I discovered my true passion at the age of twelve. My younger brother, Ethan, had a crush on a girl at school, but being a typical boy—and a rather messy one at that—his idea of romance involved flicking rubber bands at her and chasing her around the playground. Enter me. Two years older, infinitely wiser, and armed with a flair for romance inspired by countless rom-coms. I penned a sweet note for him to pass during class, inviting her to share a pack of cookies at recess. What girl could refuse a free treat? No one worth pursuing, in my opinion.
Sure, it turned out she had a nut allergy and ended up in the hospital, but for those three glorious minutes before the chaos, my brother had found love. And I had discovered my calling. Because everyone knows true love often needs a little nudge—just the right words to express what's in our hearts.
Or rather, the romantic version, sans the heart emojis and awkward selfies. That's where I come in. Your personal matchmaker—just without the ridiculous hat. I'll craft the perfect love letter, compose a sultry email to get your partner excited, and write the most epic apology that'll make your significant other forget that moment of hesitation when they asked, "Does this outfit look okay?"
Maybe I'm a softie at heart, but I thrive on helping people find romance. There's no task too daunting for my clients, no challenge too great . . .
Which is why I'm currently perched halfway up a tree in Prospect Park, whispering lines into a tiny microphone for the guy proposing to his girlfriend twenty feet away.
"From the moment I saw you in that video game, I knew you were the one I wanted to adventure with—in real life."
James dutifully repeats every word in front of a small group of family and friends. I tried to dissuade him from that part—public proposals seem like a recipe for disaster—but he insisted. Now, I'm the one risking embarrassment if I can't stay hidden up in this tree for the remainder of his heartfelt speech.
The branch creaks ominously. Oh no. I lean forward, desperate to balance myself—and not lose my place in the proposal.
"And as Leia said to Han, I've always hated watching you leave . . ." I whisper, reading off my phone screen. James delivers the line, and the crowd collectively sighs in swoony delight. His girlfriend is already in tears. Happy, joyous tears, I hope.
The branch groans again, and I cling on tightly, sending up a silent prayer. Please let her say yes and celebrate somewhere else before I literally come crashing down.
"Yes! I will! Yes!" the girlfriend cries, and I exhale a massive sigh of relief. Way to go, James.
The group erupts in cheers, and the happy couple embraces. Even with ants crawling over me, I'm over the moon for them. I've been part of their love story from the beginning, having helped James craft his opening message on a dating app, and I'm sure I'll be writing anniversary cards until they're old and gray.
Like I said, some people just need a little help expressing themselves. If I can assist them in sharing their feelings, it's all in a day's work.
I will, however, be billing him for my laundry, because I really don't want to know what's smeared all over my jeans right now. Once the crowd disperses, I gingerly begin my descent from the tree.
The branch protests loudly. "Hey," I mutter wryly. "I only had two portions of takeout last night. And I definitely drank a light soda!"
I inch back and awkwardly turn to hug the trunk. Just a bit further—
CRACK. The branch snaps, and my hands slip. I flail wildly, but it's too late: I'm tumbling down the trunk, hitting every knot and bump on my way to the ground.
Oof!
I groan, sprawled out in the dirt amidst a shower of leaves and twigs.
"Olivia Bennett… I should have known this proposal was your doing."
I look up to see six-foot-two of lean muscle, piercing blue eyes, and infuriating charm. Ryan Carter. Another client of mine—and the bane of my existence.
"How could you tell?" I ask, pushing myself up with a wince.
"Your unmistakable flair for words," Ryan replies, pulling me to my feet. "Plus, the fact that James was way too calm. The guy sweated through a suit giving a toast at his sister's wedding. The fact he made it through a single line without stuttering was a dead giveaway that you were somewhere nearby, pulling the strings."
"No strings!" I protest. "James wrote every word. I just … refined it, that's all."
"Sure, you did." Ryan grins. "Like Michelangelo just polished those chunks of marble into masterpieces."
I blink. "Was that a compliment?" I tease, holding my hand to my ear.
Ryan smirks. "You know you're good. I wouldn't hire anyone but the best."
"There is no one else," I remind him. The market for a professional matchmaker is practically non-existent. Which is why I must go the extra mile for my clients.
Or up the extra tree.
"Nice touch with the Star Wars quote, by the way," Ryan remarks as we stroll out of the wooded area. He's sporting his usual black jeans and a crisp white shirt, looking annoyingly handsome in the bright summer sun. With his classic sunglasses and tousled dark hair, he's every bit the "hot businessman you know is destined to break your heart, but you can't help but daydream about."
Or maybe I just watched too many rom-coms during my formative years?
Regardless, I know far too much about Ryan to ever entertain the thought of dating him. Like how he cycles through women as quickly as I go through my skincare routine. Or that as a mere mortal—and not, say, an international fashion model-slash-actress-slash-philanthropist—I probably don't even register on his radar. He's the owner of one of the trendiest hotels in the city and frequently appears on those 'most eligible bachelor' lists, as if he needs any help with his image.
Sure enough, just as we exit the park, a stunning brunette struts toward us, looking irritated. "Where have you been?" she demands, glancing at Ryan with a frown.
I say "woman," but honestly, she's so gorgeous she could probably be classified as a different species. Her hair is long and glossy, her face perfectly sculpted, and there's not just a gap between those toned legs in her tiny cutoffs; it's like the Grand Canyon.
"Chloe, I've been right here," Ryan protests.
Chloe?
I try not to smile. Of course. His latest fling. She adores extravagant flowers, pop ballads, and inspirational quotes. I know this because Ryan has had me crafting love letters for her all week. And looking at her now, I can see why.
"You told me to meet you by the fountain." The breathtaking beauty known as Chloe pouts. "Do you have any idea how many fountains there are in Prospect Park?"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Ryan turns on the charm, flashing her a dazzling smile. "Let's go grab a drink."
But Chloe isn't convinced.
"You're always doing this," she states, her voice quivering. "I skipped a fashion show to come meet you, but you don't even care. You're over here, flirting with—" She glances at me, frowning.
"Nobody," I interject quickly. "Really."
"She's just a friend," Ryan insists. "Come on, babe, you can't honestly think I'd have eyes for anyone but you."
And Sophie. And Mia. And the girl from that coffee shop Ryan wanted to woo with Shakespeare quotes and flowers just last week. But maybe Chloe is smarter than I thought, because she isn't buying into his Romeo act anymore.
"No! This isn't working. You need to figure out what you want." Chloe wipes away a tear. "Before you lose the best thing that ever happened to you."
With that, she turns on her (stacked, five-inch platform) heels and walks away.
"Well, that went well," I say.
Ryan seems oddly cheerful for a man who just got dumped. "You don't mind?" I ask, surprised.
"Mind what? She'll come around," he shrugs. "That's what I have you for. I'll need one of your apology packages. A heartfelt note, a couple of poems… She'll be back in my arms by the weekend."
I roll my eyes. "You're incorrigible."
"That's why I'm your favorite client," Ryan grins.
"My most frequent client," I correct him. And it's true. Ryan has been keeping the lights on with his commissions these past few months.
His many, many commissions.
From flirty notes tucked inside lavish bouquets to heartfelt apologies when he inevitably lets them down, Ryan Carter is a one-man seduction machine.
And I'm the voice behind the pen, making it happen.
I sigh, walking toward the park exit. "Remind me again why I'm your accomplice in these crimes against true love?"
"Because you believe that even I deserve a chance at finding my soulmate?" Ryan offers, teasing.
"Nope, try again."
"Then it must be the cold hard cash." Ryan pats me on the shoulder. "Oh, before I forget, I might have another job for you."
"Another one?" I exclaim. "Seriously, where do you find the time? I can barely manage my own errands, let alone juggle four different dates."
"It's an art," Ryan replies. "What can I say? I'm an excellent multitasker."
"Don't you ever get tired of it?" I ask, half admiring, half exasperated. "Or mix them up and say the wrong name?"
"That's a rookie mistake," he laughs. "You need to stick to generic pet names. 'Babe,' 'sweetheart,' 'sugar.' That way, you never get it wrong. Especially not in the… heat of the moment."
He winks, clearly enjoying himself.
"Sure thing, sugar," I reply, shaking my head with a smile. "So, who's the unfortunate target this time?"
"All in good time," he responds, mysterious. "For now, just focus on getting me back in Chloe's good graces."
"Lucky me."
"Chin up." He grins. "This will be easy. Just use that line from that movie again."
"I'm just a guy, standing in front of a girl?" I suggest.
"That's the one. They always go crazy for it."
"Ryan has a lot to answer for." I sigh.
And so do I.