Better Than Tinder

Chapter Six

"So, you're telling me that the date got screwed up because he brought you tansies?!" Simon says from his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And because he told me it's all bullshit," I add with a shrug, trying to downplay his disappointment.

Simon leans back in his chair, a playful smirk on his face. "Oh yeah? Poor you," he feigns mock scandal, placing a hand on his chest dramatically. "Didn't take you for a flower gal."

I roll my eyes. "Well, you know I work with flowers every day, Simon. It's hard not to notice these things," I say, giving him a wry smile.

"God, you're an impossible woman," he groans, shaking his head.

"And we just got started," I retort with a smirk, enjoying our banter.

Simon turns back to his computer, scrolling through his matchmaking database. I follow him with my gaze, noticing the sharp angles of his jawline and the way his hair falls effortlessly over his eyes shifting from blue to a darker green depending on the light.

My mouth dries up momentarily, caught off guard by his attractiveness, but I quickly regain my composure when he glances back at me, likely sensing I was staring.

"I guess I'll search for another date for you then. One that knows this 'language of flowers,'" Simon says, his tone laced with mock seriousness.

"Appreciated," I murmur, taking time to look around the office while he works on his laptop, the only modern thing in this '90s throwback.

In the centre of the room stands his sturdy, laminated desk with a few little holes made by woodworms. A big window lights him up from behind, accentuating his blonde locks, making them appear almost golden in the sunlight... to the left, a bookshelf is full of binders—probably agency financial statements for each year—mixed with books about screenwriting and movies.

On the wall, I spot an old photograph of a man cutting the inauguration ribbon in front of the agency, which once looked sparkly and new. The resemblance to Simon is unmistakable.

"Is that your father?" I inquire, nodding toward the photo.

Simon raises his head from the laptop, following my gaze to the wall. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips. "Yep, that's my old man."

"Guess he got his well-deserved retirement, leaving you in this old dump?" I smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

Simon's expression falters for a moment before he shrugs. "Not that he had much of a choice. He's dead."

Embarrassment floods my body, and I suddenly feel the urge to shrink into the crusty armchair and disappear. "Oh. I'm so sorry, Simon."

Simon waves it off, though I can see a flicker of pain in his eyes. "It's okay. It was a long time ago." He leans back in his chair, his gaze distant. "He built this place from the ground up. I'm just trying to keep it going."

I nod, not trusting myself to say another word.

After a few minutes spent in unyielding silence, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the keyboard, Simon suddenly makes an 'Aha!' sound. He swivels his laptop to face me, a triumphant look on his face. "Ben, 31, from Portland—the city of roses."

He looks so proud of himself that it pains me to tell him, "Simon, he's searching for women older than him."

His face falls as he turns back the laptop with a grumble and I can't help but chuckle.

As he dives back into his search, I can't help but feel a warmth spreading through me. There's something about his determination that makes my heart flutter. And perhaps, just perhaps, the person helping me find love might end up being a part of my own love story.

"Simon," I say softly, making him look up from his screen, "Thank you. I really appreciate all the effort you're putting into this."

His eyes soften, and for a moment, the professional veneer slips, revealing the kind, genuine man underneath. "It's my pleasure, Ava. My father always said: God Creates, Destiny Matches Pairs."