Set Up: Taking Chances, #1

By TC Matson

TC Matson delivers a love story with hilarious laugh out loud moments and a ton of push and pull.

 

There's nothing wrong with being single.
I'm not a woman scorned.
There's no heartbreak I'm recovering from.
I just enjoy not having to answer to anyone and doing what I want when I want.
Unfortunately, my two wonderful best friends think the opposite and decide to meddle.
Just because they're both happily taken, they believe I should be too.
Their "wonderful" plan?
Speed dating…
A bunch of men and women tossed into a room for a night of awkward dates.
Sounds horrific, right?
But because my signature was forged on the contract, there's no canceling.

Three men catch my attention.
One steals my heart.
Another steals my time.
And the last one steals my patience.

It doesn't take long for my heart to betray me and I fall for a billionaire who shatters me.
Now I'm left picking up the pieces and he won't leave me alone.
Great…Just frickin' great.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TC Matson
• Release date: Feb 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393624950

Book preview

Chapter One

Brooklyn

Speed dating? That’s your brilliant idea?

Shyla, one of my senile best friends, nods like she’s had too much coffee. Aimee, the other partner in crime, grins and agrees with the ridiculous idea.

Right now, I don’t know who these people are.

Completely brilliant, Aimee voices whose side she’s truly on.

And news flash—it’s not mine. If it was, she’d be against this load of bullshit.

Look. You sit for five minutes, talk, and move on to the next. There’s no pressure to have to date and deal with it for hours trying to figure out a way to bail, Shyla says.

These two are insane. They’ve lost their ever-loving minds. This is a horrible idea.

But for entertainment purposes only, I ask, How long is the event?

Shyla begins to chew on the side of her lip. I know that look. It’s her telltale sign I’m going to hate the answer.

Three hours, Aimee answers instead, a little too bubbly. But! She holds up her finger. You have a minute in between dates.

My eyes almost bulge out of my skull. Three hours? I nearly shout and then look up to the ceiling to do a little math. One-hundred and eighty minutes. Five-minute dates with a minute-long break. If my eyes were bulging before, who the hell knows what they’re doing now. That’s thirty guys!

I’m going to murder them.

Shyla holds up her hands. Look. I know what you’re thinking. I—

Thirty first dates that all begin and end awkwardly, I interrupt shaking my head. No. My answer is no. Not only no, but hell no. I’m not doing it.

You really need to get back into the dating game, Aimee says over the rim of her wine glass.

Why? I’m content being single. I’m happy. If Mr. Right pops up, I’ll jump his bones, but I’m not interested in watching a revolving door of show ponies pass in front of me.

What if your Mr. Right is there looking for his Mrs. Right? Shyla says nonchalantly, like she does this every weekend. She doesn’t. She’s engaged—happily engaged—to the man of her dreams who she met three years ago at a grocery store after backing her vibrant red Volkswagen Bug into his nice little gold Mercedes.

It was love at first wreck.

It’s a damn bachelor buffet. All you can eat men with different side dishes. I’m not hungry. I might as well have added a huff with a foot stomp there.

I bet your vag is begging to be fed, Aimee says with a brow cocked up high.

I glare at her. "My vag is just fine."

Okay, that’s a lie. It’s been eleven months. Eleven. You don’t have enough fingers to count how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid. The horror. But I’m that girl. You know, the one who can’t have sex for the fling of it because her morals and emotions get in the way. I have to have somewhat of an emotional connection in order for me to lie in bed with a man. Life would be easier if I could just love ‘em and leave ‘em, but nope. I have to be difficult.

I’d do it if I were in your position, Aimee says. It’s been almost a year.

My position? Like it’s a bad thing? It’s not. I’m fine. I’m happy. I love my job working as a pharmacy technician, my down time with my friends, my nights reading by the fire, and whatever else I want without having to make sure it’s okay with someone else.

I love my independence. Sue me.

Then you come with me, I fire back at Aimee.

I have a boyfriend, she replies with a laugh.

I blow a huff. Well, your boyfriend sucks.

No he doesn’t, she snaps back with a warning scowl.

God, you’re so right. I sigh. He doesn’t.

William, her boyfriend, is the best. He’s always doing sweet things for Aimee and the way that man looks at her is like she’s the air he needs to breathe. He spoils her with so much love and affection that sometimes he makes me want a boyfriend. Sometimes. And let’s not forget about all the boasting she does about their sex life. The man deserves a gold medal from what she describes.

Shyla sets her glass on the table and pours herself some more wine. At least try it. It may be fun. If not, no harm done.

If I agree to do this, will you two quit hounding me? I’m really okay. I swear. Whether you two believe me or not, I enjoy being single.

Aimee and Shyla share a look and a small grin—a silent victory. I feel like I’ve just made a deal with the devil’s wife. Why the wife and not the devil? Because that bitch was crazy to even give him a chance.

Shyla holds her glass up in a toast. I promise to leave you alone for a little while.

Skeptically, I narrow my eyes. How long is a little while?

Months. Four of them. Scout’s honor. She puts up two fingers and kisses them.

Aimee does the same. Me too.

Fine. I’ll freaking do it, I agree, but I’m not happy about it. Not one bit.

Good, Shyla says. I signed you up already. It’s this Friday.

As in tomorrow?

She grins. Yes.

If I didn’t love you…I’d hate you and have no qualms about throat punching you. Both of you.

We laugh.

Truth is, they are the best of friends who mean the world to me. And I know their meddling is out of love. I just wish they’d believe me when I say I love my single life instead of trying to play match makers.

Chapter Two

Brooklyn

I hate my friends. Have I said that yet? If not, let me make it very clear, I’m going to strangle them. All day long, I was so nervous at work. I dropped everything I touched. Poor Mr. Southers might have floor lint in his cholesterol medicine. That bottle and those pills took a spill, and before anyone could see, I scooped them up. Not protocol. But figuring it was the fourth script I’d dropped, I needed to cover it up the best I could.

Once quitting time was here, I only had two hours to get ready for Insta-Dates. I took a long hot shower and then argued with my closet and every piece of clothing in it until I found the perfect outfit—a red dress, short at the knees, flowy around the waist, and shows off my girls. I may not want to do this, but I still want to flaunt it. And while I’m at it, I add my favorite pair of black heels. Might as well go full-blown hot dayum.

My Uber driver, a quiet older man, drove as if he had fine china in the back before he dropped me off at the address Shyla had sent me. The brick building with a black metal awning looks nothing like a dating spot. More like a speakeasy. I check the address for the hundredth time and then head in.

The hostess bursts into a massive smile, showing off white teeth. Hey! she says bubbling. Welcome to Insta-Dates. I’m Josephine. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?

Um, Brooklyn Anderson.

I watch as the tip of her pen scrolls down the list of names before she places a check beside my name. She gathers a stock card, an index card, and a pencil and hands them to me. This is your scorecard to help you remember who you liked enough for a second date. And this, she holds up the longer card, are our rules. You’re more than welcome to introduce yourself by first name, but we highly recommend you refrain from using your last, for privacy reasons of course. Also, no exchanging of phone numbers. If you’re interested in someone past this date, you contact us and we’ll contact them. It helps take the rejection out of it if you or they are not interested.

I’m nodding, but truthfully, bolting out the door sounds better.

After our contact, it’ll be up to you and the dater to set up the dates. I advise public settings where you feel the safest. Most of the daters here normally pick five to six gentlemen and set up dates every day of a single week so they’re not stringing everyone along.

Wait. I shift on my heels. The dates. Are they required?

Her green eyes do a little amused dance that has my stomach dropping. At least one is, but we strive for five or six. Sometimes there are more, but that can cause confusion. We’re here to help find love, not muddle up the heart.

What in the hell did Shyla get me into?

Right. I don’t think I knew about the dating part.

It’s all in the agreement you signed when you bought your ticket, Miss Anderson, she replies.

Well, fuck you, Shyla.

Oh. I guess I overlooked that part. My nervous laugh rumbles out of me. Sorry.

She smiles again, nodding toward a tinted glass door. Enjoy your evening. Good luck.

I’m going to kill Shyla. Murder her slowly. Stab her in each palm with my heels. She completely failed to mention a mandatory date.

WOMEN: to the right. MEN: to the left.

Great. We’re in the fifties.

After deciding to go light on my alcohol intake and grabbing a glass of red wine, I park my back against the far back wall and wait…still debating on bolting out the door. Not even five minutes later an older woman with jet black hair steps in and up onto a podium.

Good evening, ladies, she shouts, grabbing everyone’s attention and quieting the room. Welcome to Insta-Dates. I have just a few guidelines to go over. Keep your personal information to yourself. Try to give everyone a fair chance. And if you’re here just for sex, you’ve got the wrong place. We are not a bordello and there’s an app for that. Just swipe right. She flips her hair off her shoulder. You’ll have five minutes with each man and a one-minute break between so they can move to the next table. Be respectful and don’t keep them hanging around. Check their box and let them go. After the night is over, we open up our bar for all. You can continue to mingle with the men who catch your attention. If you and your date are on the same page and want a date, please make sure you follow the rules and contact us first. That way there is absolutely no confusion. We are all respectful and beautiful women, so absolutely no fighting.

Fighting over a stranger? Wow.

Any questions?

Yeah. Am I allowed to leave anytime I want? Take off running out the door? God, I hate Shyla so much right now.

I don’t ask. I remain silent just like the rest of the women here.

She smiles. Enjoy your time, ladies.

We’re all seated at small individual tables large enough to set our drinks on with our numbers printed on a folded stock card to sit in the middle. I’m lucky number twenty-one.

Once we’re all settled, a stern-looking man dressed in a white button down and black slacks with hard lines etching his face enters. As he opens the double doors, men begin to pile in.

The buzzer sounds, you move, he calls out. Begin.

---

First up, I shall dub him surfer, based solely on his blond swooping long hair.

He sticks his hand out. I’m Jared.

Brooklyn.

Free drinks, am I right?

I hate his laugh. And who the hell says that? Sigh…he’s probably nervous and I should cut him a break.

Thankfully, I came prepared after scouring the internet for good speed dating questions. Sure. Is this your first time?

His eyes are blue, a light blue, kind of like the ocean waters on a Windows screen saver. Nope. Second time. Tried it about a year ago. Nothing panned out. They didn’t match me up quite well. You like to hike?

Never tried it.

He writes something on his card. Did I just get Xed because I’ve never hiked, walked through the paths of rugged nature, or run from a hungry bobcat? Do bobcats eat humans?

What about swimming?

Yes. Love it.

Another mark. What the hell?

You live alone?

He irks me. If I say I live with my ex-husband and four kids, will that grant me another mark on your card?

He doesn’t even smile as he stares me dead in the eyes and marks the damn card.

Where the hell is the buzzer?"

Like to drink?

I arch my brow and glance to my wine.

Mark.

Are those good or bad marks? I ask.

He lifts a shoulder. It’s neither. I don’t do checks or X’s unless I have good reason. I created a tally mark system. It’s genius.

Really? Genius? Tell me about it. It sounds intriguing. Not at all, but I need to know about my marks.

Well, on one side I have good traits and on the other, I have bad.

Hmmm… I hum, feigning interest. What side is what? How do you keep from getting mixed up? I pry.

For me to know and not you, he states flatly.

Aren’t you fun… I reply as dryly as the driest desert in Dryland that hasn’t seen rain in thirty years.

Mark.

Betcha that was a bad one.

Buzz!

Thank god. What a drab. I think they should require a personality to do this.

---

After an hour and a half of unnatural interaction in this meat grinder of an assembly line of boring men, Scott Eastwood’s stunt double sits across from me with the prettiest light brown eyes.

I’m a race car driver.

I giggle. I’m a non-watcher of said race car driver.

He smiles. Declan. His voice is deep and smooth, and it sounds really good.

Brooklyn, I reply flirtatiously. So you drive a race car? That sounds fun.

Actually, it’s the truck series, but yes. It has its perks. He places his forearm on the table, leaning closer. What about you? Who is Brooklyn?

I’m the fastest and bestest prescription filler this side of the Mississippi, I titter. Nothing great like you, but I save the people one prescription at a time.

His light brown eyes are such a unique shade, lighter around the pupils darkening toward the outer bands. They shine as he smiles. So you’re a hero. I like that.

I keep my cape folded in my purse for when I need to snap it on quickly.

He laughs. Is this your first time here?

Yes. I was suckered into it. The real question is, why are you here?

He lifts a shoulder. Figured I’d try something new. I recently moved and I don’t have a lot of time to meet people naturally.

Keyword is naturally. This is far from it, I reply.

Isn’t that the truth.

Buzz!

He warms me with a smile. It was nice meeting you.

You too. Good luck.

He’s chuckling as he moves to the next table over, occasionally peeking over to me with a bored look. I’m assuming that date isn’t going so well.

---

Another hour passes of horrible first dates ending awkwardly. The guys move to the next table and we get to watch each other experience another first date at arm’s length. Talk about scrutiny. Some guys have been fun, others a little creepy, some not my type, but all leave me without an emotional connection.

My head freaking hurts. As the buzzer