"They're all still together. Six months later, still together, and actively recommending Elite Connections to their equally wealthy, equally selective friends." Cecelia leaned against the doorframe, looking like she'd been professionally pressed and dry-cleaned that morning. "You have Grant Knight's name on a contract, Emmy. That's impressive. But names don't keep you employed. Results do. I want a 'definitely,' not a 'maybe.'"
"I have a match," Emmy said, turning her screen. "Juliana. The gallery director."
Cecelia leaned in, smelling of expensive soap and judgment. She tapped a manicured nail on the screen. "The marathon runner? Good. She won't be intimidated by his stats. She has her own."
"Exactly. Iron sharpens iron."
"Book it," Cecelia said, straightening up. "And Emmy? Don't let him wear a baseball cap.”
She vanished as silently as she'd appeared.
Emmy let out a breath she'd been holding since she walked in the building. She looked at Juliana's photo—perfect teeth, perfect hair, eyes that saidI will crush you in a 5K.
"Okay, Grant," she whispered to the screen. "Meet your future."
She grabbed her bag, shoved Juliana's dossier inside, and headed for the door. Ryan was at his post, signing for a flower delivery.
Ryan was the only person in the building who said good morning without fail. He was probably twenty-seven, built like a high school athlete who'd never quite retired, and unfailingly kind. Next to him, Elite Connections felt like a social experiment in competitive indifference.
"Morning, Ms. Woodhouse," he said, glancing up with that easy smile.
"Morning, Ryan." She paused, hand on the door. "Quick question. If you were an NFL quarterback, would you want to date someone who wakes up at four forty-five in the morning to do a cold plunge?"
Ryan blinked. "Is this a hypothetical?"
"Very hypothetical."
He considered this. "I mean, if I'm already up at four forty-five for practice, maybe? Depends if she's cool with me sleeping until noon on Tuesdays."
"Right. Compromise. That makes sense." Emmy adjusted her bag strap. "Thanks."
"Anytime." He held the door open for her. "Good luck with... whatever this is."
Emmy stepped out into September sunshine and tried to ignore the small, persistent voice in her head that whispered you're missing something.
She'd been able to describe Juliana in three sentences—the range, the ambition, the Rothko tears. Clean. Complete. A profile she could hand to anyone and they'd understand.
But when Ryan had answered her question—would you want to date someone who wakes up at four forty-five?—her brain had tried to answer for Grant, and the file was empty. Not the stats. She knew the stats. She just couldn't articulate what he actually needed. Every time she reached for it, the language went slippery, like trying to describe a color she could see but couldn't name.
Three hours later, the bistro around the corner from Elite Connections was everything Emmy had been eyeing since she got hired—trendy, buzzing, full of people who looked like they closed seven-figure deals before their second espresso. A client lunch felt official. Professional.
Grant would have probably preferred a hole in the wall like Antonio's. But this this was where matchmakers took their star clients.
Emmy made a mental note to stop by Antonio's next week with a new crossword book.
She spotted Grant at a corner table. He was wearing a navy Henley that fit like it had been personally apologized to by his shoulders, and—defying Cecelia's yet-unrelated orders—a baseball cap so faded it had probably been grandfathered into his wardrobe by squatter's rights. Around him, the lunch rush clattered and performed. Grant existed in his own pocket of calm, reading the menu like a man who'd already decided and was killing time.
Emmy slid into the booth, breath coming a little fast. She'd power-walked from the T station, clutching her bag like it contained nuclear codes.
"You're late," Grant said. He didn't look up from the menu.
"I am three minutes early."
"You're usually ten minutes early. Therefore, late." He signaled the server without asking her. "She'll have the turkey burger, no onions, extra pickles. And bring a basket of truffle fries. The large one."
Emmy bristled, smoothing her skirt. "I didn't say I wanted fries. This is a business lunch, Grant. I'm not twelve anymore."
"I've known you since you were in velcro shoes, Em. I know the signs." He handed the menu back to the server. "You're vibrating. Which means you haven't eaten, and if we don't get carbs into you in the next five minutes, you're going to be hangry.”
