She surprised him by stepping forward and hugging him—quick, grateful, impulsive. She smelled like the hazelnut latte and something floral underneath, and Grant's arms came up automatically, the gesture as old and unthinking as sliding her water glass out of reach. When she pulled back, she was already retreating toward her beat-up Civic.
“We’ll get together about some matches next week," she called over her shoulder. "Don't embarrass me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Her dented bumper disappeared around the corner. Grant stood there longer than he needed to, hands still in his pockets, the September wind cooling the spot on his chest where her head had been.
He should feel guilty about lying to her—about the fact that he had zero intention of finding a partner, and that his only goal was to protect West's little sister while running out the clock on her probation period. But guilt required caring more about the deception than the outcome, and his primary concern was keeping Emmy safe from an industry that would chew her up and never even notice.
Grant pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to West:
Grant
Had coffee with Emmy. She's doing okay.
The response came back thirty seconds later:
West
Cool. What did she want?
Grant stared at the screen. He could tell West the truth. That Emmy had talked him into letting her find him dates, that she was using him as her star client to break into athlete matchmaking, that he'd signed a contract with more conditions than a mortgage.
Except West would immediately worry it was going to blow up in Emmy's face. He'd want to "talk strategy," insert himself into the whole thing, probably call Emmy and make her feel like she couldn't handle it on her own. Not to mention that Grant would never live it down in the locker room. Grant Knight, professional dater. His offensive line would have a field day.
Better to keep it simple.
He typed and deleted three different responses. Settled on:
Grant
Just catching up.
Not technically a lie. Just an incomplete truth.
He pocketed the phone. Two Woodhouses in one afternoon, both convinced he was being straight with them. At this rate, he'd need a spreadsheet to track his own honesty.
Grant walked to his car, already running through his game plan. Five strategically bad dates. Four networking events where he'd play the supportive family friend. Complete operational secrecy from everyone except Cecelia. By the end of the season, Emmy would have her job secured and he'd have his life back exactly the way it was.
Simple.
CHAPTER THREE
Emmy's office at Elite Connections was less an office and more a storage closet that had been told it could be anything it wanted to be if it justbelievedhard enough.
It had one small desk, a chair that protested her existence with every shift of her weight, and a window with a view of Amore Italiana’s dumpsters—which, if she tilted her head just so, she could pretend was "outdoor dining adjacent."
But it washers. She had claimed it with the ferocity of someone who had spent months working from a ‘home office’ that moonlighted as her couch, organizing her pens by color and taping a small print of a Jane Austen quote inside her desk drawer where no one else could see it.
There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.
A week in, and she'd memorized the ecosystem.
"Good morning, Beckanne," Emmy said, deploying her most aggressively professional smile.
Beckanne didn't look up from her screen. "Someone left a K-Cup in the machine again. It drips." She said this the way someone else might announce a death in the family.
"I'll look into it."
