On a recent Monday night, 48-year-old Robert Epstein waited outside the cliff-side restaurant Las Brisas in Laguna Beach, Calif., clutching a single peach-colored rose.

"I'm about to embark on a very bold, very personal experiment, one that some might call -- and in fact have already called -- crazy," Epstein, the editor in chief of Psychology Today, wrote in a June editorial-cum-personal ad. He was looking for a woman to fall in love with him in a given amount of time, say within six months. He and the woman would "create" love through weekly counseling sessions and a series of trust-building exercises.

During this period of self-experimentation, he would take copious notes and chronicle everything for a book. He already had the title: The Love You Make: How We Learned to Love Each Other, and How You Can Too.

All he needed was a woman.

Hundreds had offered to be part of the experiment, pitching themselves in long, heartfelt letters. And the phones had been ringing off the hook. USA Today, the Boston Globe and the BBC were interested in his project, he said. Producers from CBS and NBC were even throwing around the idea of a so-called reality series, starring Epstein. Camera crews would record "the milestones," he said. "The first meeting, the first kiss, meeting the parents, the first declaration of love, the counseling sessions."

This night's candidate was Alma Avery Rubenstein, the 33-year-old owner of Kooky Catering. She was not drawn from the Psychology Today responses. Rather, Epstein had found her on Matchmaker.com.

"She sounds like an ambitious woman. I liked that," he said. "I saw a couple of photos, and she looks kind of cute. She's Jewish ... that's a good bonus."

Although Rubenstein had inadvertently wandered into the middle of the Epstein juggernaut, she agreed to a date at Las Brisas, halfway between her Hollywood condo and his home in San Diego. And she didn't flinch when he mentioned he'd be inviting a reporter along.

He was being interviewed when a call came through on the other line. "Guess who that was? Tonight's woman," he said as he came back on the line. She had wanted directions to the restaurant, he said. "She sounded a little irritated that I couldn't give her directions straightaway. That's a bad sign."

He got another call. "I hope it's not her again."

It wasn't, he said. It has just been so frantic. Even John Gray had contacted him. "The Mars/Venus guy. The John Gray."

Epstein, a Harvard-trained psychologist, got back to the business of relationships, explaining their typical trajectory. "What we normally do is we fall passionately in love or in lust in the beginning. But it fades, and we're left with nothing."

By dispensing with the idea of finding "the one" or a soul mate, Epstein argued, partners-to-be could use tools culled from couples' therapy to ignite, rather than simply rekindle, romances. They'd use, for example, the exercise in which a person falls back into the arms of his or her partner. Epstein has named it "falling for you."

He was confident that his method, which he likened to an arranged marriage in which partners consciously decide to fall in love, would work "not for everybody -- who cares? -- but for many." He envisions teaching his techniques to other therapists. It could be a franchise, healing people on a national scale.

"This is good for the consumer, the general public. It's even good for the mental health profession," he said. "This project is going to give rise to a lot of therapists and counselors. I guess you could say it could bring in a lot of new customers."

At the restaurant, a waiter seated the couple at a window table with a view of the ocean.

Epstein, a slight man with thinning brown hair, was wearing khakis, deck shoes and a blue blazer. A heavy silver chain hung around his wrist. Rubenstein, a woman with a husky voice and caramel-golden hair, wore a black top and skirt. He was a little tired after a hard day's work. She had arrived in Laguna Beach two hours early. As Epstein unspooled his spiel, Rubenstein looked puzzled. No, she hadn't read his editorial. As he explained his quest, though, she quickly recovered.

"You know, I wrote a screenplay about the same thing," she said, "trying to get someone to fall in love with you in one week, kind of a crash course in love." She had never sold it because life interfered.

"I actually fell in love and got distracted," she said with a smile.

"I didn't steal your idea," he said. She ordered a dirty vodka martini. He, Frangelico and Baileys on ice. She kiddingly chided him for "drinking his dessert." They ordered entrees to share, and Epstein continued talking. In a rare digression from the vertical pronoun, he told his date: "You're my favorite body type."

Outside, couples held hands as they walked along the bluff. The lights dimmed.

Epstein was looking for "a good, healthy, wonderful relationship." And to that end, had crafted the love contract, "a beautiful document. I'm going to be signing one, hopefully, this week."

At the table, he presented it to Rubenstein. It had little heart-shaped bullet points, and a dotted line to be signed by the "partners in love." The goals, he had explained earlier, were "learn to communicate, learn to have fun, learn to trust each other, learn to forgive each other. Most important, learn to love each other with a love that's genuine."

Rubenstein looked at the document, spattered now with drops of water from her glass.

"I was looking for a life partner, not a business contract," she said. But soon they were talking business. She asked him about his book deal, the money he would be making off the project. What would be her cut, if she signed on to become his partner?

"All that has to be worked out," he said. "Whether the person would officially be a co-author."

She mulled it over. She would really like to write something for the book, she said.

His pager beeped. "I'm a little intimidated by you," he told her. "It may be your tan."

After dinner, they walked along the beach -- no, a reporter wouldn't be welcome. He walked her to her car, they both said later, and they kissed.

"I think he wanted to kiss more, and I got into my car," Rubenstein said by phone the next day. "It was nice but a little bit awkward."

She wasn't too daunted by the glass-house romance.

"I honestly felt we enjoyed each other's company," she said. "I think he's a little overwhelmed by this project, and that's why I was giving him space -- trying to be respectful."

And this had the promise of something genuine, she said. "I stopped picking the actors and the models, there were just so many blank beautiful people," she said. "I want someone who's real."

A week later, she hadn't heard from Epstein. He'd been busy.

"I think it went pretty well," he said by phone. "I do want to chat with her again." But what about his obligations to all the other candidates? "What to do with these large numbers of women?" he asked, outlining two possible methodologies for choosing among them: "Take the first person who turns up or try to find the most suited?"

What's love got to do with this? Some of Epstein's colleagues weren't sure. "First of all, the motive behind it: He's not looking for love," said Herb Goldberg, a Los Angeles clinical psychologist and expert on male psychology. "It's about publicity, adventure, getting attention. None of it has to do with finding love."

Louise Roug writes for the Los Angeles Times, a Tribune Publishing newspaper.