Miss matched, p.1
Miss Matched, page 1
Miss
Matched
Also by Wendy Million
When Stars Fall
Miss
Matched
Wendy Million
Copyright Page
W by Wattpad Books
An imprint of Wattpad WEBTOON Book Group
Copyright© 2023 Wendy Million
All rights reserved.
Published in Canada by Wattpad WEBTOON Book Group,
a division of Wattpad WEBTOON Studios, Inc.
No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the copyright holders.
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First W by Wattpad Books edition: June 2023
ISBN 978-1-99025-959-3 (Trade paper original)
ISBN 978-1-99025-960-9 (eBook edition)
Names, characters, places, and incidents featured in this publication are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, institutions, or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental.
Wattpad Books, W by Wattpad Books, Wattpad WEBTOON Book Group, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Wattpad WEBTOON Studios, Inc. and/or its affiliates. Wattpad and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Wattpad Corp.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available upon request.
Printed and bound in Canada
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Cover design and illustration by Lesley Worrell
Author Photo by Dianne Brandon Photography
For Jay-Jay, who taught me that a second (or third)
chance can deliver the happiest of ever afters.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
When Stars Fall Excerpt
Chapter One
Tayla
With the click of a button, my savings account hits zero. Shouldn’t the moment be punctuated by something? A choir, maybe? Or a flock of doves zipping out of the computer in front of me? Or, since the whole office is decorated like a Valentine’s Day commercial, maybe a herd of hearts? That much cash vacating my account should be celebrated or mourned. Something should happen.
“As soon as the money is deposited, Miss Murphy, we can get started,” the client representative in front of me murmurs. “Wi-Fi must be slow today.” He’s staring intently at his screen.
Fingers of panic crawl up my throat, but I swallow them down. Words my dad used to say ping-pong around my head: You know the good thing about money? You can always make more. Except I spent five years making this money. If things had worked out the way I wanted, I would have gone on a vet exchange sometime within the past two years. Other ideas of what I could have used this money for play on repeat in my head, and the voices pointing out my folly sound a lot like a handful of skeptical friends and family members. A lower mortgage payment, less student debt, or state-of-the-art advancements for my vet clinic. Each would have been a more suitable use for this money, according to them.
Hell, I could have hired an out-of-work actor to pretend to be my husband for a very long time for the same amount of cash.
God, that might have been so much more value for my money. Why didn’t that occur to me sooner?
Because you don’t want just a husband, you want your happily ever after.
That’s one of the taglines for this service, Soulmates Reunited: Happily Ever After, Guaranteed. And I’ve seen the results in person. Whatever magical algorithm they have going, it works—and after a string of failed starts with men from conventional dating apps, I’m done with things that don’t work. No more men who say they’re one thing and turn out to be another.
By coming here, I’ve taken my cue from my best friend, Ruby, who invested in finding her happily ever after with Soulmates Reunited. One trip here. One big fee. One magical meeting with Dean and Ruby was already planning her wedding.
As their frequent third wheel, I can tell they are disgustingly happy. The kind of happy I haven’t been in a very long time. There’s only so long you can be in the presence of that kind of contentment without having your own ache creep in. I want that. How do I get that again? So here I am. Sacrificing my bank account for a shot at lasting love.
“Are you staying in New York long?” Cade, the client representative, asks while we wait for my payment to clear.
“No. I’m headed back to Grand Rapids tonight. Well,” I say with an uneasy laugh, “unless my match is here. He could be anywhere in the world, right?”
“That’s right, but we do find pairings tend to happen geographically or culturally more often. Values and the way people are raised influence who we’re attracted to as life partners.”
“Right, yeah, makes sense.” All of this was explained in a video call before I arrived in New York and sent my money down a virtual tunnel. Nothing I didn’t already know.
The company has flooded the dating market with commercials, a podcast, and even a six-episode season of Soulmates Reunited on my favorite streaming service. I might have watched that series with a bottle of wine on a Saturday night more than once, thinking, I want to feel that again.
Everyone matched. Everyone married. Everyone happy. Soulmates Reunited is ubiquitous, and anyone who can afford to get serious about diving into the deep end of the dating pool seems to be coming here to do it. At some point, it started to feel like I was actively avoiding what was best for me, or at least that’s what Ruby said after my last internet date gone wrong. I had the cash—why not spend it on the thing I wanted most?
Still, it’s nice to be reassured I may not have to move to Australia to meet my match. Although my veterinary license could transfer—at least temporarily—to another country, which I know from applying to exchanges. Could I leave Michigan? Live somewhere else forever? I said yes on the company’s application to get my appointment at the office, and now that’s feeling a bit foolish. A cold sweat breaks out under my armpits.
“Okay,” Cade says, “the payment cleared.” He rises from his seat behind the giant desk and gestures to the hallway. “Your match awaits you at the end of our complex pairing algorithm.”
“There’s no way to get a top five, is there? Choice is good, isn’t it?” My traitorous hand shakes when I stand at the threshold of the narrow, softly lit hallway. The walls are dotted with glowing screens. After a series of personality tests, the last pane will be the name of my soulmate. That’s right. I’ve paid an exorbitant amount of money to enter an arranged marriage.
Well, not really. Whoever pops up on the screen can turn down the match. So there’s that.
Not depressing at all.
“Just the one match,” Cade reminds me without a trace of humor. “As you know, your life partner would have signed up for a matching service to even be in our exclusive database. Whoever you’re matched with is looking for a soulmate.”
“They receive an automatic notification when we’re matched?” My voice quivers. “Is there any way to change that?” Maybe give me a day or two to mull over their name, stalk them on social media, build up some courage?
“If you choose not to pursue your match, you can join the less than one percent of people who reject their pairing. Either way, he’ll be notified of his selection.”
Hold on to Ruby, the little voice in my head reminds me. Matched to Dean and married within six months of meeting, using this service. In six months, I could be married to the love of my life. My savings, the fee, the risk of humiliation—it will have all been worth it. Soulmates Reunited has an uncanny ability to zero in on the person meant for you. Everyone says so, including one person I know personally and trust the most. Ruby called the process magic. She’d never have met Dean otherwise. That’s what I need, a sprinkle of magic to bust me out of my six -year dating funk.
With a deep breath, I step into the hallway and touch the first screen. Before long, I’m deep into questions about family background. The next screen covers the ways I like to express love and have love shown to me. Each topic is harder and forces me to think more critically about what I want from a partner, from myself. The depth of the questions surprises me, and I wonder whether I should have asked more questions of the company. Are the men in the database filling out a questionnaire that’s this detailed? It seems unlikely, but how else are they matching so accurately?
The last screen before the reveal covers past relationships. The first question stops me short.
How did your last long-term relationship end?
Abruptly. I scan the options. Not one of them. In a blur of missed signals? Not there either. Instead I select badly and dramatically. In truth, the situation was more embarrassing than anything. The night we broke up, I thought he was going to propose. Could I have been any more clueless? Even six years later, the memory shoots a spike of anxiety down my spine.
The next question causes me to choke back a laugh.
What has prevented you from forming a lasting relationship?
Using my finger, I scroll through the options. The instructions say I can pick more than one. What’s most accurate? My gaze strays to the same one over and over. Probably the most honest. I tap the word before I lose my nerve. Fear. Being blindsided tends to do that. While I was planning our future in my head, he was crafting our demise. The way he broke up with me was so confusing it made me wonder if I ever knew him at all.
The rest of the questions pass by in a blur as I comment on dating preferences and give my response to multiple dating scenarios. Finding the right answer in fiction is easy. Real life is much messier. How does a computer program account for that?
At the final screen, a big silver button is lit up in the middle. Process Results. My heart kicks, and I stare at the words. Of course I want a result. I paid a lot of money for this moment. Why am I so nervous about hitting that button?
’Cause once you do, you might actually have to pursue a guy, pursue happiness.
No more burying myself in work and Tinder dates. After I press this button, I’ll have the name of the person I’m supposed to be with. Amazing, right?
“Cade,” I call, and even I can recognize I’m stalling. “So, I just hit this button?”
He appears at the end of the hallway, framed by the light behind him. “Yes, Miss Murphy. The program will take a few minutes to run, so you can sit in the armchair at the end of the hall. The screen will alert you when your match has been made.”
He explained the sequence to me before I paid. The woman who called me also took me through the process, and the TV show was quite detailed. Does he realize I’m just nervous?
“Okay, great.” I nod, and, before I lose my nerve, I tap the button.
Across the screen, a bar appears, and numbers run along the top with the words Comparing your unique profile with 5,679,459 others.
“Hey,” I call to Cade again, “there are only five million people in your database?” I was led to believe there were a lot more.
He slides his hands into his pockets, and the hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “That just means there are five million people who share at least twenty data points with you. Anyone else in the database would never be a good match.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I sink into the chair across from the monitor and stare as the numbers on the screen decrease every few seconds. When the number is less than one hundred, I close my eyes as first names streak across the screen. Why does this feel like a gamble? It’s supposed to be a sure thing.
“Tayla Murphy, we have found your match.” The automated voice is surprisingly smooth and soothing.
I crack open an eye. All I can see is my name. I frown and move closer to the screen. Ah, I have to hit the See Result button. Goose bumps form along my arms, and I shake out my hands.
Just press the button. Read the name. See what happens.
With a quick poke, I hit the green arrow.
Tayla Murphy, you have been matched with Simon Buchannan.
I stare at the name in silence for a beat. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter.
“Everything okay?” Cade calls down the hall.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, it’s just . . . I know someone who has the same name as my match. Not the same person, I’m sure. What are the chances?” An uneasy laugh escapes.
Cade wanders down and peers at the screen. “I’ll send their contact details to your phone. You get the city or town they live in and an email address.”
I smooth my fingers across my brow. Of all the names to turn up on the screen, it had to be that one. Never mind. I’m sure this Simon Buchannan is nothing like the one I know. If I let a name throw me off, I might as well have stood around burning my money instead of using it for this. It’s only a name.
“Just sent the details,” Cade says.
“Great, thanks.” I open my email and tap on the Soulmates Reunited message, eager to put this new Simon in place of the old one. Maybe he’ll be from England or Australia after all? I scan the top of the message, which thanks me for choosing Soulmates Reunited, but when I get to Simon’s contact details, my heart stutters to a stop, and a chill streaks across my chest. “Uh, Cade,” I call, “I think there’s been some mistake.”
“Oh?” He’s at the end of the hallway again.
This Simon Buchannan lives in Grand Rapids just like my Simon Buchannan. “Yes, I know who this is. There’s no way we’re a match.”
Cade chuckles. “Sometimes people are surprised by who they’re a good fit for. I know when my wife’s name came up on the screen, I was not expecting her.”
“No,” I say. “No, you don’t understand.” The panic I swallowed earlier is creeping up my throat again. All my money, wasted.
“Let me see.” Cade takes my phone and scrolls through the details. “Ah, he’s from your city. That’s great news.”
“No, no, it’s not.” I let out a frustrated noise and cradle my head in my hands. When I look up, my expression must finally clue Cade in to my distress because the smile drops off his face. “I’ve already dated this Simon Buchannan. He left me for another woman.”
There it is. The ugly truth.
My soulmate already decided I wasn’t his.
Chapter Two
Simon
I’m covered in vomit. When the drunk chick from triage turns pale and covers her mouth, I grab the nearest plastic bin and shove it into her hands. What a fucking day. I check the clock near the nurses’ station before I draw the curtain around her bed. Five more minutes of this dumpster fire shift and I can get the fuck out of here. Aaron wanted to meet for a beer, but I’ll have to text him that I’ll be late. No way I can go like this.
Drunk Chick heaves again, and this time, she mostly hits the bin.
“This is so embarrassing,” she cries, tears streaming down her face. “Why did I have to get a hot male nurse when I’m so, so drunk?”
“It’s true,” I say with a wry grin, “we’re a rare breed. Also, you’re drunk. So it’s possible I’m not as hot as you think.” How she can comment on my attractiveness when I’m covered in a half-eaten kebab and probably smell like shit thanks to the guy behind curtain number two is a mystery. She’s probably seeing two of me anyway.
“God, your eyes are so green. Are they contacts?”
“They’re real.” My hands are braced on her bed rail, and I glance over my shoulder for the doctor.
“Are you single, Simon? Do you want my number?” She gives me a hopeful look, which is almost comical with the mascara running down her face.
“You know, it’s tempting.” I pretend to ponder the request. “Unfortunately, I have a girlfriend.” That’s a lie, but there’s no need to make Drunk Chick feel any worse than she already does. Before she puked on me the first time, she told me she went on a bender because her boyfriend broke up with her on their anniversary.
I have been that shitty boyfriend, so when the contents of her stomach rushed out, dousing my scrubs, I wasn’t even mad. Probably my ex-girlfriends would pay money to watch me being vomited on over and over. At least one of them would. If I’d known it was coming, I could have recorded it for them. Oh, who am I kidding? If I’d known it was coming, I’d have moved out of the way. No one would willingly smell this much like tequila and despair.
