Part 2Falling For The King Of Cheap Dates

My name is Riley, and I’ve spent the better part of my twenty-three years looking for a way into the one percent.

My mother’s voice has been the soundtrack to my life. “Riley,” she’d say, her eyes weary from years of scraping by, “you can look for a man with a heart of gold, a man with a quick wit, or a man who’s good with his hands. Just don't look for a man who’s only 'nice.' Nice doesn’t pay the mortgage. Nice doesn't buy the life you deserve.”

I took that to heart. While other girls were studying for the LSATs, I was studying the difference between a Birkin and a Kelly, and learning how to spot a counterfeit Rolex from across a dimly lit gala.

On my quest for a "Diamond Bachelor," I ran into every archetype the Pacific Northwest had to offer.

There were the "Aspiring Visionaries"—men with empty pockets and grand manifestos, masters of the "long con" who could talk your ear off about their upcoming tech IPO that was definitely, totally happening next month.

There were the "Mid-Tier Managers"—men with a little bit of money, but a whole lot of stinginess. They’d take you to a steakhouse and then spent thirty minutes arguing over the line item for the sparkling water.

And then there were the "True Elites"—men who actually had the money, but lacked even a shred of basic human decency.

I spent years sighing into my overpriced martinis, wondering when my own personal white knight—one with a trust fund and a tolerable personality—would finally show up.

They say you find love when you’re not looking, usually in the last place you’d ever think to check. For me, that place was a dive bar in Portland, and the man was Wyatt Bennett.