Everyone in Fairweather knew Penelope Primm as the matchmaker who never failed. She was respected, feared, and occasionally bribed with scones at her favorite cafe. However, nobody knew her secret: she was an absolute disaster when it came to her own love life. The chaos of her romantic history rivaled even the worst reality TV shows. And now, as she stared across the table at her newest client, Harold Hargrove, she knew she was in trouble.

Harold, all chiseled jawline and biceps too big for his shirt sleeves, was just too much. It wasn’t that Penelope found him attractive—she found him ridiculous. His dating profile screamed things like “loves long hikes through volcanoes” and “can open a coconut with his teeth.” The man was basically a walking deodorant commercial, but here he was, sitting across from Penelope, desperately asking for help to find true love.

“Penelope,” Harold sighed, “you’re my last hope. I’ve tried everything. All the apps, blind dates, even tried to date a psychic once, but she kept predicting my death every time I was late for a date. Please, help me.”

Penelope cleared her throat, trying not to roll her eyes. “Okay, Harold. What exactly are you looking for in a partner?”

“Someone who can keep up with me,” Harold said earnestly, eyes sparkling. “You know, someone who enjoys jumping out of planes, sword fighting, and—most importantly—never wears Crocs. Those are deal-breakers.”

Penelope blinked. “No Crocs. Got it.” She scribbled down some notes, trying her best not to scribble, “This man is insane.” Instead, she added a polite, “Likes adventure,” which in her mind translated to “has a death wish.”

After the session, Penelope trudged home, contemplating Harold’s absurd criteria. As soon as she entered her apartment, her cat Mr. Whiskers greeted her with his usual contemptuous meow. He was the only male in her life, and he knew it. He judged her, silently but powerfully, for getting involved in everyone else’s romantic chaos while her own love life was an arid wasteland.

That evening, as Penelope prepared for a night of tea and reruns, her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Linda.

“Pen! You’ll never guess what! I signed you up for that new matchmaking service!” Linda squealed.

“Linda, no!” Penelope protested, nearly dropping her tea. “I’m the matchmaker, not the…matchmakee!”

“Exactly! That’s why it’s hilarious! Besides, it’s called ‘CupidCon,’ and it’s supposed to be revolutionary. They guarantee love or your money back. I couldn’t resist.”

“Linda, the last time you used the word ‘revolutionary’ was about that all-you-can-eat shrimp buffet, and I spent three days in the hospital.”

Linda ignored her. “You’ll thank me later. Anyway, gotta run. My lasagna’s on fire. Bye!”

Penelope groaned. This was going to be a disaster. She tried to forget about it and focus on her work. The next morning, she was back at her office, setting up a date for Harold with a woman who enjoyed rock climbing and “fighting her fears head-on,” whatever that meant. Probably a life coach. She always ended up with clients like this: people who mistook adrenaline for intimacy.

She was in the middle of rescheduling Harold’s third skydiving date (the original had to cancel due to “not having a death wish”) when her phone dinged. It was CupidCon, confirming her first match.

“Oh, for the love of—” Penelope muttered.

Against her better judgment, she clicked on the link. It showed her a profile with a name that left her stunned: Harold Hargrove. The very Harold she was trying to match. Her eyes widened. This had to be a mistake. There was no way this ridiculous, volcano-hiking coconut-crusher was supposed to be her match.

The date was set for Friday night at a place called “Le Bistro Intense.” Apparently, it had a reputation for serving food “in extreme ways,” which was as vague as it was concerning. Penelope decided she needed to at least see this through—if only to prove to herself that Harold was the worst possible match for her.

Friday arrived, and Penelope reluctantly put on her favorite green dress, muttering under her breath. “CupidCon, more like CupidCon-artist.” Mr. Whiskers watched her leave, his eyes saying, “You’re better off alone, you fool.”

Le Bistro Intense was exactly what she expected: loud, over-the-top, and decorated with more neon lights than a discount carnival. She spotted Harold immediately; he was wearing what could only be described as a tuxedo meant for a spy-themed prom. He waved at her, knocking over a glass in the process.

“Penelope! You look…like someone who doesn’t skydive!” he greeted, beaming.

“Thank you, Harold. You look…like you got lost on your way to an espionage convention.”

Harold pulled out a chair for her—or rather, he yanked it so forcefully that she almost ended up sitting on the floor. She caught herself, glaring at him.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” he said with a wink.

“No, but it’s definitely on life support,” Penelope muttered.

The waiter approached, looking equally intense. He was wearing goggles. “Tonight, we have two options: the Spicy Volcano Curry—served on fire—or the Extreme Caesar Salad—tossed at your table by a juggling mime.”

“I’ll take the curry,” Harold said eagerly. “Extra volcano, please.”

Penelope sighed. “Salad. Hold the mime.”

The dinner progressed about as awkwardly as expected. Harold insisted on sharing a story about the time he got stranded on a mountain because he mistook a goat for a tour guide. Penelope countered with a story about her most boring client who thought Sudoku counted as a personality trait. Harold laughed so hard he snorted water out of his nose, which, in a twisted way, made Penelope start to enjoy herself.

By dessert, she found herself relaxing. Harold’s ridiculous stories had a sort of charm to them. She was almost impressed by how little he took himself seriously. Then, suddenly, the restaurant lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared at their table. Harold grinned.

“I signed us up for the couples’ challenge,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Penelope’s stomach sank. “Couples’ challenge? Harold, we’re not—”

Before she could finish, the waiter, still wearing goggles, handed them each a pair of chopsticks and pointed to a large fish tank filled with…was that Jello?

“Retrieve the golden ring hidden in the Jello,” the waiter announced. “Only true couples succeed.”

Penelope glared at Harold, who was clearly trying to suppress laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Come on, Penelope. Live a little!” Harold said, grabbing his chopsticks.

Against her better judgment, Penelope picked up her chopsticks and began fishing around the tank. The Jello was slippery, and she had no idea what she was even looking for. Across the table, Harold was making an absolute mess, splashing Jello everywhere. One glob hit Penelope right in the face.

“Oops! Sorry!” Harold laughed, his eyes wide with genuine amusement. Something about his goofy grin and the absurdity of the situation made Penelope burst out laughing too. She hadn’t laughed like that in ages.

They didn’t find the golden ring, but the waiter did give them a complimentary dessert for “most entertaining effort.” As they left the restaurant, Penelope felt strangely lighter. Harold walked her home, and at her doorstep, he turned to her, suddenly serious.

“You know, Penelope,” he said, “I’ve always been told I’m too much—too loud, too adventurous, too ridiculous. But tonight, you made me feel…just enough.”

Penelope blinked, taken aback. “Harold, you are ridiculous. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Before she could overthink it, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him—just a peck, but enough to make Harold’s eyes go wide. He smiled, softer this time.

“I’ll call you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Penelope watched as he walked away, feeling a strange flutter in her chest. Mr. Whiskers, waiting at the window, seemed to approve. Or maybe he just wanted dinner.

The next morning, Penelope walked into her office and froze. There, sitting in her client chair, was Linda—but not the usual bubbly Linda she knew. Linda looked…nervous.

“Linda, what’s going on?” Penelope asked.

Linda bit her lip. “Pen, there’s something I need to tell you. CupidCon…it’s not just a matchmaking service. It’s, um, a reality TV show. They’ve been filming everything. You and Harold are on TV.”

Penelope’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Linda cringed. “They wanted a matchmaker to fall in love. I signed you up as a joke, but it’s gone…way further than I expected.”

Penelope felt her face heat up. Her disastrous date with Harold, the ridiculous chopstick challenge, even the kiss—all of it had been filmed?

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Harold walked in, holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a sheepish grin.

“Hey, Penelope,” he said. “I just found out we’re famous. Thought I’d come by and see if you’d want to go for a hike. Or, you know, sign some autographs.”

Penelope stared at him, and then at Linda, and then back at Harold. And she did the only thing that made sense. She laughed. She laughed so hard that she doubled over, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Harold joined in, his laughter echoing through the office. Linda, relieved, started laughing too, and soon all three of them were clutching their sides, gasping for air.

“Okay, Harold,” Penelope managed between laughs. “But no volcanoes this time.”

“Deal,” Harold said, offering her his arm.

And just like that, Penelope decided that maybe, just maybe, her own love story didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be hers—unexpected, over-the-top, and absolutely ridiculous.