Spotlight & Giveaway: DEALBREAKERS by Lauren Forsythe

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Lauren Forsythe’s new release: DEALBREAKERS

A woman with high standards. A rival coworker. And the promotion that stands between them . . .

Coder Marina Spicer has no time to waste when it comes to love, hence her long list of dealbreakers. Frustrated by the online dating world, she created Dealbreakers, an anonymous app where women review how men stack up to their internet profiles. Her high standards have served her well at work, so why not in love?

Enter Lucas Kennedy. A charming Irish content writer, he’s the only one standing between Marina and her long-deserved promotion. Much to Marina’s chagrin, the two are paired on a project to test out date ideas, ultimately determining which of them will run the department. Taking a peek at Dealbreakers hoping to learn some dirt about her rival, she finds he’s the worst-rated man on the entire app.

As Lucas and Marina argue their way through mixing cocktails, salsa dancing, and throwing axes, Marina finds herself having more fun than she’s had in years. So when temptation becomes too strong to resist, Marina allows herself to break some of her own rules. After all, if the Dealbreakers say he’s Mr. Wrong, he can’t possibly be Mr. Right . . . can he?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Dealbrakers 

“My favorite book?” The man across the table from me rested his chin on his hand and considered the question. He hemmed and hawed, thoroughly enjoying thinking about his answer. As he had with all five questions I’d asked him since we sat down fifteen minutes ago. He was not giving me much to work with. But maybe he was shy. A shy, bookish type, with a sharp jawline and a love of double-chocolate-chip cookies. Promising. “. . . I’d have to say . . . mine. The one I’m writing. I haven’t finished it yet, of course, but it’s going to be important, you know?”
Oh. All that promise, just fizzling away.
Now, I knew from the Dealbreakers app that Michael, thirty-six, university lecturer and avid cyclist, loved talking about his novel. Three other women who’d been on dates with him had mentioned it in their notes. But none of them had mentioned how he chewed with his mouth open and kept making these patronizing “humph” noises when you said something he didn’t expect.
I knew I should have listened to them; usually I did. But the crop of available men was becoming smaller and smaller. And an interest in creative writing hadn’t seemed so bad, hardly a real dealbreaker. I just had to give him a chance.
“Oh wow,” I said dutifully, sipping at my wine and wondering why, even with the world’s smartest tech at my fingertips, I couldn’t meet someone who fit my criteria. I tapped my feet on the sticky floor of the Dragon and Treasure, weirdly comforted by its consistency. Was my favorite pub a little rough around the edges? Sure. But it had two things I loved: an easily accessible exit, and my best friend, smirking at me from behind the bar as she watched me bolster myself in the face of disappointment. Oh, also, the burgers were good.
As Michael started to explain, in minute detail, the intricacies of his novel, I let the comforting background noise of the pub wash over me. I noticed a young couple standing at the bar, his hand in the back pocket of her jeans. I smiled faintly at Old Reggie, who always sat in the corner by the fake fireplace, drinking his pint of bitter. Was it polite to ignore Michael and his apparent creative genius? No. Had the man asked me a single question since we’d met? Also no.
Some people dated because they liked dating, but it was hard to imagine that those people were not a) young, b) bored, and c) in want of a free meal. I was not dating for fun. I was thirty years old, and I was behind schedule. I had set criteria, a timeline, and places to be. Preferably in bed with a hot-but-sweet guy who thought I looked cute in my badger pajamas, always let me eat the peanuts from the kung pao chicken, and knew I liked to be asleep by eleven on weekdays.
I didn’t think my dealbreakers were unrealistic:
No smokers
No tattoos
No swearing
Stable job
Lives locally
Close with family
Wants kids
My best friend, Meera, had looked over my shoulder when I’d written that list, sitting at this very table ten months earlier, when I’d decided I was finally ready to start dating again. She’d snorted and shaken her head.
“So you want someone boring and willing to procreate? That’s it?”
“Boring and willing to procreate with me, Meer.”
I wanted, and still want, someone reliable. Someone who will stay.
But the sound of Michael’s chewing was making me want to stab him in the hand with my fork.
“Editing’s just for people who aren’t as dedicated to their craft as I am. That’s why I never change anything I write. I wrote it with intention, you know?”
I clenched my teeth into an approximation of a smile and nodded.
“The creative process is so fascinating . . .” I said blandly, hoping that trailing off would send a signal.
Come on, please ask me something about myself.
“So . . . what about you?” Michael said suddenly, looking expectant, and I gripped my glass in relief. Okay. Maybe this was just a bad start. He was employed and hadn’t sworn and didn’t seem like the type to be covered in biker tattoos. I could take him home, and Mum would be impressed. So maybe this could be salvaged?
“Um, well, I’m head developer at a start-up in the city—”
“Ooh,” he exhaled, shaking his head, “start-ups are risky. Lots of them fail. That’s why I picked something solid, like working at the university.”
Ah, academia, that traditionally well-paid profession.
“I guess we’re pretty opposite, the classics teacher and the developer!” I chortled, hating myself, tapping my star-and-moon necklace against my collarbone. It was a reflex, a comforting move to soothe myself.
“That’s pretty,” Michael said suddenly, gesturing to my necklace, a small smile on his face. For a moment, hope bloomed. In that warm smile I tried to imagine another date, a laugh, a kiss, a future. A story where I’d say, You know, I wasn’t entirely sure about your dad when I first met him. He’s still working on that bloody novel, too!
My hand stilled on the silver charms on my chain, and I tried to press down on that weird sense of grief. I shouldn’t be wearing this necklace anymore. “Thanks, it was a present.”
“Professor, by the way,” Michael said, and I frowned in confusion at the switch in conversation. He paused and repeated himself: “I’m a professor, not a teacher. And I’m assuming you’ll give your job up when you have a family, yes?”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
He looked up, that dark hair so perfectly coiffed, that eyebrow raised perfectly. “These future children you plan to have. You said on your bio you want kids. So you’d give up your job to raise them, yes? That’s very important to me, and I don’t intend to compromise my career.”
“Of course,” I said faintly, lifting my wineglass to my lips, desperate for the last dregs. “Why would you?”
“So you would? How refreshing.” He went back to focusing on the “snacks for the table” he’d ordered and then promptly pulled over to his side when they arrived.
Nope. I was tapping out. Twenty minutes was more than enough time to give someone the benefit of the doubt. I looked over at the bar in desperation, catching Meera’s eye. I tapped my fingers on the side of the table three times, and she rolled her eyes. She finished pulling a pint and dropped it off to Old Reggie on the way, offering him one of her rare, sweet smiles. Then she tilted her head at me, as if to say, Are you sure you need saving, Rina? It looks like such a fun time you’re having.
I widened my eyes, pouted a little. Yes, help me, you cheeky cow! Save me!
Meera nodded, barely holding back a smirk, and in five strides she was standing over our table.
“There’s an emergency,” she said woodenly, not even trying to sound convincing as she pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail. “It’s terribly important. Timmy’s fallen down a well.”
“What?” Michael frowned. “Excuse me, you’re interrupting a first date.”
“Gosh, I never would have guessed, what with all this simmering sexual tension.” Meera was not subtle, but she got the job done.
“I’m sorry, I have to go, emergency and all that.” I stood up and put a tenner down for my wine. “Nice to meet you—good luck with the book!” I took Meera’s hand as she wove us through the crowded pub to the back room and out to the small patch of fake grass the staff called a garden. It was just a fenced-off square of land around the side from the actual garden so that the staff could have a breather in peace. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. Why couldn’t I seem to get this right? Every single date, even with my thorough research on Dealbreakers—none of them had worked. No one with even potential. No second dates, in the six months since I’d created the app. I’d completely given up on attraction, sexual tension, desire, focusing only on the important things . . . at the very least, if my dating life was going to be a disaster, I wanted it to be a hilarious disaster.
“You owe me.” Meera sucked on her vape. “Again.”
No longer the good Indian girl I’d met on the first day of secondary school, Meera had gradually morphed into a tattooed badass with an undercut and a nose ring. Guess that was what happened when no one was around to make you stay the same. No relationship to hold you in place, no parents to mourn the transformation of their sweet girl into the angry bartender. You could become who you were meant to be. The sarcastic, dry comebacks and desire to ignore the touchy-feely bits of friendship, however, were exactly the same as when we met, nearly twenty years ago.
“Put it on my tab,” I said brightly, blowing her a kiss. Then I grabbed my phone and opened the Dealbreakers app. “There were definitely some details missing on Michael’s bio, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, you mean the opinions of random women on the internet didn’t lead you to your perfect match? Shocker.” Meera rolled her eyes but grinned at me.
Dealbreakers was an app overlay. Basically, you opened it on your phone and it pulled through data from all the different dating apps. Whoever you matched with, on whatever app, you could see a bunch of notes from previous women who’d been on dates with them.
What I’d found out, in my months of feverish dating, was that people lied about who they were online. And sometimes even they believed those lies.
So, I decided the only thing you could trust were reviews. Which was why I created the app and shared it discreetly on a female coders forum. Since then, it had been gradually building momentum: more users, more dealbreakers, red flags, and the occasional “good egg” badge to indicate the guy was super lovely but just not for you.
I was proud of it. It was working. Hundreds of women had left comments and hopefully had saved themselves time by not dating someone who wasn’t right for them. That was the thing that I didn’t have, and exactly what dating required: time. Time to message with someone for two weeks before meeting them and realizing you hate their Mickey Mouse voice or the way they pick their nails. Endless dates with men who said they loved kids or were close to their parents or any other thing you wanted to hear. And the hiking? Why did everyone on dating sites love hiking? I’d never met anyone in real life who liked it.
This was my way of leveling the playing field. And okay, it didn’t always work, but this way, a dud date was never truly a waste of time, because you could give notes to help other women. And maybe one of those would want to be Michael’s adoring, book-reading, barefoot baby mama. But that wasn’t going to be me.
“They were right, I just needed to see for myself. He looked so good on paper.” I quickly typed out a note about the chewing, the book, and the expected halt of his future wife’s career the minute she pushed a baby out. “Besides, now I’ve saved some other woman time. It’s all for the greater good. No date is wasted.”
Meera raised an eyebrow at me. “If there’s no laughing or shagging, it’s a date wasted.” She blew out a smoke circle.
The door opened behind us and Bec poked out her head, rose-pink hair catching the light, and nodded when she saw it was us. Another one who had started school as one thing and had butterflied into another. Bec was our puzzle piece, our balancing act. I was about control, Meera was about chaos, and Bec was about having the most fun possible. Some days I felt that if I didn’t have my friends, I wouldn’t be anyone at all. When we were together, I felt most like myself. Which was probably why Bec always arrived at the pub when she knew I had a date planned.
“Ah, late as usual,” Meera said, grinning at Bec. “Where were you when Miss Marina needed rescuing from her latest bad idea?”
“I live by my own clock, you know that.” She held up a plate at me. “Marco gave me a bacon sandwich for you. Is this a thing? Why do I never get bacon sandwiches when I come here?” She handed it to me and pulled out her pack of cigarettes.
I wrinkled my nose. “It’s pity pig. Every time I bring a date here, Marco makes me a bacon sandwich to soak up the alcohol and disappointment.”
“It’s his way of thanking you for the business.” Meera laughed. She’d been working at the Treasure since she dropped out of law school, and Bec and I had been coming here ever since. So yes, we came for birthdays and Thursday nights and Bec’s last-minute hen do, but mainly we came because I could depend on my favorite bartender rescuing me with a raised eyebrow and my other best friend walking me home after. Safe and practical: my favorite things.
“Another dud?” Bec asked. “What was wrong with this one?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Meera didn’t give me a chance.
“Self-important, arrogant, too much aftershave, and he wasn’t smart enough to immediately fall to the ground and worship at Marina’s tiny, ugly feet.”
“Hey.” I threw a bit of the crust at her. “Excuse me. My feet are normal size and no uglier than everyone else’s.”
“What did Dealbreakers say?” Bec asked, twirling the vintage ruby-encrusted wedding band on her finger absentmindedly.
“That he was a self-important, arrogant . . .” Meera started, then grinned. “She gave him the benefit of the doubt. Lowering her standards already.”
“He mentioned wanting kids in his bio! He had a puppy in his profile picture! Sadly didn’t make up for the absolute 1950s nonsense that came out of his mouth. I should have trusted the women who came before me.” I held up my hand. “I’ve learned my lesson. The sisterhood knows best.”
And they did. It had been months of work, but there were good-sized files on almost all the men on most dating apps. The problem was it started to make me wonder if there was anyone out there for me at all. The goal was to only focus on your personal dealbreakers. Rude to the waitstaff? No way. Terminally clumsy? Not a big deal for me. I was particular; I wasn’t insane.
“Well, I think you should be proud that your dating skills are improving, even if your choices aren’t,” Bec said supportively, reaching over my shoulder to pull a piece of bacon off my place.
“What dating skills?” I laughed. “My ability to see that someone isn’t a good match within thirty seconds of sitting down?”
“Her ability to completely ignore whether she wants to have sex with someone?” Meera offered thoughtfully, tearing a crust off my sandwich.
“No, the small talk and getting-to-know-you bullshit. Mere months ago, our Marina was still using cue cards to think of things to say! And look at her now—she’s got a date down to under twenty minutes.”
I looked at her. “I . . . appreciate your positivity. I think.”
She laughed, and then held up her hands like she’d suddenly remembered something. “Oh! Moving this conversation to a more Bechdel-approved zone for a moment, I got you a present!” Bec said, pulling off her horn-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on her harlequin-printed top.
“Oh God, what? You know I don’t have the space.” I’d been staying in Bec’s spare room, which was starting to feel smaller and smaller every day I stayed there. It had been 241 days. The walls were starting to cave in.
“Don’t worry, no one gives stuff anymore. It’s the gift of us! I signed me and Meera up for your pottery class.”
“You what?” I yelped.
“You WHAT?” Meera repeated, with feeling.
“You said you were struggling with it, and I wanted to support you having a hobby that isn’t trying to meet the perfect man or find the perfect flat or pitch the perfect bug fix.” Bec looked at me, her beautiful round face suddenly pinched and serious. That face said, Be ungrateful, I dare you.
“It’ll be fun!” she cajoled. “Just like being back in Mrs. Jacob’s art class.”
“You were the only one who was good at art class,” Meera said faintly. “Marina and I spent time scratching our names into the tables and throwing paint at each other.”
“Well, sure, but you need to do something fun, and Marina needs to continue doing something she’s shit at.”
“Hey!” I sighed. “The teacher said I was getting better.”
“I think your teacher is developing astigmatism,” Bec said, grinning. Then that determined look returned. “Say thank you, be gracious, move on.”
“Thank you,” Meera and I mumbled in unison.
It had always been this way. Meera the cynic, me the perfectionist, Bec the chaotic free spirit. Of all of us, Bec was currently winning the adulthood race, which no one would have guessed. Including her.
The girl who had no idea what she wanted to do with her life and started sweeping up hair at a London salon while she figured it out now owned that salon. Four months ago, I’d introduced her to Matt, a guy I’d gone on a date with because he was also a developer. We had too much in common, so I introduced him to Bec (plus, he didn’t like travel and really loved reptiles).
They dated for three weeks and got married on a Wednesday. And as a very thoughtful wedding present, when my landlord increased the rent on the flat I used to share with Adam and I couldn’t afford it anymore, they let me move into their spare room. I’d gone from planning my own wedding (secretly, on a hidden Pinterest board) to living with newlyweds. My five-year plan was not quite on the money, apparently.
All my stuff was in storage. I visited every few weeks, just to remember I had stuff. I had the things that made up a life. Baking utensils and throw cushions and a welcome mat. I missed my vintage glasses from the charity shop and having dinner parties where I served things on odd plates. Sure, it was just stuff, but I missed it. As soon as I found the perfect flat, I’d move out and reclaim it.
“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” Bec said, holding out a hand to me, which I immediately took and squeezed. This was our routine. I’d book a terrible date at the Treasure, and Bec would walk me home. At the beginning, it was a safety thing, but I was starting to think she wanted to be there to console me. Either way, my best friend wanted to hold my hand, even when I was taking up her office space and stopping her from having newlywed sex on the kitchen floor. I was lucky.
“Thank you, really. I don’t know what I’d have done without you giving me a place to live,” I said as we walked down the quiet streets toward the beautiful Victorian terrace that housed Bec’s flat.
“You need to stop thanking me.” Bec squeezed my hand and shook it a little in admonishment. “It’s nice to have you around. And when you find your Insta-worthy ground-floor flat with a garden and a book nook and enough natural light to grow a tomato plant, I’m sure I’ll miss you.”
“You think I’m being too fussy?” I winced.
“I think you’re being exactly who you are.” Bec smiled, shrugging. “And who am I to tell Marina Spicer not to be her wonderful self?”
“I should lower my expectations,” I said as we padded along in the growing darkness. “I know I should. I just . . . I loved my flat. It was perfect.”
It was. My flat with Adam was a labor of love, which was what happened when you’d been with someone since you were fifteen and moved in together instead of living in halls at uni. You had enough time and space and disposable income from never making any new friends to . . . nest. To build up a collection of beautiful art in frames instead of posters Blu-Tacked up in dorm rooms. To fill a vintage bar cart and repaint old furniture on the weekend until your friends came around to visit and their jaws dropped at how you had your shit together. How you were a grown-up.
“I know,” she said sagely. Poor Bec, she must have been tired of this conversation. And how many times I’d lamented losing my gorgeous living space in the past few months. It was easier to moan about that than it was to talk about Adam leaving. Easier to pretend hardwood floors and a truly shocking amount of natural light for East London mattered more than the man I’d been with my whole life walking out. Until I’d lost the flat, his departure almost hadn’t seemed real.
I was getting sick of talking about it myself.
“So, how’s work?” I asked, changing the topic and learning from my experience with Michael. Ask questions, listen to the answers.
“Actually, I convinced Marjorie to give bright violet streaks a go.” Bec grinned, grabbing her phone to show me. “She looks amazing.”
“Marjorie who’s eighty-five?”
“Eighty-five and started one of the most prominent fashion brands in the city. She’s a local legend.” She held up a hand to her chest, as if overcome. “And I had an impact on her daily life. What a thrill!”
“I love how you love stuff.”
“How about you? Create some sort of terrifying AI that’s gonna take over the world and enslave us all?”
“Nah, that’s next week.” I snorted, then sighed. “Still in a war of words with marketing.”
“That guy with the snarky emails?”
“Yep, it’s all passive-aggressive pleasantries. He’s taken to responding to my emails with a simple ‘k’ of acknowledgment, so I know I’ve really pissed him off.” I grinned. “It’s better than coffee. Really energizing, you know?”
“So unlike you to be confrontational.” Bec snorted, and I nodded.
“Some people are worth the work.” I laughed and felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.
“Is your presentation tomorrow?”
I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, making a face. “I’m going to try to get a promotion. I never should have accepted the first offer. And I miss running a big team. I can’t keep going backward.” In all areas of my life.
Bec made a face and took a deep drag on her cigarette. “How you feeling about the public speaking?”
“Like I’d rather knock myself over the head with a Lego spaceship, which, incidentally, my bosses have on display in their man-child office.”
Bec’s laugh turned into a cough, and I felt my phone buzz again. I checked the screen.
I passed that shop in Dulwich where we bought the flamingo glasses today. They have a huge flamingo in the window! Made me think of you.
I stopped walking to look at it and thought, not for the first time, that deciding to be friends with the person who walked all over your heart with their muddy size-nine Adidas was probably not the best idea.
After a moment of silence, Bec ventured, “Adam?”
I nodded, and she peered over my shoulder.
“Bastard.”
I turned to look at her, laughing. “What deserves that response?”
“The fact that he thinks he even has the right to message after what he did.” She pretended to growl, baring her teeth. They’d been friends once, too. We all had. I’d won them in the separation.
“People are allowed to grow, Bec. They’re allowed to want different things,” I defended, knowing it was true. “I just wish he’d told me before I started taking prenatal vitamins and took a stupid job at a dopey start-up for the great maternity package.”
Before I knew it, we were standing in front of Bec’s flat, out on a leafy suburban street, quintessentially London. We perched on the front wall as she lit up her final cigarette of the night.
“Well, tomorrow, when you make your big, exciting pitch to become a boss-arse bitch, that dopey bro start-up is gonna start raking in the cash and making an impact. And you’re gonna be at the heart of it.”
I said nothing but crossed my fingers. One step closer to being a head of development. To running a team. To training female coders and making an impact on the industry. One step closer to that five-year plan, that version of myself with the swishy hair and the capsule wardrobe and the flat with a garden and a picture-perfect husband.
I thought back to that text message from Adam. I remembered that shop. Remembered buying those flamingo glasses, laughing and clapping my hands as I discovered them, his arms around my waist. He used to say my ability to be happy with the simplest things was one of my best traits.
Wasn’t it the simplest thing in the world to meet someone, fall in love, make a life?
As I followed Bec in through the front door and watched how her husband’s eyes lit up with delight at her return, I promised myself it was all coming to me. I was doing everything I could. I would make it happen.
I’d developed an app to save women time when dating. How hard could it be to fix a failing start-up?
It all started tomorrow, and this time I wasn’t letting it slip through my fingers.

Excerpt. ©Lauren Forsythe. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 

Giveaway: 1 Print copy of DEALBREAKERS, (US only)

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Meet the Author:

Lauren Forsythe lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and son, and a cat that gets more spoilt by the day. She works in marketing, studied English and Creative Writing at the UEA, and spends too much time trying to work out how she can retroactively add pockets to every piece of clothing she owns. She is the author of The Fixer Upper and Dealbreakers.

Buy: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/705193/dealbreakers-by-lauren-forsythe/