The Cupids Matchmaking Service is written in elegant calligraphy above the glass shop front. A sign reading "Not Taking New Clients at This Time" is taped to the door.

"That place never takes anyone new on," a girl remarks to her friend as they pass by with shopping bags.

I frown as I look up at the towering building, shielding my eyes from the sun with the stack of letters in my hand. I can't believe I'm actually here.

When I couldn't find information online, I'd assumed the dating agency would be small. I didn't expect a skyscraper with gilt window frames and cherubs carved into the white stone walls. I feel out of place. I can't imagine anyone in battered Converse, skinny jeans, and a leather jacket has passed through its doors before.

But then, it's not like I wanted to spend the last day of summer break on the bus to Los Angeles. And, if anyone in this huge building had bothered to answer the phone, I wouldn't have had to.

I push open the glass door. A bell tinkles as I step inside.

Shiny white tiles cover the floor and several stylish neon-colored armchairs surround a large coffee table boasting a range of fanned-out fashion magazines. On the opposite side of the room stands a high, stone reception desk where a blond in a crisp white suit chatters into a headset. Above her, hanging by wires from the ceiling, is a long, golden arrow.

Something glinting on the wall catches my eye. It's a plaque that says Making Matches for 3,000 Years.

Shaking my head incredulously, I march over and dump the stack of letters onto the desk. The blond looks up, startled. A name badge reading Crystal is pinned to the pocket of her white suit jacket.

"Can I call you back?" she says into her headset. "Something's just come up."

Her blue eyes look me up and down. Suddenly, I am aware of how I must look; she is immaculate, not a hair out of place, and here I am, having spent an hour and a half on the ripe-smelling bus from Forever Falls. I catch sight of my dark, tangled hair in the reflective surface of a glass door. I could be her polar opposite.

"I'm sorry," she chimes, "we're not taking on any new clients at this time."

She fiddles with her headset and I realize she is about to continue her conversation. A wave of irritation washes over me.

"I'm not here to become a client, I'm here to tell you to stop bugging me."

She looks back at me, confused. "Excuse me?"

I gesture toward the five letters scattered across the reception desk.

"All summer you've been spamming me with letters, text messages, emails," I say. "I am not interested in your services. I don't know how you have my personal details, but you need to remove me from your mailing lists. I have a boyfriend already, thanks very much."

I turn on my heel and march toward the exit.

"Wait."

Her voice is lower, more assertive than before. Urgent, even.

I spin back around.

"You say we have been trying to contact you?"

I nod slowly.

She frowns. "Well, that is most . . . irregular." With a manicured hand she picks up one of the letters I've dumped unceremoniously on her desk. "We don't contact our clients, ever. It's against our—"

"Privacy laws?" I shrug. "Whatever. Just don't contact me again. Okay?"

I'm about to turn and leave again when she stands up abruptly. "No!" she says, her voice higher pitched now. "Please!" As if suddenly realizing the weirdness of her behavior, she sits back down with a robotic smile. "Just let me run your name through the computer, find out what has occurred here. Then we can remove you from our database. Yes?"

I sigh. "Fine."

Relief washes over her face as I walk back to the imposing reception desk.

"Name?"

"Lila Black."

Her long nails click on the keyboard as she enters my name. She waits a few moments. Then she frowns and hurriedly types something else. As she stares at the screen, all the blood drains from her face. A mask of surprise replaces her faux smile. There's another emotion there too.

Fear?

"Miss Black, we have a big problem. You have been matched with"—she stops and bites her lip—"I think . . . I think one of our agents is best suited to fill you in on the situation. Please take a seat. I will send someone out right away."

"I really—"

The receptionist raises one hand, signaling me to be quiet, while pressing a white button on the intercom beside her. A few moments later a muffled male voice sounds through the small speaker.

"What is it, Crystal?" He sounds disgruntled.

"Cal," she chimes, "I need you to come through to reception right away."

"You know the line, Crystal," he snaps. "We're not taking on any new clients at this time."

She coughs, a little embarrassed, then quickly slips off her headset and picks up the receiver. "It's not that," she whispers. "Look, you just really need to come out here."

There's more muttering on the other end before Crystal places the phone back down. The robotic smile reappears.

"One of our agents will be with you momentarily."

I'm about to argue that I don't want to see an agent, I just want them to stop contacting me, when the frosted-glass door beside reception swings open to reveal a young man I can only presume is Cal.

He is as beautiful as Crystal, with well-groomed blond hair and sharp silver eyes. He wears a crisp white suit even though he looks like he could be around my age, seventeen. He's definitely attractive, if you like that sort of thing; he's a bit too clean cut for my taste.

His eyes sweep over Crystal, irritated, before settling on me. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice laced with disdain, "we're not taking on any new clients at this time."

"Yes, I get the picture," I say through gritted teeth, "but I'm not here to become a client. I'm here to tell you to stop contacting me."

"You do need to see this, Cal," Crystal says.

He exhales sharply through his nose then makes his way over to the desk, leaning over Crystal to read whatever is on the screen. His eyes darken. Shock flickers across his angular features. Then he regains his cold composure.

"So, you're the girl," he says. "Of all the girls in the world, you're his Match. I must admit, you're not what I expected. Now, please come with me. We have something very important to discuss. Your very life could be at—"

Crystal coughs and gives him a warning look.

He sighs. "Please come with me, Miss Black. I'll explain everything." He spins back around and heads through the glass door.

For a moment I consider just walking out, despite Crystal's encouraging nod. But my best friend, Charlie, isn't back from her journalism camp yet, and James, my boyfriend, has a shift at the diner all day. So it's either this or sit at home with no promises that the Cupids Matchmaking Service will stop contacting me.

Plus, I hate to admit it, but I am kind of curious about who exactly they think I've been "matched" with.

"Fine," I say. "But for the record, this is seriously weird." I walk to the door, swing it open, and step inside.