Matched. Kelli Ireland

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       CHAPTER ONE

      ISAAC MILLER WORKED to control his breathing, his heart rate, his every response as he stared out over the New York skyline. Behind him, his brother paced. Jonathan had never been able to settle when nervous anticipation got the best of him, even when they’d been children. But Isaac was less concerned with his brother’s anxiety than the predicament his younger sibling had finagled Isaac into this time.

      He turned, every step controlled, his hands locked behind him. Less chance to strangle the little genius who stood in front of him if he kept his hands occupied. “I agreed to fund your new app, Jonathan, but I did not agree to be a test subject. You’re well aware I only answered the questionnaire to help with your testing. I neither intended nor authorized you to use my profile as part of your initial trial.”

      “I know, Isaac. I know.” Jonathan paced back and forth, his steps precise, his pattern across the room as tight as any military formation.

      His brother would be counting every step to ensure he spent the same amount of energy crossing the room as he did coming back. Same number of steps to and fro. Same view from every window. Same length of stride, as if he’d measured it. The guy was obsessed with patterns and, as part of that, the accuracy of those patterns. He wouldn’t have made a mistake like this. He wouldn’t have accidentally put Isaac Miller, CEO of the capital investment group Quantum Ventures, in a speed-dating pool that would test Jon’s newest app—a dating app—tentatively named Power Match.

      But, somehow, Jonathan had done just that.

      Isaac crossed his arms over his chest. “Just remove me from the pool of desperate singles willing to allow their love lives to be determined by digital algorithms.”

      His brother looked at him, regret and tension etching stress lines across his brow. “I can’t.”

      “Yes, you can. Just delete my profile and remove me from the group. If it creates an odd number, replace me with someone else. In fact, use someone from the office.” He pulled out his desk chair and sank into it. “I’ll send out a request for participants. I assure you, someone will volunteer.”

      “You can’t send out a request,” Jonathan said in a tone Isaac rarely heard from him. It was a tone that was firm, even demanding. A tone that brooked no argument.

      “I beg to differ,” Isaac said softly. Brother or not, Jonathan was here as a client—the head of a start-up venture that Isaac had financed. He believed in his brother’s vision. Even more, he believed in his brother’s history of success in creating apps that went viral. But no one—no one—told Isaac what he could and couldn’t do. He hadn’t become head of one of the world’s premier capital-venture firms by allowing others to dictate what he did, or did not, do. Even family.

      “I’m serious, Isaac.” Jonathan dropped bonelessly into one of the guest chairs across from Isaac’s desk. “I input all the data and the app has already pre-paired test subjects for tonight’s meet and greet. To take you out, I’d have to find someone with your identical personal parameters.”

      “So do it.”

      “I. Can’t.” Jonathan slid lower in the chair. “You’ve already been matched with three volunteer subjects the app determined would suit you. Well, two, anyway.”

      Isaac arched an eyebrow.

      “According to Lucky, you’re, uh, apparently a bit...” Jonathan waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “Anyway, I can’t just—”

      Isaac leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I’m a bit what?”

      Jonathan dipped his chin, the younger brother overshadowing the tech genius as he mumbled an indiscernible answer.

      “Speak up.”

      Jonathan’s head snapped up, his eyes ablaze. “You sound like Dad.”

      “I’ve been insulted more gravely than that,” Isaac said. Though not by much, or by anyone Isaac cared about. The coarse observation stung, but he buried the emotion behind the facade he wore like a custom-fit suit. “Go on, then. I’m a bit what?”

      Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest. “Lucky says you’re difficult to get along with.”

      “And who, pray tell, is Lucky, and why should I give a good goddamn about what he thinks?”

      Jonathan snorted. “Lucky is the app’s nickname. You know, like ‘get lucky.’ It’s a play on the common vernacular for getting laid.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ