"Occupational hazard. I read defenses for a living." Grant leaned back, making himself comfortable. Making the space less formal. "How've you been? It's been what, four months since the wedding?"
"Five." Emmy's smile went a little wistful. "You look good. Healthy. No visible injuries."
"Season just started. Give it time."
"Don't even joke." But she was relaxing now, the Emmy he actually knew emerging from behind the professional facade. She closed her laptop, pushed the portfolio aside. "How's West? I know you see him more than I do these days."
"He's good. Happy. Boring." Grant grinned. "All he talks about is his wife and his lawn. It's tragic. The man used to be fun."
Emmy's eyes went wide with mock horror. "My brother has alawn. He's become our parents. Does he have an HOA? Is he feuding with the neighbors yet?"
"Worse. He asked me about gutters last week. I had to pretend I knew what a downspout was."
She laughed again, and Grant felt something in his chest ease.
Antonio appeared at the table, grumpily tucking his crossword puzzle into his apron pocket. Must've been a hard one today. His expression suggested the puzzle had personally wronged him.
He looked at Emmy first. Waited.
"Black coffee," Emmy said. "That's all."
"Come on, Em." Grant leaned back. "I haven't seen you in months. This is an occasion. Get the hazelnut latte. My treat."
Emmy huffed, but the hard line of her mouth gave way. She turned back to Antonio. "Fine. A large hazelnut latte. Extra hot."
Then she looked at Grant. "I can't believe you remember that."
"I have a brain. I use it occasionally." He turned to Antonio. "And aren't you getting food? You're fidgety."
"I'm fine."
"I'm getting food. Two turkey paninis."
Antonio grunted and shuffled away. A man of few words, all of them unnecessary.
His eyes went back to Emmy. She was opening and closing the flap of her portfolio. She had shadows under her eyes that concealer couldn't quite hide—five months, and she looked more tired than he'd ever seen her. When had Emmy ever looked tired? She'd always run on some internal battery the rest of them couldn't access, organizing everyone's life while they were still figuring out breakfast.
Her hair was pulled back in a sleek style that made her look like a real adult—someone with a career and a 401k and opinions about interest rates. But a few strands had escaped near her temple, and he thought of early high school mornings picking West up for practice, little Emmy sitting at the breakfast table with her ponytail falling apart around her face, awake before the whole house.
His hand twitched. Muscle memory from a thousand casual moments when fixing her collar or tucking her hair back had been automatic. The privilege of growing up together—tracking mud through the Woodhouse kitchen after practice, sleeping over in West's room while Emmy made them all pancakes with sprinkles in the morning, her cheering from the sidelines at his high school games with her elementary friends.
Except they weren't those people anymore—the ones who'd sprawl across the Woodhouse living room arguing about movies, the ones who touched without thinking about it. Somewhere between his rookie season and now, the ease had slipped away. Adulthood had built walls where there used to be open doors.
He could smell vanilla—faint, familiar, the same perfume she'd worn since high school. Some things hadn't changed.
Other things had.
"Okay," she said, taking a breath that seemed to square her shoulders.
"The matchmaking thing."
"The matchmaking thing." Emmy bit her lip. “I should start by saying thank you. For even considering this. I know it's completely insane that I called you out of nowhere and asked you to let me find you dates, and you probably think I've lost my mind?—"
"Em." Grant leaned forward, cutting off the spiral before it could build momentum. "I'll always answer when you call. You know that." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I'll listento your pitch. But this matchmaking thing... you know it's not me."
Emmy started to speak, and he held up a hand.
"But I'll listen," he said.
