He was about to promise Emmy Woodhouse six months of his personal life while lying to her about every one of his intentions. Protecting her. Deceiving her. The same act, somehow. His mother would have had opinions about that distinction—she'd always had opinions about the distance between good reasons and good behavior.
He signed his name.
Done.
Emmy picked up the contract like it was a holy relic, something sacred and breakable. For a second, he thought she might cry. Instead she let out a breath that seemed to deflate her entire frame—the rigid posture collapsing, the business armor still on but the person inside it slumping back against the booth like she'd just crossed a finish line she'd been sprinting toward for days.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "I thought I was going to throw up."
Grant laughed—a startled, involuntary sound. There she was. The Emmy he actually knew. The one who admitted when she was terrified. The one who didn't pretend to be bulletproof.
"Eat your panini," he said. "You look like you're about to pass out."
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Emmy relaxed by degrees, color returning to her face. He thought they might spend the rest of the afternoon catching up—how her parents were doing, whether her dad had discovered any new ailments, if she'd read anything good lately.
He underestimated her.
She pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her portfolio with a decisive motion, like a general unrolling a campaign map.
"Okay," she said. "Now therealwork starts."
Grant paused, last bite of panini halfway to his mouth. "I thought the contract was the real work."
"That was the legal stuff. That's for Cecelia." She gestured between them, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face with an intensity that made him want to check if he had sauce on his chin. "This is the vibe check. I can't match you if I don't know who you actually are right now. Not the 'Grant Knight' on the billboard. The guy eating at a dive of a diner in a twenty-year-old baseball cap."
Grant chewed slowly. "I'm the same guy."
"You're not. I grew up with you, Grant. I know you have different versions of yourself." She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "There's the Grant who showed up at our house at midnight because West called from some party. And there's the Grant who does press conferences without blinking." She paused. "West told me about the script you have for letting women down easy."
Grant choked slightly on his bite. "West told youwhat?”
"West tells me things. Told. Before he got boring and started caring about gutters." She leaned forward. "The point is, you compartmentalize. You have versions of yourself for different contexts. And I need to know which version actually wants a relationship."
Grant set his panini down. He didn't like how accurate that was. And he really didn't like that West had apparently been narrating his dating life to his little sister. He was going to have words with his best friend about operational security.
She'd gathered intel from the best source possible—her brother, who'd watched him navigate breakups for a decade. Same move he'd seen his mother pull in trial prep: find the person who'd been in the room longest and get them talking. He respected the strategy even as it made him want to throw something at West's head.
"Fine," he said, crossing his arms. "So what are you doing? Reading my aura? Checking my chakras?"
She gave him a droll look. "I don't need to read you," she said, leaning her chin on her hand. "I know you. Now, tell me about Sunday morning. Not in the season. Say… June. No practice. No film. What does it look like?"
"Sleeping," Grant said immediately.
"Boring. Try again." Her eyes didn't leave his. "You're awake. You're in your kitchen. Ideally, who is there? What's the noise level?"
Grant looked at her. He wanted to give a joke answer, something about game tape or his trainer. But Emmy was looking at him with that expression she'd had since she was a little girl—soft, unblinking, impossible to bullshit. It was deeply annoying.
"Quiet," Grant admitted. The truth slipping out before he could catch it. "It's quiet. Maybe some music, but low. I'm making coffee. The good stuff."
"And the partner?" Emmy asked softly. "Is she getting ready for brunch? Live-streaming the view?"
"God, no." Grant rubbed the back of his neck. "She's just... there. Wearing sweatpants. Maybe reading. We're not doing anything. We're just recovering. Together."
Emmy nodded slowly. She wasn't writing anything down. She was just absorbing it, cataloging it somewhere behind those sharp eyes.
"You want a sanctuary," she diagnosed. "Your life is loud. You need a partner who brings the volume down, not up."
"Is that a diagnosis, Doctor Love?"
