I will not think about the fact that there’s an entire section on good-night kisses on page eight—paragraph four, section B, to be exact—or how there’s a very good chance I’ll feel Axe’s lips on mine by the end of this evening.
“Hope this date will feel better than a root canal,” I tell him.
He laughs, popping on his helmet as I hitch up my dress—thank God I’m not wearing tulle—and clamp my legs around Axe’s. The engine revs to life, then softens once we’re on the bridge, the roar replaced by the tires clattering over the wide wooden planks.
My arms wrap around his waist as I take in the arched roof and filtered, dimming sunlight. I breathe the smell of old, weathered wood and earth. It’s all so beautiful. I cling tighter, feeling the heat of Axe’s back through his thin shirt as we emerge from the bridge onto an extremely steep incline.
The shift in momentum makes me press even closer, gripping him to keep from slipping off. It’s terrifying, but Axe is steady, effortless, and my fear morphs into something else: exhilaration. The trees above are thick and green, the setting sun looks like an orange lollipop melting into the horizon.
Every turn Axe takes is smooth, like he’s done this a million times, and each twist sends my stomach flipping as we climb higher, the valley below shrinking to doll size. And then it hits me—an insane sense of freedom unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I want to whoop, cheer, let out this weird, buzzing energy building inside me.
At the top of the hill, Axe slows down. My heart is pounding, half from the ride and half from the incredible view. But there are no restaurants for miles. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed we were eating dinner.
That’s when I spot it: a table set for two, strategically placed for the best panoramic view, under a canopy of trees strung with fairy lights.
Holy shit.
Red wine, white tablecloth, napkins folded on fine china plates, and two cushioned wooden chairs. Beyond romantic. It all feels so surreal, like a scene from a dream. Or an Instagram ad for a life no one gets to actually live. With the stunning hues of sunset behind us, it’s like we’re wrapped in a glow of peach and melon.
“Wow,” I whisper, mostly to myself, because it all feels too perfect to be real.
“Ready?” Axe asks as he swings off the bike, takes off hishelmet, and then runs his fingers through his mussed-up hair. Is he trying to be sexy? Because to be honest, it’s one hundred percent working. He steps closer to me, and I have no idea what he’s doing. Is he going to kiss me? Surely not yet.
I’m way too confused by the whole vibe—the idyllic backdrop, the fairy lights, all of it—probably because I’m now in the business of other people’s fantasies. Axe reaches out and gently unclips the strap under my chin. Another jolt of electricity, straight to my core, and my heart skips a beat.
Suddenly, I realize I’m so not ready for any of this. I, Josie Greene, am officially in over my head.
Nineteen
Axe
Aye, fuck me. She’s wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. A slip of silk, soft as liquid, with thin runaway straps, and her strawberry curls, mussed by the helmet, make a tempestuous riot around her Botticelli face.
I was already rock-hard from having her breasts pressed against my back on the ride. Shite, I’m an idiot. I knew this picnic dinner was a bad idea. Thank God for the thick thermal blankets folded on the chairs. Pretty soon she’ll be all wrapped up, and I can do what we came here for. Not be distracted by her details, but instead record and memorialize them for someone else’s future pleasure.
This isn’t a real date with a real woman. It’s a professional exercise in gathering intel. I’ve always been good at coding human behavior into tech, and just because this happens to be the romantic realm doesn’t mean it’s any different. The philosophy behind the AI software is simple: engage, observe, and translate the essence of Josie into a template that could genuinely help some poor bastard feel a bit less alone. Or offer some solace to a woman stuck in a life where she can’t yet come out of the closet.
Our previous iterations’ behavior has always too closelycoincided with predictive models, which somehow took the messy, glorious humanity out of the product. Josie, who surprises me at every turn, will no doubt provide that captivating alchemy we’re missing.
What we’re doing is creating something real from something unreal, a digital companion that feels as close to human as possible, that fills those lonely gaps, gives a person the illusion of connection. Aye, the illusion. That’s the rub. Making it seem so lifelike that even the most skeptical soul believes it.
Josie sits in the chair and throws the blanket over her lap. Her wrap is loose around her shoulders, and I’m terrified she’s going to freeze. But my team has left nothing to chance. Tiny camping heaters are arranged all around us, creating a cozy bubble of warmth. It’s as if we’re in our own magic world up here.
“Well, this is…something,” Josie says, flashing that glorious grin of hers. There’s always a hint of a secret tucked away in the corners of her mouth, and yet tonight, she seems to have shed a layer of defensiveness. Like she feels freer, maybe. Like the ride loosened something in her the way it does for me. I always tell Strike that the bike is better than scotch, but he’s too much of a pussy about road rash to understand.
“It’s just us,” I say, though it’s plain as day there’s no one else around for miles. The team decided there’d be no staff up here tonight—bringing more people into the mix would just screw up the vibe. So I’m serving our supper myself, straight from a wooden chest packed with multiple courses in temperature-controlled containers. Seemed like a grand idea until this very moment—my hand’s got the slightest tremble. What the hell? Am I…nervous? Not a chance. I never get nervous, but this—the intimacy of sharing a meal, the vulnerability of opening up, even slightly—is a different kind of challenge.
Sort yourself out, Axe. You can handle a pretty woman in a slip dress. Jesus.
The first course is a vegan burrata—Josie has a list of food allergies as long as a Highland winter, so we found all the best alternatives—along with Santa Rosa plums that I had flown in from my small orchard. Their deep purple skins glow by the soft light, and the fragrance is intoxicating.
“When you put the plum in your mouth,” I tell her, “you must smell it, too. It brings out the taste.”
Josie’s eyes go heavy with delight as she tastes everything like it’s a treasure. We move through the courses: roasted vegetables artfully arranged and drizzled with citrus reduction, along with a selection of Spanish tapas dishes meant to be shared and savored. Everything on the table is specifically designed to make us lean closer, touch more, and forget the distance between us. My team knows exactly what they’re doing. Our software will create curated experiences depending on the whims of the user. Some people will want a cozy night in on the couch. Others will want a more unattainable fairy-tale experience like this one. SynthoTech will make anything possible.
Josie asks me about my childhood in Scotland. I give her the cleaned-up version that I tell everyone, my heart trained to keep forty-two beats per minute. I mention the castle and the idyllic island, the warm rolling greens of the bogs, the glens that grow thick with bluebells come spring. I do not mention my father, my upbringing, my family.
What else is there to tell? It would be like someone yammering on about a nightmare they’ve just had. Nothing to do about it, and no one wants to hear it.
