I am ready for my happy ending, and that is why I spent all my money on Seeking Curves Matchmaking Agency to get my man.
"Give it to me," I tell her. "Come on, Helena. What you got?"
She chuckles. "Okay, darling. Settle down. He's not too far from Los Angeles, which I know is very important to you, right?"
"I'm not really in a financial situation to relocate just for some dates."
"Right, although, like I told you, we usually work with clientele who would be able to fly you in order to pursue a relationship."
"Right. Well, okay. So the guy's close?"
"Yes. He is about two hours outside of Los Angeles."
"North or south?" I ask, wondering if he's in San Diego or Silicon Valley.
"He's out near Big Bear Mountain."
"Really?" I say. "People live out there?"
"He does," she says.
"Okay, that's great, great. What else?"
"He is very handsome."
"Great," I say. "Like, are you going to send me a picture, or how does this work?"
"Well..." She hesitates.
I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. "What? You found me my match, but you don't want to tell me anything about him?"
"Well, he's a high-profile match, actually."
"Like I might know him? Like he's famous?" I frown. "I mean, I am not opposed to a famous celebrity match," I say, laughing. "But I mean, I'm sorry. I am pretty basic, as far as girls go. I'm five-six, with brown hair, brown eyes. I've got like no money, a part-time job. I make coffee at Honeybee’s, and I like to make cake. I'm not exactly celebrity-dating material."
"Don't worry. I matched you for a reason. You're perfect for Truett."
"Truett?” I gasp, lifting my voice. "Truett Baker?"
"Right, Truett Baker."
"You matched me with Truett Baker, the Mountain Man Chef?"
"So you've heard of him," Helena says.
"Uh-huh," I say, dropping my pen and my jaw.
Truett Baker, for the record, was the sexiest, the most glamorous, the most it thing in the culinary world. He wrote two cookbooks, opened three restaurants, and was on the cover of Everything Foodie for three years straight. And then he completely disappeared at the age of 26. No one has seen him since. He went completely rogue.
People said he lives in the woods, which (oh, my God) he does. He lives out in mountains, which means (oh, my God) this is real. This is really happening. I am matched with the elusive, reclusive, famous Michelin-starred chef.
Okay, I am totally cool. I am totally cool. I am not freaking out at all.
"So what happens next?" I ask, trying to not sound like a complete freak.
"What happens next is Truett is going to call you."
"He's just going to like give me a ring, a little buzz, buzz, buzz?"
"Are you okay?" Helena asks.
"Uh-huh," I whimper, sipping my coffee as fast as I can, needing a sugar rush or a coffee high or some kind of zing, faster and more quickly than I've ever needed one before. "When are we going out?"
"Tonight. He needs a date immediately."
"Like how immediately?"
"A car is coming. At six."
3
Truett
Maybe it was foolish, letting my mom's words get in my head, but once she mentioned Perfect Pair, I couldn't shake it. I wanted dinner at a restaurant.
I missed it. I know I've been preaching about living off the grid, living in the woods, living on my own, and not needing anyone. And I don't, but my mom's right. There's nothing like a good meal and it's been a while. And sure, I have the prospect of her home-cooking in about a month. But it seems like a long-ass time from now. And the damn newspaper keeps making me drool. Yes, I'm hungry. Yes, I'm lonely. And maybe I'm just man enough to admit those two damn things.
So, I call in a favor.
I met Helena Portapopecolas about six years ago.
I was a fucking fool, 23 in Los Angeles, and didn't know a thing. I'd run into her husband Max at the gym. I wasn't exactly into weightlifting, but I realized that if I was working in a kitchen, I better learn a thing or two about lifting weights because I was putting on the pounds. So I started working out, getting a good routine, and her husband happened to own the gym. Well, that woman of his came around every damn day at lunch with grub.
Now, I grew up with a set of parents who were in love, married, and happy. The whole nine yards. So I knew something about marital bliss, but these two, Helena and Max, I'd never seen anything like it.
That woman walked into his gym, shaking her hips, with her long, manicured nails and her curly black hair. And this man in his mid-fifties turned and looked at her like she was God's gift. Like she was an angel dropped from heaven, and I couldn't help but smile.