Synopsis
23-year-old Maxime lives in a shoe-box sized studio apartment with a 22-toed tuxedo cat named Abe Lincoln and not much else. Not that it matters. She never actually spends any time there, between her seemingly never-ending work schedule and the revolving door of guys she's been going on first dates with since joining match.com.
Maxime has locked her keys in her car on a first date (not once, but twice), bumped into Mr. Thursday while out with Mr. Friday and pried Abe Lincoln off one very angry date's shoulder, and she's beginning to wonder if it's time to just give up and join a Mormon cult.
But she just can't stop hoping she'll finally meet her match.
Excerpt
He swirled his wine. Swirled it. Like he was checking to see if it had legs, or sniff the bouquet or whatever those crazy wine-swirling people do. And in that moment, the fact that he had beautiful brown eyes, a good job, killer arms and had taken me to the nicest restaurant in Stamford even after I had to push our Thursday night date back by three hours, was completely irrelevant. All I could see was his right hand. Swirling.
