To thine own self be true, Henry.

Maybe that’s the problem. And the solution.

I hop to my feet, pacing. Thinking—I think better when I move. I think a lot better after a good fuck, but, if wishes were horses . . .

The point is, I haven’t felt like myself in a long time. I need to get my groove back. I need to get my freak on. I need to do me for a while.

And then I need to do ten women—maybe a full dozen.

I’m shit at politicking and golfing, terrible at wise decision-making or doing what I’m told, but what I’ve always been good at is entertaining. Putting on a show. Making people happy. I’m the life of the party and one hell of a host.

I push and pull at the idea—like Play-Doh—and after a moment, it starts to take shape. I didn’t ask for this, but it’s time I own it. If I’m going to fail spectacularly, I want to fail my way. Go out with a bang.

And a party. A month-long party, the castle brimming with twenty beautiful women falling all over themselves for my attention. Matched: Royal Edition suddenly seems like a bloody fucking brilliant idea.

What could possibly go wrong?

And as if God is speaking to me, the pressure on my shoulders loosens. The weight that’s been sitting on my chest, making me think I’m constantly having a goddamn heart attack, relaxes.

And I feel . . . good. In control.

I stand up, leaving the documents and ridiculous laws behind me. I go straight up to my room, grab my wallet off the bureau, and slide out the sharp-edged business card that’s still inside.

Then I pick up my mobile and dial.

“OH, balls.”

I stare at the email on my mobile—at the summons—from Mr. Haverstrom, my boss. And though the sunny afternoon air is crisp, sweat immediately prickles my forehead.

Annie’s blond ponytail snaps like a whip as she turns toward me. “Oh my God, tell me someone sent you a dick pic!” She holds out her hands. “Let me see, let me see! What kind of balls are we talking about? Big balls, odd balls . . .?”

“Schweddy balls?” Willard adds, unhelpfully, from his chair across the small, round patio table.

Annie claps her hands. SNL reruns are big in Wessco. “I love that bit.” She eats a mouthful of salad off her fork. “Did I ever tell you about Elliot’s balls?”

I meaningfully meet Willard’s brown eyes, then check the time. Three minutes, seventeen seconds.

That’s how long it’s been since Annie last mentioned Elliot Stapleworth, her giant douche-canoe ex-boyfriend. He broke it off with her two weeks ago, but she’s still hopelessly hung up on him. She deserves so much better. Especially since he’s not just any douche-canoe—he’s one who’s never heard of manscaping.

“They were the hairiest little monsters I’d ever seen. Like two baby hedgehogs curled between his legs, but not at all in a cute way. I used to get pubes caught in my throat all the time.”

There’s an image I don’t need in my head.

Willard frowns. “What a rude prick. Nothing kills a mood faster. I keep my boys smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

And that’s another one.

I look him straight in the face. “I could’ve gone my entire life without knowing that.”

He winks at me.

Annie leans forward. “But, since we’re on the subject, tell us, Willard, are your manly parts . . . proportional?”

Willard is just over four feet ten inches tall, only slightly above the height threshold for dwarfism. But his personality is seven feet high—bold and direct, with clever sarcastic wit to spare. He reminds me of Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones—only kinder and more handsome.

“Annie!” I gasp, blushing.

She pushes my shoulder. “You know you want to know.”

No, I don’t. But Willard wants to answer.

“I’m blessedly unproportioned. Just as a blind man’s other senses are more developed, God overcompensated me in that department.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

She nods. “I’ll be sure to tell Clarice when I’m convincing her to let you take her out this Saturday.”

Annie is a notoriously bad matchmaker. Though Willard’s gotten the business end of her attempts more than once, he keeps letting her try.

What’s the definition of insanity again?

Annie looks toward me. “Now, back to your mystery balls, Sarah.”

“Mr. Haverstrom—”

She gags. “Mr. Haverstrom? Gross! I bet his bits smell like overcooked green vegetables. You can just tell by that permanently unhappy face. Definitely broccoli balls.”

Damn. And I really liked broccoli.

“Sarah wasn’t referring to Mr. Haverstrom’s literal balls, Annie,” Willard explains.

Annie flaps her hands. “Then why’d she bring them up?”

I take off my glasses, cleaning them with the cloth from my pocket. “Mr. Haverstrom sent me an email. I’m to go directly to his office after lunch. It sounds serious.”

Saying the words makes my anxiety kick into overdrive. My heart pounds, my head goes light, adrenaline rushes through my veins, and I can feel my pulse in my throat. Even when I know it’s silly, even when my brain recognizes there’s nothing to be panicked about, in unpredictable situations or when I’m the center of attention, my body reacts like I’m the next victim in a slasher film. The one who’s stumbling through the woods with the mask-wearing, machete-wielding psycho just steps behind her. I hate it, but it’s unavoidable.