Better Than Tinder

Chapter One

'Better than Tinder,'  Lola says, who found love with Destiny Matches.

I close my phone, releasing a sigh that billows into the cold January air. If Lola's right, maybe there's hope for me yet. After all, my grandmother's not getting any younger; she's 81 and dead set on seeing me in white before she kicks the bucket.

Being single is my choice. After enduring a series of dates with men who harboured peculiar fetishes for feet or possessed dubious hygiene habits, I've begun to see the appeal of embracing spinsterhood. To preserve my sanity, at least.

I walk towards this seemingly magical Marriage Agency, inhaling the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts sold in the nearby park, listening to the laughter of kids skating on the frozen lake.

It's a small town. But it's nice.

My phone buzzes, indicating that I've reached my destination. I glance at it again in disbelief: there's no way the quaint building in front of me, with its yellowed shutters and a weathered sign that reads 'est 1994', could possibly be the place promising to magically find my soulmate.

I push open the creaky door, the faint jingle of a bell announcing my arrival. Inside, the atmosphere is surprisingly cozy, with soft lighting and mismatched armchairs that look plucked from a grandmother's living room. A middle-aged woman with a warm smile greets me from behind a vintage wooden desk cluttered with papers.

I come closer to the reception desk and can't help but notice an old PC sitting on it, its beige casing yellowed with age. It's been ages since I've seen one of these relics from the early '90s.

"Ava. Ava Welsh, I called for a consultation," I say, introducing myself.

The woman smiles wider. "Miss Welsh, yes, I remember you. Can you please fill out these forms while I call Mr. Adler?" she asks, handing me what seems like a ton of paperwork.

I sit on one of the saggy armchairs that smells faintly of cigarettes and start to fill out the forms. Name, age, weight, height, who I am looking for, bla, bla, bla.

My mind drifts to why the hell I am here, sitting in a derelict office that reeks of old cigarettes, checking boxes about whether I prefer blondes or brunettes, and waiting for a man who's probably a bald, old geezer with outdated views about women belonging in the kitchen.

Just as I'm about to toss the pen down in frustration, the door to the back office swings open. Suddenly, it's as if the gates of Olympus have parted, bathing the room in a golden glow.

Alright, maybe I'm exaggerating, but wow.

Standing there is a man who looks like he walked straight out of a GQ magazine. He's tall, blonde, and exuding an air of quiet confidence. Definitely not the bald, old geezer I had imagined. My brain does a double-take, and I can practically hear my grandmother cackling in delight from miles away.

"Miss Welsh, I'm Simon Adler. It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, extending a hand. His voice is rich and smooth, like melted chocolate with a hint of something warm and comforting

I stare at his hand, dumbfounded, like he just told me my cat died. After an awkward beat, I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping over the saggy armchair in the process. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Adler," I manage to say, my voice a tad too high-pitched. I grab his hand, trying to give a confident shake but probably coming off more like a flustered teenager.

His grip is firm, and his smile is disarmingly genuine. "I hope you can help me find what I'm looking for," I blurt out, immediately cringing at how desperate that sounded.

He chuckles softly, a warm sound that makes me want to join in, though I have no idea what's funny. "That's what we're here for," he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Sure, sure," I say, trying to act cool and failing spectacularly. "Lead the way."