Better Than Fate: Chapter 01
Perfect for fans of Christina Lauren and Casey McQuiston…
Elizabeth Torres — not Liz, definitely not Lizzie — loves her job. She’s spent years building a matchmaking app with her best friend, one that combines the convenience of online dating with the luck of a meet cute and successfully helps their clients find true love.
Everything’s going so well that she’s decided to surprise her boyfriend of four years with a weekend trip to Catalina Island and a ring… until a shocking discovery upends her life and threatens her business.
Could the woman she meets while she’s trying to get away from it all be her future? Or will she be just another casualty as Elizabeth’s world crumbles around her?
Better Than Fate is a contemporary queer romance novel. A new chapter will be published daily throughout August 2022.
Want to read the whole thing? Order it on Amazon.
TW: adult language, explicit sexual scenes, cheating (but not by main characters).
Chapter 01
Elizabeth
“Hey, you headed out sometime soon?” Juliet King asks as she pokes her head into my office. I hold my finger up to tell my social media manager to wait for a moment, then finish writing the function I’m working on. I glance at the clock in the corner of my screen, then up at her.
“It’s barely five!” I say with a small smile. She takes that as an invitation to come inside, closing the door behind her.
“Yes, only us mortals leave work by five on a Friday.” She glances around like she’s checking to see if someone can hear her — they can’t, I’m pretty sure we’re the last two left in the office — then lowers her voice anyway. “But you have plans, remember?” She perches on the chair across from me, sets her tablet in her lap, and tucks her straight brown hair behind her ears. “Unless you’ve gotten cold feet.”
“I have not,” I say a little indignantly, glancing toward my purse and the little leather jeweler’s box tucked inside. She’s the only one who knows that I’m planning on proposing to my boyfriend this weekend. I wasn’t going to tell anyone, sure that I’d jinx it if I did, but she accidentally saw the ring so I enlisted her to help manage my weekend away. “Jake’s not expecting me until seven.”
“Which means eight in Elizabeth Torres time,” Juliet teases with a grin. I consider denying it, but I’d be lying.
“I can’t help it if I love my job.”
“Sure, but you can still leave now for your super swoony weekend away.”
“I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Imagine how surprised he’ll be if you actually showed up at seven. Oooh, what if you were to get there by six?”
“In San Francisco rush hour traffic?”
“That’s not very romantic, but fine. Has anyone told you that you’re pretty pragmatic for the CEO of the fastest growing paid dating app on the market?” She winks at me then stands up, tucks her tablet under her arm. “Well, I’ll let you finish up. I hope everything goes well.”
“Me, too,” I say, already glancing back at the code on my screen.
“And we’ve got everything here, you know. We’ll be fine without you until Tuesday.”
“I know,” I say, pushing down the little pit that’s formed in my stomach at the idea of being offline for three days. “Is there anything you need from me before I go?”
“Nope,” she says, but she winces just slightly while she says it. My eyes narrow.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Juliet.”
“Okay, but before I tell you this, I want to set a meeting for Tuesday morning and I don’t want you to even think about it until then.”
The pit in my stomach gets a little bigger. “What?”
Juliet sighs and sits back down, clenches her hands in her lap. “So we’ve had a little uptick in customer complaints in the last week or so.”
I swallow at the stab of panic that flutters in my throat. “What?”
“It’s probably nothing,” she says, leaning forward earnestly. “Right now it’s more of a gut feeling than anything else, and a weekend of weird data. I need more information before I can even start to pinpoint the problem, much less give you anything actionable to work on. I’ll pull a bunch of reports on Monday and have the data for you when you get back on Tuesday.”
“Okay…” Not okay.
“Seriously, Elizabeth, please don’t worry about this. I thought about not even telling you tonight because I just noticed it in the last day or two. It’s really only a feeling right now. You know I’d tell you more if I had data to back it up.”
I nod. “So… I don’t need to worry?”
“If at all possible, no. Don’t worry about it. Leave it to me, and if there’s something there, I promise to let you know.”
“I want you to call me on Monday if there’s anything you need.”
“I won’t,” she says, standing again. “You know most people fill out their date surveys either Sunday night or at work on Monday. I’ll be digging through responses and analyzing trends all day — I won’t even have anything substantial for you before Tuesday morning.”
“Okay,” I nod again, swallowing against the panic fluttering in my chest. “Thank you for keeping an eye on that.”
“Please don’t dig into it and mess up your weekend, seriously. Everything’s probably fine. You know how it gets right before the holidays, it’ll just be a blip or something. People get so nitpicky and weird when they wish they had somebody to take home for Thanksgiving.”
“That’s true.”
“I’ll compile a report for you, and we’ll talk about it when you get back on Tuesday. Maybe at ten? I looked at your schedule and you’re free until your two o’clock with the video people. They’re supposed to have your wardrobe for the new commercial worked out by then.”
I groan. Juliet laughs at me. “You’re the one who went and got a super-hot boyfriend on the app. You can’t blame marketing for wanting to capitalize on that.”
“I regret that decision,” I say, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands by clicking open my calendar and adding our meeting to my schedule. “Invite sent for ten on Tuesday.”
“Got it,” she says as her tablet chimes. She moves toward the door, then turns back. “Good luck this weekend, Elizabeth. I hope everything goes well.”
“Thanks, Juliet,” I say with a smile. “I think it will.”
“And seriously, please don’t worry.”
“I’ll try not to. Now get out of here.”
“You, too!” She slips out the door, then gives me a little wave through the glass. I watch as she winds her way back toward her desk, gathers her things, and heads for the door. I’m really tempted to dig into the customer service reports, but if the complaints are relatively new, she’s right — there’s not much I can do until we have another weekend worth of match feedback. Sure, people go on dates all week, but the bulk of them happen over the weekend. We’ll have a lot more data on Monday than we have now.
Plus I didn’t build our customer service platform and haven’t really gotten very good at using it.
I shake my head, trying to knock back the panic that creeps in every time any tiny thing goes wrong with our app. I’ve been working my fingers to the bone to perfect a dating service that combines the ease of use of Tinder with the in-depth profiles of professional matchmakers and keeps that little spark that comes with a lucky “meet cute”. Users create their profiles and then can create a list of “dates” — locations where they’ll be at any given time. When they update their profile, their date options are sent out to matches who might be interested, giving people an opportunity to meet without the awkward back and forth of chat-based apps.
My friends and coworkers tease me about being a workaholic, but I love what I do, and I am fully committed to success. That’s hard for a lot of people to understand, but this company is the most important thing in my life.
I dig back into the code, but my flow has slipped away. I keep poking at it for a few minutes anyway, but I know I’m up against the clock, so it refuses to come easily. I hit save and flip to my email, but there’s nothing new. Everybody knows I’m taking Monday off and will be offline for the weekend, even if I haven’t told anybody why.
Maybe Juliet was right — it’ll still take me most of an hour to get across town in traffic, but I should get out of here.
I take a deep breath and shut down my computer for the night. I smooth my hair, then clench my fists against the urge to pick my fresh manicure — “Carnal Pleasures” isn’t my usual choice, but red is Jake’s favorite color and I want everything to be perfect.
Even though I’m the last one in the office, I’m still leaving hours before I usually would. Jake will be impressed; I’ll be super early for once. I smile to myself, take a moment to appreciate the view out of my tenth-floor office windows. Being so close to Pier 45 in the heart of San Francisco was a pricey choice, but a good one. Ashley Clarke, the co-owner of Better Than Fate Romance Technologies — and my best friend — had pushed hard for the location. Investors don’t want to put money into companies that don’t put any money into optics, Elizabeth, she insisted. She’d been right, of course. She always is about that kind of thing. Marketing is her forte. I’m just a coder.
The sign for the famous Ghirardelli chocolate factory lights up the slowly darkening sky, a sharp reminder of the time.
Taking one more steadying breath, I push back my long, curly brown hair, shove the leather jeweler’s box deeper into my purse, grab my laptop case and the bouquet of stargazer lilies on the corner of my desk. My office door clicks shut behind me as I weave around the pods of desks in the open floor plan. That was Ashley’s idea, too. I can’t imagine being very productive in that setting, but it seems to work. Better Than Fate is doing better than ever. It’s one of the reasons that I’ve decided to take the next step with Jake.
In the elevator down to the lobby, I try to settle my nerves by checking the boxes in my mental checklist:
✔ Book the inn on Catalina Island
✔ Double check ferry times
✔ Pack a weekend bag
✔ Pick up the engagement ring
I know it’s still pretty unconventional for the woman to propose in a cis het relationship, but Jake is dragging his feet.
And he’s the last piece of my Happily Ever Puzzle, damnit. So why shouldn’t I take matters into my own hands?
“It will be perfect,” I whisper to myself just before the elevator doors open to let me out in the lobby. I wave goodnight to the night watchman and head for my car.
Jake Brandon is the hottest up-and-coming motivational speaker and life coach in California. His charming grin and boyishly tousled blonde locks decorate bus benches and billboards. He’d done a short stint as a male model in his late teens and early twenties but had decided that “swimming in the same direction as the rest of salmon” just wasn’t for him, then managed to turn that life philosophy into a business. I’d met him through the Better Than Fate app. Ashley had called the relationship a marketing match made in heaven, and she wasn’t wrong.
Fortunately for me he was also fun and handsome and relatively low maintenance, which is exactly what I require in a relationship. We’ve been dating for four years and even though he complains about my long hours, he mostly supports my drive, believes in what I’m trying to achieve with my business. He’s always been happy to show up and rub elbows with investors at events, to appear in commercials with me — the social and marketing things I’ve never been very good at. Life is easier with him by my side.
We haven’t talked much about marriage, but it’s the next logical step for two burgeoning, successful people who love each other. There isn’t even a question about where we’ll live. I’ve already co-signed on Jake’s lease for his condo, a stylish, upscale flat — not my first choice, since it’s a bit of a trek from work, but it makes sense for two busy entrepreneurs.
When I enter his building’s lobby, I use my spare keys to grab the mail. The box is overflowing. Jake’s great in front of a crowd, but paperwork isn’t his strong suit. I make a mental note to remind him to call about his business insurance when we get back from Catalina. I flip through his copy of GQ on my way up to his floor and smile. I’m good with paperwork, he’s good with people. We balance each other out.
The elevator dings, letting me out on the 15th floor. The building itself isn’t new, but it’s been gutted and remodeled, branded for the modern, upscale San Franciscan. Plush carpeting swallows my steps as I make my way down the hallway. I tuck the mail under my arm as I get to his door and let myself in.
Dim lights and Miles Davis greet me. I drop my purse on the black glass table next to the door and step out of my heels. Jake is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear the shower running in the master bedroom. He’d probably been counting on the fact I’m always late.
Chuckling to myself, I start to unbutton my blouse. I’ve never surprised anyone in the shower before, but it’s always sexy when I see it on TV.
Jake had already opened the wine I’d asked him to pick up and set out a second bottle in an ice bucket to chill. I put the flowers on the counter, then sneak a healthy swig straight from the bottle as I pass through his open floor plan kitchen. I catch myself humming along to the song. I’ve heard it before, but I don’t know what it’s called. We don’t usually listen to music together. Apparently this will be an evening of new things.
With the wine warming me from the inside, I pad quietly into the dark bedroom, promptly stumbling over clothing on the floor. I barely catch myself on the footboard of his huge lake of a bed. Smooth, Elizabeth, I chastise myself, feeling my cheeks going pink. Cleaning is also not his strong suit. I’m kicking the material out of the way when I hear a gasp from the shower.
A distinctly feminine gasp.
The bottom drops out of my stomach. Another gasp, punctuated by a thud and a low moan.
I step deeper into the room, unconsciously pulling my blouse closed. The bathroom door is ajar, throwing a javelin of bright light across the dark bedroom. Sandalwood scented steam and the rugged sound of heavy breathing wafts over me. I can’t remember taking this many steps, but, like a nightmare, I’m not sure I can stop.
Reaching my hand out in front of me, I push the bathroom door open. It doesn’t take much for it to swing on well-oiled hinges. Jake likes to brag about little details like that. The expensive plush carpet or the real Italian marble counters — the absolutely silent door hinges that made you feel like the walls are made of silk when you move through each room.
Nothing happens at first. Thick steam from the multi-head shower briefly obscures my vision. The source of the sounds is revealed in pieces — Jake’s back, red welts visible even from across the room, a long leg hitched up around his hip, pink polish on tanned toes.
Like a puzzle that is all black tile and flesh tones, my mind struggles to make sense of the scene in front of me.
“Oh fuck, yes!” That voice is familiar — another piece falls into place.
“Ashley?” The bubble of tension pops as Ashley screams her surprise, though whether that surprise is seeing me in the bathroom or from Jake promptly dropping her on the wet floor it’s hard to tell.
My vision blurs as my heart stops. I can’t catch my breath. I yank my shirt closed, wishing I had never unbuttoned it. The need to make sure every inch of my body is covered has never been so strong.
“Liz, babe. What are you doing here?” Jake makes an awkward attempt to cover his still erect dick as Ashley scrambles to stand back up, eventually succeeding and pressing her naked body to Jake’s back.
Maybe it’s Ashley seeking protection, maybe it’s that Jake called me “Liz” — a name he knows I hate but have allowed him to use because he’s supposed to love me — but my heart starts beating again and I realize it’s been pounding in my ears the whole time. Heat floods my face, making the already warm bathroom suffocating. I step back toward the open bathroom door. A gust of air from the bedroom cools my cheeks, helping me come back to myself.
“Fuck you both,” I say, my voice surprisingly calm and even as I somehow manage to control the urge to rip both their heads off. I turn, bolt out of the bedroom while trying to button my shirt. I grab up the unopened bottle of wine as I move through the kitchen, then fumble with the last two buttons as I attempt to step into my shoes at the same time.
On the ground right next to my shoes — how I missed it, I’ll never know — is Ashley’s handbag, a high-quality Balenciaga knock off that I’d gotten her as a graduation gift, that she still uses because she loves it so much. Bile rises in the back of my throat. I kick the bag over, spilling its contents.
“Babe, listen — I can explain.”
I spin around to look at him. He’s hitched a towel around his waist, but he’s still damp enough that I can see water puddling around his feet. I shove the bottle of wine into the bag with my engagement ring, pull the strap of my laptop case up over my shoulder.
“No,” I say as I tamp down the urge to claw his face off with my ridiculous red nails. “You don’t get to explain.”
“Liz, baby, come on…” Jake’s voice climbs into a whine, the same tone he uses whenever I’m not sure about doing something he’s decided needs. He’d used it when he’d asked me to co-sign on the lease for his condo, when he’d convinced me to loan him a down payment for his BMW.
I jab my finger into his face. “My name is Elizabeth.” Movement from the bedroom catches my attention. It’s Ashley, calmly tying my robe around her waist as she moves toward us.
I try to swallow, but there’s a giant lump in my throat. Fuck you. The words choke me. I spin and all but run into the hallway, trying to keep my composure long enough to get into the elevator. I don’t hear the door close so I can only assume they’re still watching me as I wait for it. I consider taking the stairs instead, but with my luck, I’d tumble down all fifteen floors and break my neck. I don’t want to give them that satisfaction.
The elevator must be dropping someone off at every floor before it gets to this one. When the brushed chrome doors finally slide open, I practically leap inside and smash the button for the lobby, then the ‘close door’ button. It never actually closes the door, but I need to do something. Right as they shush close, I meet Ashley’s blue-eyed stare from Jake’s door. I might just be imagining it, letting the adrenaline of the moment cloud my judgment, but I think I see Ashley smile.
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Christine Mayfaire is the combined penname of writing partners and best-friends-since-college Ami Tain and Meghan Ferrin. We created the Better Than Fate contemporary romance universe together, and write stories for this universe both together and separately.
Our first novel, Better Than Fate, comes out September 15th, 2022. Buy it here.
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