"I’m always careful."
"You’re never careful."
Elizabeth grinned. "Well, now would be a great time to start."
"So let me get this straight," Jane said, pointing her spoon. "You’re texting with one mysterious man who won’t share his face, waiting for a reply from another man who wants to spill secrets about a billionaire you publicly dragged, and you’ve decided none of this sounds shady?"
"Correct."
"Please tell me you’re not meeting either of them."
Elizabeth hesitated for half a second too long.
Jane’s eyes widened. "Oh my God. You are."
"Only one of them," Elizabeth said quickly. "Mr. F. We matched. The app insists we meet in person before we get a new match, remember?"
"So you’re going on a date with a stranger from the internet whose name you don’t even know?"
“Isn’t that how all dating apps work?” Elizabeth shrugged. “Besides, it’s controlled. Public place. I’m not an amateur.”
Jane groaned. "Two unknown men in one week. Incredible."
"Technically one and a half," Elizabeth said. "Wickham hasn’t earned full mystery status yet."
Jane covered her face with both hands. "Just... please don’t end up in someone’s exposé. Or someone’s basement."
Elizabeth laughed, then stretched her arms along the back of the couch. "Relax. I’ve got this. Besides, how else would I ever know if the app actually works?"
Jane shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You’re unbelievable."
Elizabeth looked at her phone again. Still no response from Wickham.
Too many unknowns. But oh, how she loved a good mystery.
Chapter FIVE
ELIZABETH PULLEDup to the café in a yellow taxi, a crime novel she’s been reading still open on her lap. She closed it with a satisfying snap, slid it into her bag, and peered through the window before stepping out. She'd been here before—twice, maybe three times. It was familiar enough to feel safe, yet public enough not to feel trapped. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, the tables were spaced just enough for privacy, and the coffee was decent. Perfect for a first meeting with a stranger.
Technically, Mr. F had suggested somewhere else—a rooftop café he claimed had the best views in Manhattan and pastries that could convert a cynic. But after a polite tug-of-war over venues, Elizabeth had insisted on this one. He had relented. She liked having the final say.
Inside, she chose a corner table by the window, unclipped her coat, and slid into the seat. She checked her phone. No new messages from him yet. Just the usual: Substack notifications, work pings, a few unread emails. She tapped her fingers on the table, crossed her legs, and waited.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Mr. F
“Just a few minutes late. So sorry. Be there shortly.”
She smiled faintly and flagged down a barista.
"One cappuccino, please. Extra hot."
The drink arrived five minutes later. She cupped it between her palms, letting the heat seep into her skin. She took a small sip, sighed. Then, the café door chimed.
A man stepped inside.
Elizabeth glanced up, half-curious, half-bored—then stilled. Her eyebrows lifted.
He was handsome. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, with a tailored coat and the kind of quiet confidence that made people instinctively step aside. He moved with easy precision, scanning the room.
