The Experiment Read online

  The Experiment

  Jennifer Edlund

  The Experiment is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2013 Montlake Romance

  Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Edlund

  More novels by Jennifer Edlund:

  Forever Blue

  Forever Blue: New Tears to Cry, Old Songs to Sing.

  A special thanks to all the men who made this novel possible. Bad dates make the world go round.

  January 1, 2013

  Sparks101.com-I Teach Women How Men Think

  Hello future readers!

  This whole blog thing is relatively new to me, so please bear with me as I try to get through my first entry.

  Well, first off, my name is Holly Sparks. I am a matchmaker, owner, and the CEO of Quality not Quantity, a matchmaking club based out of Los Angeles, California. My club is an elite service offered exclusively to millionairesses—in other words, I cater strictly to women. Men who would like to be recruited as potential matches for any of my ladies are encouraged to sign up, FREE of charge, of course!

  As the name of my company would suggest, I go beyond matchmaking and coach women who come to me on all things love and romance, giving them the much-needed relationship advice they are so desperately seeking. While their bank accounts, trust funds, or inheritances may be in very good shape, the ladies who work with me know that they can trust me to help them build an equally impressive dossier when it comes to snagging Mr. Right—or at least have some fun in the process.

  What makes me an expert in my field? Well, over four-years ago before my mother, Darlene Sparks, passed away from a short-fought battle with breast cancer, she handed Quality not Quantity over to me. My mother was an amazing person and an extraordinarily talented matchmaker, loved and adored by many of the happy couples she’d helped to unite. Over the years, I watched my mother and learned not only from her, but also from my grandmother, Geraldine, the first generation of Quality not Quantity, who is seventy-six and thriving! It is an honor and a privilege to step into my mother’s shoes and continue the love-linking legacy.

  As for me, I’m twenty-nine, and I make my home in “The Garden Spot of the World,” Beverly Hills, California. I have a boyfriend of four years, Matthew, who I am madly in love with. Between you and me, I think he’s going to pop the question any day now. Before I met Matthew, I had been through the wringer in the dating world. I’m just grateful to have that part of my life all worked out now.

  So why did I decide to start a blog? My assistant, Emma, thought it would be a great New Year’s resolution and a way for me to try something new. Who knows, maybe it will gain me some notoriety or exposure, but my true intent with this blog is to provide you with FREE love and dating advice.

  Before I sign off, not to steal any thunder from Beyoncé, but I just want to give a shout out to all the single ladies out there: if you follow my rules, I guarantee to help you weed out the losers and find true love.

  XOXO!

  Holly Sparks

  www.qualitynotquanityclub.com

  Lesson 1

  February 14, 2013

  Holly Sparks rushed down the side streets of Wilshire Boulevard like a football player dodging defenders. It was Valentine’s Day, and she was late for one of the most important dinners of her life.

  That early evening, the streets of Beverly Hills were crowded with curious tourists, people coming out of theaters, and patrons who’d gathered outside on café patios and bistros.

  Holly finally slowed down to a panic walk as she coached one of her clients, Gillian Booth, through a first date. Leave it to Holly to be on the job while on her way to a dinner date. An ear bud was comfortably tucked inside her ear and a tiny microphone was clipped on the neckline of her brand new high-waisted Chanel dress. Holly’s assistants had wired Gillian up less than an hour earlier, and all systems were go thus far.

  Gillian Booth, a high-end fashion merchandiser, was an attractive fifty-one-year old with long black hair and leathered colored skin. Her legs were well toned and supported a healthy, attractive figure, thanks in great part to her five-day-a-week yoga routine. On that particular night, the single-and looking female was dressed to thrill. She wore curve hugging jeans, and the sexiest low-cut turquoise blouse she could find. Its flowy fabric rested gently against her braless chest—come on, she hadn’t paid for a new set of beauties just to hide them.

  The divorcee hadn’t been on a date since before she’d met her ex-husband. As such, she was a little rusty when it came to the dating game. Holly assured Gillian that with just a little coaching to bring her up to speed, she’d have Gillian back in the swing of things in no time. Holly just had to throw her the first home run pitch.

  For weeks, Holly had combed through nearly every eligible bachelor in Los Angeles who met Gillian’s requirements. “He has to be tall, good looking, rich, and like kids. Oh, what the hell—just find me a George Clooney lookalike and we are good to go.”

  Nearly all the millionairesses in Holly’s club had same familiar far-fetched notion in their heads, fantasies about Mr. Perfect, as if it was their divine right to be matched up with someone as remarkable as George Clooney. In reality, most of the wealthy bachelorettes were far from perfect themselves, not nearly as well equipped or as stellar as their bank accounts. Nevertheless, the sizable trust funds, alimony payments, inheritance, or life savings they’d piled up gave them a false sense of entitlement, as though they were God’s gifts to men.

  Holly couldn’t exactly find Gillian’s George Clooney lookalike, but at least she found someone with the same first initial—a man by the name of Gregory would have to do. The two had only seen pictures of each other up until that point, but Holly was sure she’d picked the winning ticket. After all, her knack for matchmaking had been passed down from three generations of women in her family.

  “Gillian, just be yourself, okay?” Holly said as she searched for a restaurant called, Spago. “Oh, and let him start the conversation,” she advised, knowing that Gillian had plenty to say on every imaginable topic and didn’t hesitate to say it all.

  “He’s still not here.” Pomegranate martini in hand, Gillian waited patiently at the bar of the Beverly Hills Hotel. She continued to observe the crowd as they mingled amongst each other. Gillian didn’t catch sight of anyone distinguished or gorgeous enough to deserve her. “Where is he?” she asked Holly in the most demanding tone while looking around and scowling at all the lesser beings. “I don’t appreciate a man who can’t be on time, Holly. This is just making me…more nervous.”

  “I know, Gillian, but look—I’m not going to be able to stay on with you much longer,” Holly said hesitantly.

  “Oh please, Holly? Just a few more minutes? I can’t afford to screw this up.”

  Can’t afford it? Yeah, right, Holly thought to herself, but she couldn’t argue with a woman who paid $10,000 a year for her services. “Well, let’s hope he shows up soon, because I’m about to walk through the doors of Spago. I have a life too, believe it or not.”

  “Oh, you’re having dinner at Spago? Excellent choice. You should really try––”

  “Gillian––focus. You need to pay more attention to what’s on your menu for the night, remember?”

  Gillian laughed just a little, the tremble in her voice betraying her nerves. “Oh, wait…I think that’s…yes, he’s here. Oh, Holly, I’m…I think I’m going to freak out.”

  Fifty-five-year old Gregory Fisher had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, wore an expensive suit with a burgundy tie of the finest silk, and Italian leather shoes. He was ph
ysically fit in a way that made most people think he was in his early forties.

  Holly listened to the two introduce themselves just as she finally walked into the lobby of the restaurant. “Gillian, just don’t stand there and drool! Tell him you’ve been looking forward to meeting him all day,” she said to her left breast. Patrons milling around the eatery glanced at Holly strangely, as if she had just questioned the color of the sky.

  Gillian’s nerves might have been on edge in meeting her makeshift Clooney, but Holly wasn’t exactly the picture of calm that evening either. She nervously gazed toward the back of the dining room, where top chefs cooked aggressively, as though they were wrestling with the chickens.

  “May I help you, miss?” asked the hostess, a petite brunette with a generous sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  “Oh—this can’t be good. He has a slight lisp,” Gillian reported the moment Gregory went off to buy her a drink at the bar. “He said he’d get me a ‘coshmopolitan’.”

  “Who cares?” Holly retorted a bit too loudly. She gazed up at the hostess sheepishly, like a puppy who’d just been caught piddling on the floor. “Pardon my rudeness. I actually have someone waiting for me. I’ll just go find him myself.”

  “Oh God. This is so nerve-wracking. I don’t know if I can go through with this,” Gillian said.

  “Come on, Gillian. Gregory is totally into you,” Holly whispered. “Don’t ask me anymore questions or make comments directed toward me. When I answer you, all these people in here look at me as if I’m crazy. Just act natural, confident, and follow the advice I gave you earlier.” She scanned the restaurant for Matthew and finally spotted him at a table with a view of the patio. He was eagerly waving her down, as if he hadn’t seen her for weeks.

  “Hello, my lovely. Happy Valentine’s day,” Holly said, giving her boyfriend a quick kiss on the lips.

  Gregory handed Gillian a drink brimming much like the smile on his face. “Thank you, my lovely. Happy Valentine’s day,” Gillian repeated.

  Holly huffed. “Ugh—no. That was my line. My date’s here too.”

  “You’re late,” Matthew said, pointing to his Rolex. “Forty-five minutes late to be exact.”

  “I apologize, sweet cheeks. Might I mention that you look unbelievably handsome tonight?” Holly said, hoping to redeem herself.

  Holly took notice of a couple sitting at the table beside them. An older woman, wearing a black, wide-brimmed hat, glimpsed at Holly oddly. Her dinner partner, an ancient-looking man dressed in a tweed blazer, took no notice of Holly. He was far too busy carefully buttering a piece of sourdough bread in true OCD fashion, making sure to spread the yellowish-white cream exactly to the edges of the crust.

  After gazing at the strangers for a moment, Holly took in the sight of her gorgeous boyfriend sitting across from her and finally sat down. Matthew Walker was undoubtedly what most women would call, perfect, as if he’d come from a flawless gene pool. He was six-two, muscular, tan, dark-haired, and although some would consider him a pretty boy, he never failed to take Holly’s breath away with his movie-star looks.

  “So, Gregory, do you like animals? I am kind of partial to cats myself,” Gillian said as a host escorted them to their dinner table.

  “Do not talk to him about your half dozen cats,” Holly reprimanded. “That’s the first sign of a crazy person.”

  Matthew furrowed his brow in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, honey. Not you,” Holly said, waving him off.

  The waiter walked up to the table and poured Holly a glass of red wine. She took a hearty gulp, and then drank the rest of it down indecently fast. From the looks of the olive oil ridden plate in front of Matthew, he had already taken it upon himself to order an appetizer during his unfortunately long wait for his girlfriend to get there.

  “Holly, listen…we need to have a chat,” Matthew mentioned quietly.

  “Oh?” Holly already knew what the so-called “chat” was going to be about. For weeks, he’d been dropping hints that a proposal was on the way. She just wished she hadn’t spoiled the moment by being almost an hour late.

  Matthew took a sip of wine and desperately tried to think of a brilliant way to start the conversation. “So, um…well—I’ve been thinking."

  “So Gillian, where do you reside?” Gregory asked, taking a bite of his appetizer.

  Gillian smiled and daintily chewed a bite of bruschetta. “Well, it’s complicated. At the moment––”

  “Good God! If you even mention that you’re still living with your ex-husband you’ll be banned from the club!” Holly said in disgust.

  Matthew looked around the room, feeling as though he should have brought a straightjacket for his dinner date.

  Holly patted his hand. “Sorry, baby,” she apologized.

  “Holly, let’s be serious, okay? I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “Back in the day, I dated nearly every A-list actor you can think of,” Gillian explained.

  “You’re going to blow it. It’s best you stop talking now,” Holly replied, holding in her frustration.

  Matthew stood up and threw his starched linen napkin down on the table. “Fine!” he snapped.

  “No, sweetie—not you.” She pointed to her earpiece. “Business.”

  He sighed heavily and sat back down, shaking his head and glaring at her. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go. Come by the office tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll review how your night went.” Holly removed her ear bud and dropped it into her purse. She looked up at Matthew with a pitiful look on her face. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Holly,” Matthew said, completely ticked off.

  “Where were we?” she asked, taking both his hands from across the table.

  He glared at Holly for a moment; his anger melting to sympathy, then diverted his stare from hers. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.”

  “And?” Holly’s face lit up like a candle in a dark room.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” He shook his head despairingly and looked down at the table. “I just…I can’t do this anymore.”

  Holly broke her hands free from his and stared at him in awe, completely taken aback by his announcement. “What do you mean you can’t do this anymore?”

  The old woman in the hat looked over at Holly quizzically, as though she’d been eavesdropping the whole time.

  “This—us. I mean, you’re so focused on your career. It’s always about helping other people, but what about me? What about my needs? I want someone who will put me before strangers.”

  At that moment, Matthew reminded her of one of her whiney, needy female clients.

  Holly leaned over the table and whispered, “You know what the company means to me, what it meant to my mother. I can’t give it up.”

  “I know, sweetheart, and I totally respect that.” He ran his hands through his perfectly trimmed hair. “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Are you sure? This sounds like an ultimatum to me.”

  Matthew flagged down a waiter, who immediately poured him another glass of wine.

  “More for you, miss?” asked the waiter.

  “No, thank you,” she answered, still staring at Matthew and far too flustered even to think about alcohol.

  “I just don’t think you’re ready to be married.” Matthew chugged down half a glass of wine in seconds. “I mean, I’ve thought about marrying you over and over again these last couple weeks. We’ve been together so long that I believed it was the next step for us. Then with you being late, seeing you working on Valentine’s Day, baby—on Valentine’s Day! This day should be for us, not them.” He balled his fists in irritation. “This was the wake-up call I needed.”

  Holly had first met Matthew four-years earlier, at a Whole Foods Market in Hollywood Hills. She’d assumed that she would have no problem making it back to her car with two heavy brown bags full of groceries in her arms. Then one of
the bags unexpectedly ripped open at the bottom. Oranges, apples, eggplants and avocados went rolling through the parking lot like tumbleweeds. Before she had a chance to retrieve her run-away produce, Matthew appeared like an angel falling from the sky, and chased down every last avocado. Goose bumps had risen on her flesh the moment those blue-grey eyes had met hers. She knew it had to be that thing her mother had talked about: love at first sight.

  In the parking lot, the two sat on the tailgate of her SUV, peeling oranges, and talking about the most pointless things, like long lost friends. Holly had been unable to stop staring at Matthew. He was gorgeous, so beautiful that he would have rivaled any guy in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. She’d been sure some equally gorgeous girl had this perfect creature wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger. By some miracle, as Holly discovered, Matthew turned out to be unattached.

  Before they’d bid each other adieu that afternoon, Matthew had asked for her number. That night, they ended up talking for hours on the phone, learning all about each other. At twenty-seven, he was a successful and wealthy financial planner at Smith and Barney, living in a swanky loft in Beverly Hills. At the end of their phone call that night, they both had known that something special was bound to happen between the two of them.

  For the next year, Matthew and Holly were inseparable. Matthew was a stand-up kind of guy—something that differentiated him from the rest of the men in Los Angeles, and in a committed relationship, he was loyal to a fault. Sometimes it seemed to Holly that he’d been born too late. It was as if Matthew was from a completely different era when high-society mannerisms and civilized behavior were the norm for middle-aged gentlemen.

  The first time Holly felt like royalty was the night Matthew wined and dined her at Châteaux Miramar—a date she would simply never forget. He was the kind of man her mother had always wished for Holly to find, someone with good morals and values who would treat her like a princess. By their third date, Holly knew she wanted to be with Matthew forever.