roof and everything was accented in gold, which enhanced the flickering candles inside and the world glittering outside. A woman with a chic bob and a black satin shirt greeted August with a smile.

“I’ve got a reservation under Asher Benson,” August said, her voice breathy with nerves. Her stomach was about to explode from all the butterflies rammed in there. “For 7:00 p.m.”

“Your dining partner is already here,” the woman said. “Your server will see you through.”

Punctual. That’s a good sign.

Another woman, also dressed in black, motioned for August to follow her. She scanned the room as they walked, looking for the face from the profile on Asher that Maxine had sent through. Blond hair, light eyes, a slight dimple in the chin. When the server stopped at a table and a man stood up, August was taken aback.

He was even more handsome in person than in his photo.

“August, so nice to meet you.” He stuck his hand out and then retracted it, laughing. “Sorry, that was awkward. I feel like I’m still in work mode. Can I give you a kiss on the cheek instead?”

Wow. What a gentleman.

“Sure.” August laughed nervously as he leaned down to brush his cheek against hers. She waited for some sparks or a tingle or...something. But nothing came.

That’s okay. It’s early days. Besides, you’re not here for spark, you’re here for a good, practical match.

He came around to pull out her chair and August sat, slinging her evening bag over the back. There was already sparkling water on the table and she reached for a glass, taking a sip to give herself something to do.

Asher sat down and waited for the server to take their drink order before asking, “Is this, uh...do you have much experience with the whole matchmaking thing?”

His voice was smooth and rich, with a nice warmth to it.

“It’s actually my first time.”

He looked visibly relieved. “Me too.”

For some reason, the fact that he seemed a little nervous about the whole thing put her at ease. Already this experience felt a world away from her viral disaster. Why hadn’t she thought to do this sooner?

Smiling and feeling her confidence coming back, August said, “I’m glad we’re getting to do this together as first-timers, then.”

Asher’s eyes connected with hers across the candle gently wavering back and forth in the middle of the table. “Me too.”

Keaton knocked back the remainder of his scotch as the man in front of him droned on and on about all the best golf courses he’d been to around the world. This was Keaton’s dirty little secret—the so-called glitz and glamour of rubbing elbows with Manhattan’s elite?

Boring. As. Bat. Shit.

Seriously, the conversations he was forced to grit his teeth through should be bottled and sold as a cure for insomnia.

Golfing, boating, tennis, watches. Superficial shit that immediately set Keaton’s relevancy engine to “unimportant, disregard,” which was a problem. In his line of work it paid to remember these things—like which brand of watch a client liked to wear so he could send some branded matching cuff links at Christmas.Gag.

It was the part of the job Keaton hated most of all. He was much happier burying himself in the data and numbers and chasing the thrill of finding the next big opportunity. Unfortunately for him, cutting out the people component of his job was not an option.

“You should come along one weekend, Keaton.” The older man, who was dressed in a suit that definitely cost more than Keaton’s college education, leaned back in his chair. His silver hair was thick and full, and his eyes were skating around the room as if he’d already lost interest in the conversation.

I know how you feel, buddy.

“You know the firm only lets us out on very rare occasions,” Keaton quipped. “It’s not often we get the shackles loosened.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” The man chuckled. “Most people these days don’t know the meaning of hard work.”

Keaton had to bite back a salty response. “Hard work” to these guys included a leg up the likes of which only a select few would ever experience—family with old money, Ivy League education, a daddy with all the right contacts. Most of them went on to run companies that exploited the little guy, paying minimum wage to their workers while padding their own pockets with excess.

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