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CHAPTERONE

Have I mentioned how much I hate the holidays? Obviously not because someone in the office decided playing Boney M’s Oh Christmas Tree was a good idea. I already woke up on the wrong side of life today, and regret not calling in dead, and now I must contend with this nonsense. I may just kill someone, and I have no doubt Lunchroom Murder Becomes Me would make it a great addition to Hallmark’s collection of cheesy and predictable Christmas movies. Sadly, committing a murder isn’t on my to-do list today, or ever. Being the boss is one thing, but being the boss’ daughter? Even worse. Most of the time I’m expected to be on my best behavior, and most of the time I fail. But it’s not as if dear ol’ Dad can fire me. He needs me, and sometimes I think he loves me, but more than anything he wants me to take over his company. And soon. I’m still deciding how I feel about that, the big man upstairs and I aren’t really on speaking terms simply because He didn’t give me an older brother to carry all my father’s expectations. Nope. It’s all on me. Some might say I act out because of it, but they’d be wrong — I came into this world staging a rebellion, and have yet to find a good enough reason to stop. Anyway, back to this thing I call a job. Blowing a strand of hair from my face, I rush past Ruby, the receptionist, and cringe at how sparkly the rim of her desk looks because of all the tinsel, and the miniature Christmas tree in the corner. Puke.

“Morning, Avril,” she greets. She stands, and the moment I see the stack of papers in her hands, I pick up my pace. “These are your—”

“Mail them to me,” I reply, not in the mood to answer any messages today. Not going to happen. I’m already late, and not looking my best. Thank the Pope it’s just a teleconference, and not an in-person presentation because my hairdryer fucked out, and I forgot to do my washing yesterday. I make a dash for my office, and dump everything I don’t need before hightailing it to the conference room where my father is waiting. He frowns when I burst through the door with the grace of an elephant, and haphazardly toss my presentation files on the conference room table. All that hustling around has me breathless, so I take a minute to tame the erratic beat of my heart while my father looks at me with a mixture of disapproval, and yes, amusement. Ralph Bennet is all of forty-six years young, and the marketing agency — Bennet Media — is his brainchild. I won’t bore you with too many details, but Dad became really successful, really quickly, and has this grand notion that I’m going to take his place as CEO when I’m thirty. Take note: as of a week ago, that’s two years from now. Let me save you from the math, okay? Dad was eighteen when I was born. My incubator — he still refers to her as my mother, I do not— skipped out on us within two weeks of my grand entrance into this world, and left Dad to do it all solo. Well, kind of. His parents helped a lot, especially while Dad worked on building his business, but he’s never remarried. Dated? Unfortunately. The city is teeming with gold diggers, and my dad is in love with the idea of love (again, puke), but most of the women he’s dated always give him that dreaded ultimatum: either them, or me. The sad part is they think they’re going to be the chosen one, but in the end, it’s always me and Dad. Before I can worry about him being alone for another Christmas holiday, he clears his throat, and says, “You’re late, Avril.”

I check my watch. “I mean, it’s only fifteen minutes, Ralph.” I’m not allowed to call him Dad or Daddy in the office. Here it’s Ralph, all for the sake of professionalism. It’s not a secret that I’m his daughter, but whatever makes his heart happy, you know? “Besides, my presentation is done, and I sent it to Daphne Delacort last night.” I grin, pretty pleased with myself. Sure, working for my father can be challenging, but it’s not like I hate my job. I’m actually a pretty freakin’ good ad executive, and no one can ever accuse me of getting this position because Ralph is my sperm donor. Nope. I started in the mailroom when I was sixteen. While my friends were going out after school, and being teenagers, I was working. And now I’m an executive with my own portfolio of accounts, and clients who ask for me by name when approaching us to design and manage the campaigns for their luxury brands. He’s about to open his mouth when the phone on the desk rings. He leans over, accepts the call, and starts conversing with our newest client. Daphne Delacort inherited her father’s luxury yacht-building company, and has asked that we design a campaign for her newest fleet of super yachts. I’ve been working on the brief for weeks now, and if her voice is anything to go by, she must be pleased.

“This is great, Ralph. Avril certainly takes after you when it comes to the visual aspects of advertising, and understanding the target demographic.” Yada yada yada, I’ve heard this all before. Ralph smirks, and looks up at me. “I’m pleased you’re happy, Daphne. We’ll start campaign roll-out as soon as you iron out the final details with Avril.” He clears his throat, and I notice the blush in his cheeks when he asks, “Did you receive my invite to our annual Christmas Gala?” Why’s he blu— Oh. Ohhh. Dad so has a thing for Daphne and I can’t really fault him. She’s ten years older than me, slender build, tall like Dad, long brown hair. Reminds me of Kathrine Heigl. Sans blonde hair, of course. “I did, Ralph. I’d love to be your plus one this year.” A small part of me sighs in relief because I would have been Dad’s plus one this year, and if he’s taking Daphne, it means I can skip the whole shindig and veg out on my couch instead. I got over the fanfare of it all after my eighteenth birthday. The dressy gowns, the glamour, the stench of New York money lingering amidst the smell of Channel No. 5. It no longer appeals to me, but this event is always the talk of the town in our circles. Which means if I can skip the whole charade, I most definitelt will.

“Good,” he straightens his tie as if she can see him, “I’ll have my assistant reach out to you to make final arrangements.”

“Perfect. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Dad says goodbye, and before I can tease him about his crush on our newest client, he bursts my bubble. “Have you let Penny know you’re coming to the gala? It’s on Saturday, or have you forgotten?” Penny is Dad’s assistant, and my best friend. We’re the same age, and she’s been working for Dad for almost a decade. But, “No, because I’m not going this year. I told you last year was the last one for me unless you couldn’t find a suitable date, but now you have. Nice choice, by the way.” The last gala was a disaster, to be honest. My boyfriend at the time — who is now my ex — got caught fucking a waitress in a storage closet about half-way through the gala, and I was mortified. But the real scandal was how I punched him infront of a ballroom full of guests and clients. More than once. It wasn’t even a case of my feelings being hurt, I wasn’t that into him anyway, but I lost my shit because I was embarrassed.

“And I told you it doesn’t work that way. You’re not only an employee, Avril. You’re my daughter, and I expect you to be there. No exceptions.” He stands. “You don’t have a choice. I’ll let Penny know you’re attending. You can drive with me and Daphne.”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m not going, Dad. I don’t even have a date.”

“There’s an app for that, find someone to bring along. Just make sure he’s not like what’s-his-face, okay? I can’t have you photographed giving a man a bloody nose, and breaking your hand in the process. We’ve done that already.” He winks, and promptly leaves me in the conference room, slack-jawed. And he even whipped out his dad-voice, which means I really, really don’t have a choice. Fuck my life.

And how does he know about dating apps? I mean, he’s not technology-averse, or terrible at using it, but a dating app? Dad would never. The rest of the day is a blur. It’s one meeting after another, and I’m the grumpiest person in the office by the time I leave. The Christmas songs drove me crazy, and if it weren’t for all the meetings, I’d have stayed in my office and listened to anything else on my noise-cancelling headphones. Hell, even Taylor Swift is better than the rubbish in the office, and I only listen to her music because it hits the sweet spot when I’m feeling nostalgic. I only really get out of my funk when I get home, and kick my heels off at the door. I’m about to shut it when my neighbor’s cat comes strolling in. I bend at the waist, and rub her behind her ears. “Hungry?” I ask. She meows and skips to the kitchen where she knows I have cat food. I don’t own a cat, but for whatever reason, Chocolate — I didn’t name her — prefers my company to Larry’s, who’s her real owner. He’s a real tool, and I suspect he leaves Chocolate home alone a lot, which is how she came to sleep in my apartment. Once she’s fed, she curls up on the couch, and I wander to my bedroom in search of some warmer clothes. It’s snowing outside, and I hate the cold almost as much as I hate the holidays. On a whim, I decide to defrost in the tub, and rather than read on my kindle, I’m looking at some dating apps on my phone. Ugh. This is a new low for me. I’ve never had to resort to an app to find a man, but Dad hasn’t given me much choice in the matter. There’s no time to really go out and meet someone the way I prefer, and Dad won’t take no for an answer. Also, the last thing I want is to show up solo to the biggest event on Bennet Media’s calendar. Even Penny is going with a date, though it’s hardly a surprise since she’s been dating Luke from IT for almost three years now. They’re the epitome of a romance novel, and no one will be shocked if he pops the question during the most festive time of the year. And he’s a decent guy, too, but absolutely not my type. Penny, however, is besotted with him. Puffing out a breath, I scroll through my options, one more bleak than the other. Tinder? Hard no. Not even if I was desperate to get laid. Bumble? Also a hard no. Because most women don’t realize the same men who are trolling Tinder for some poor unsuspecting victim to bang for a night are over on Bumble pretending to be ‘looking for the one’. I mean, sure, you hear about people meeting the love of their life on these stupid apps all the time, there are hundreds of blog posts written about the couples who meet and fall in love and get married, but I’m rather old-school. I like meeting people in the out, as in bars, and restaurants and occasionally when I’m buying ice-cream at the grocery store because I’m on my period. But an app? God. What’s next? An app for sperm donors? Never mind, I see that already exists. I stop scrolling when I see Plenty of Fish. The reviews are terrible, but it looks like a safe-ish place to meet someone you can use for a night. Like an escort type set-up without the actual hooking up part. At least, that’s what the reviews say.

And what’s with the name? Plenty of Fish? If it’s a play on plenty of fish in the sea they’re about two decades too late because all the good fish are either gay, or taken. Idiots. The app developers, not the men who are gay or taken. Regardless, it looks like I have little choice. I download the app, and go about setting up my profile. “Keep it simple,” I remind myself. “It’s just for one night.” It’s not like I plan on turning it into a one-night stand, either. That’s not what I’m into, no matter how sexually frustrated I am. I have a really good vibrator for that situation.

26. Single. In need of a date to an awkward and over-the-top Christmas Gala this coming weekend. You must be good-looking, rich is a bonus, have a good poker face, never tell a soul we met on this app, and be willing to make idle small talk for an entire evening. You should also be smart. I don’t want to see you again after this — ever. Free food and drink included in this one night offer. (You will need to own a suit, preferably designer because I have an image to maintain.) Willing to meet at least once before the event to talk details, but no more than that.

Pretentious? Probably. But I do have an image, and as much as I hate that I have to go at all, I know how I represent Bennet Media matters to Dad, and to our clients. It’s one of the few things I dislike about my job, but it’s a necessary evil. I go about setting the parameters, fiddling with age, and height, and heck, even how far apart we must be. Guys my age are stupid (my grandmother always told me they’re only house trained by thirty-five if you’re lucky), so I opt for forty-five to sixty, just to keep the net cast wide. Has to be taller than me, I’m five-seven, and can’t live anywhere within a thirty-mile radius because then I run the risk of bumping into him again. Though I am serious about meeting in-person at least once because if I show up with a total stranger, everyone will know. How long have you known each other? Oh, you know, just the requisite five minutes it takes to determine if they’re good in bed, a serial killer, or thick as pig shit. That’ll go down real well with Dad, and while our clients might get a laugh out of it — because no one takes me seriously most of the time — Dad won’t. I might be a rebel without a cause, but I can’t stand the idea of embarrassing my father, or even letting him down. Which is why I’m on this app to begin with. Happy with the finer details, I snap a saucy selfie in the tub (above the boobs, of course), add a few others, include a picture of Chocolate and hit save.

The worst that can happen is I don’t like anyone I match with, and end up going stag — because I’m going one way or another, Dad was adamant about that — or, if I’m lucky, I’ll match with someone who is at least semi-decent and can hold a conversation. Then again, if all else fails, I’ll take Chocolate.

I hear a meow next to the tub, and roll my head. “Right, Choccy? You’ll be my date, right?”

Meow.

Good enough for me.

* * *

It’s late by the time I call it a night. I received an email from Daphne, and then hopped on a video chat with her to refine the campaign she’s so excited about. It’s a big campaign, and more often than not, a good campaign means client retention. And Daphne Delacort is someone I would like to keep at Bennet Media. Though I suspect Dad might have the same idea, but obviously in a different capacity. And I’m okay with that because not only is she a genuinely nice person, she’s also independently wealthy which means she’s not dating Dad for his money. Chocolate meows when I pick her up, and take her to my room. Larry isn’t home — he’s away more than he’s home — so Chocolate is spending the night. At this rate, I think I’m going to keep her, she’s happy here and I quite like having her to come home to. She purrs when I get her situated on the spare pillows, and then crawl under the super king down duvet covering my bed. My phone chimes, and I check it one more time before I put it on Do Not Disturb. If I don’t, I’ll never get any sleep because my social media is always going bonkers, and my work email just never stops. I have to set a boundary for the sake of my sleep cycle, and my mental health. Then I see the notifications on the Plenty of Fish app, and groan. Once I’d set my profile up, I sort of just left it alone and carried on working. Out of sight, out of mind, you know? But now, I have to look at it because I have four days before the Christmas Gala, and that’s hardly enough time to find a date and have a dress made. I could use the dress I wore the year before, but I think it still has blood stains on it. I make a quick note to call my friend, Oakley, in the morning, and ask her if she can fit me in at the last minute for a dress, before opening the damn app. And I’m cringing from the very first match. If you can even call it that. Twenty-five men, and I can immediately tell that only five of them are who they say they are. Google Reverse Image Search is both a blessing and a curse, but in my case, it’s just saved me a whole lot of time, and bullshit. I scrutinize the five remaining matches, rule out another three because they clearly didn’t understand the assignment, and then save the last two.

Richard. 40. Lawyer. Baltimore, MA.

What? I frown at the screen. Whoever left that scathing review about the app’s algorithm was right because how did I match with someone three hours away? I’m hot, but not so hot that a complete stranger would drive three hours to attend a function with someone they met on their goddamn phone for a few hours at most. Unless they want it to become a sleepover, and if so, it’s another bozo who didn’t understand the damn assignment. And it’s not hard to understand. I just need a good-looking man, with money and a designer suit, and a functioning brain, to attend this gala with me and then leave. No sleepover. No see-you-again. Not even a let-me-kiss-you-goodnight. I need him to fill a place, look good on my arm, and yes, make me look like I’m not the poor single daughter of the hosting company’s CEO. Easy. I’m pretty sure my profile doesn’t stutter.

Richard is an immediate no.

Which leaves me with:

Macallan. 46. Hotelier & Venture Capitalist.

Only in town for the holidays.

Hmm. This has potential. And the best part? He is who he says he is, his images match the reverse image search and I can’t help but acknowledge the man is attractive. Built, tall, tan skin, dark hair, and yes, wealthy. And he can’t be stupid if he’s a hotelier and a venture capitalist, which is another win. I also feel like I should know his hotel franchise, but the logo is fuzzy, so it’s difficult to make out. It just feels like I know it. A little more unsettling, I feel like I know him.

Shoving that uncertainty aside — I’m not in a position to be picky, nor do I have time to be picky — I tap on his profile, and for whatever reason, the app fucks out and message bombs him on my behalf before I get a chance to look at his full profile.