His Curvy Enemy - Curvy Girl Dating Agency

“And if I do?”

She smiled. “When you do find love, all I want you to do is write one article for Your Best Bachelor, giving your readers tips on how to romance a woman.”

I scoffed at the bet. At the terms. At Eva’s certainty. “That’s all?”

Eva nodded. “It’ll be more than plenty, I’m sure.”

“If you’re so sure, then you won’t mind upping the stakes a bit.”

“Not at all.”

Perfect. “I want you to be my personal concierge or whatever, to walk me through the matchmaking process. Personally. To make sure I’m giving it the old college try,” I told her before she could object.

“Fine.”

“And when I don’t find love, you’ll write an article telling your readers and mine about the benefits of singlehood.” That might be a bridge too far, but it might also get me out of this crazy bet.

“Done,” she said easily—so easily I started to worry. “See you Monday afternoon. One o’clock sharp.” Then, with a satisfied smile, as if that was what she’d wanted all along, Eva sauntered off.

Victoriously.EvaWhen I woke up on day one of my stupid bet with Oliver, I was already over the idea and trying to find an excuse to delay the inevitable. But I couldn’t—word had spread through town like wildfire and it was buzzing all over social media.

The Matchmaker versus The Bachelor.

By the time I got through my email, press releases, and first-of-the-day social media posts, it was almost lunchtime. Also known as my last moments of peace for the next thirty days. “Dammit.”

“Knock, knock.” Sophie stood in the doorway looking neat and pretty in a light gray dress with a rose-pink cardigan. “Ready for the big day?”

I groaned and leaned back in my seat. “Not you, too, Sophie. I was counting on you to keep the excitement about this to a minimum.” If the professional, often staid, Sophie was eager, then there was no backing out. Not that I planned to.

But I was thinking about it.

“Not excitement, exactly, just anticipation of something new. Okay,” she said and rolled her eyes. “Maybe there is just a little bit of excitement. I mean, this will be huge for the agency; the exposure just from Oliver’s website and podcast should help. A lot.”

That was all true, and the exact reasons that I was only thinking about backing out of the bet. Well, that and the bonus of besting Oliver March. But there was something in Sophie’s voice that gave me pause. “What else aren’t you saying, Soph?”

She sighed, looking from one side to the other to make sure there were no other ears around, and stepped inside the office. “Considering our line of work, it would be remiss of me not to mention the sparks that flew off you and Oliver at The Mayflower.”

Sparks? “Sparks.” The word felt like acid on my tongue and I knew she was wrong. “Those sparks you think you see are of us rubbing each other the wrong way.”

“Eva,” she sighed and took the seat in front of my desk, a placating look on her face. “You guys have chemistry. A ton of it. I’m not matchmaking, it’s just something I want you to think about.” Then, to make sure I thought about it, she stood and walked to the door. “Good luck today.” And with that, Sophie was gone, leaving her words to play in my mind on an endless loop.

Left on my own, I spent about fifteen minutes practicing calming techniques because I knew without a doubt that I’d need to call on every one of them to avoid committing bodily harm against the handsome bachelor. As time ticked away, another thought occurred to me. Oliver was a handsome bachelor. And not just that, he was charming and smart and accomplished—catnip for successful women looking for the right man. This whole ordeal might take significantly less than thirty days, even accounting for expected attempts at sabotage.

By three minutes to the set meeting time, I had some semblance of calm and cool. I took the last few minutes to smooth down my black hair, cinched into what was meant to be an elegant bun but today made me look uptight and professional. The black leather pants hugged all my curves and the gauzy green blouse provided the edgy business-chic look I was going for. My black stilettos gave me the confidence I would need against Oliver’s six-foot-plus frame, so I took one last look at my reflection, satisfied I looked like the professional I was and went out into the lobby to meet my newest client.

Oliver was late. “Of course, he’s late.” There was no way a guy like him would take this seriously. He planned to sabotage my efforts from the very beginning, which meant I would need to be smarter. Cleverer. Sneakier than Oliver. “Let me know if he shows up, Kendra. Please.”