Rachel Unger

Same suit.

Same flowers.

New door.

Nathan stared at it like it might explode. “Sally,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “We need to go back. Just send me to Erica’s. Hell, I’ll even cancel the date. I’ll ghost her, block her, whatever. Just stop this.”

“I’m sorry, Nathan,” Sally replied in that infuriatingly pleasant tone. “That request conflicts with primary directive: to locate an optimal romantic pairing.”

“This is insane,” he hissed. “My drama teacher?! She tried to pounce on me in the car! You put me on a date with a woman who fantasized about me as a teenager!”

“It is imperative,” Sally said, “to find an acceptable match. Please ring the bell.”

Nathan groaned, squeezed his eyes shut, and reached up.

Ding-dong.

A pause. Then the door cracked open a few inches. A familiar pair of eyes peeked out.

“Nathan?!”

The door flew open.

“Nathan!!”

Out barreled a young woman, practically glowing with energy—and barely dressed. Rachel Upton. His ex. The clingy one. The crazy one. The hot one. Unfortunately.

Her blonde hair was tousled, like she’d been posing for Instagram seconds before. She wore a tight crop top—cut just below the underboob—and low-rise denim shorts that looked more like denim suggestions. Her long, tanned legs ended in chunky platform sandals, and she bounced with every step. She wore heavy makeup—long lashes, glossy lips, eyeliner like wings.

She flung herself into his arms, pressing her very obvious assets against his chest, and kissed him. Hard. Loudly. Messily.

Nathan stood still, lips unmoving, eyes wide open.

“Oh my God, babe!” she squealed, pulling back just enough to beam at him. “You remembered tulips are my favorite! That’s so sweet!” She snatched the bouquet from his hand, kissed him again on the cheek, then sprinted inside without waiting for a reply.

Nathan was frozen.

He glared down at his wrist. “Sally. What. The. Hell.”

“Compatibility parameters recalibrated,” Sally replied cheerfully. “You are now engaged in a date scenario with ‘Rachel Upton,’ age twenty, occupation: student. Compatibility index: 76.4%.”

“Oh, great. Even higher than Miss ‘Let’s-lock-the-door’ Tibbs.”

Rachel returned, clutching a tiny purse and swinging her hips like she was on a runway. “Ready, babe?”

Nathan **** a smile. “Let’s just… go.”

The car ride was worse than he expected.

Rachel wouldn’t stop talking. About them. About their epic reunion. About how she always knew they were meant to be. She kept calling them a power couple, saying she had dreamed about this moment.

“And after dinner,” she purred, trailing her manicured fingers along his thigh, “I’m going to give you the reward you deserve.” She leaned closer. “Remember what I used to do with the whipped cream?”

Nathan shuddered. Not because it wasn’t good—but because it was. And that was the problem. It made everything else—her possessiveness, her threats, the full-on scream-fests—harder to resist. Leaving her the first time had been hell.

They pulled up to the bistro.

Rachel was still gushing. “God, look at us. People are gonna stare. I hope they do. They should be jealous.”

Nathan exhaled and reached for the door handle.

Then it happened.

“Excuse me?!”

He turned.

A beautiful woman on the sidewalk—tall, elegant, striking—was walking by.

Rachel’s head whipped around. “What the fuck was that, Nathan?! Were you just staring at her? Is that why you brought me here? To check out some tramp on the sidewalk?!”

The woman looked confused, backing away.

Rachel was already halfway out of her seat. “Don’t think I won’t throw down, Nathan! Don’t even look at her!”

“Rachel, I didn’t—”

She was shrieking. “You always do this! Is this why we broke up?! You couldn’t keep it in your pants?!”

Nathan hit the watch face.

“Sally! Reset!”

“Resetting now.”