Emmy opened her mouth to argue, realized her stomach was actually trying to digest her own spine, and snapped her mouth shut.
He'd known her too long. Seven years older, basically a third Woodhouse sibling growing up. He'd seen every version of her—boy bands, bad bangs, the semester she came home from college convinced she was going to be a vegan (lasted three weeks). He knew her tells.
It was annoying. But right now, sitting across from someone who knew exactly what she needed before she had to perform competence she didn't feel yet—it was also a relief.
Elite Connections was a minefield of curated people who looked at her like she was an experiment they were running on how long confidence could survive without evidence. Beckanne with her winged eyeliner and her silent judgment. Sabine with her closed office door and her four matches per quarter. Cecelia materializing like a ghost to remind Emmy that names didn't keep you employed.
Everyone at Elite Connections was watching her fumble.
Grant had watched her fumble for twenty years. He'd seen her fall off bikes and flunk math tests and cry over the three-legged cat. He knew she was terrible at sports and worse withdirections and once got so lost in the North End she called West in tears from a cannoli shop.
He'd also seen her win.
He knew she was good at this. He didn't need her to prove it.
That was the comfort. Even when she was vibrating and hangry and three minutes late instead of ten minutes early.
"Fine," she said, smoothing her skirt one more time. "But I'm expensing this.”
"Expense away." He finally looked at her, leaning back with that infuriatingly relaxed older-brother smirk. "Now tell me why you look like you're about to rob a bank."
"I am not vibrating. I am focused." Emmy pulled the dossier out of her bag and slid it across the table. "This is her. Juliana Deliberto. Thirty-one. Director of the Newbury Street Contemporary Art Gallery. She's brilliant, accomplished, beautiful, and she just qualified for Boston with a three twenty-four marathon time."
The pitch came out smooth, the way it always did when she'd done the work. She could sell Juliana to anyone. The problem was, she wasn't selling Juliana to anyone. She was selling her to Grant, and somewhere between the marathon time and the gallery credentials, the confidence had sprung a leak she couldn't locate.
Grant flipped a page, one eyebrow hitching up. "She tracks her sleep cycles?"
"It shows she prioritizes recovery," Emmy said, trying to keep her voice even. "Look at the logistics, Grant. She's busy. You're busy. She's not looking for someone to entertain her. She schedules her downtime. She understands the grind."
Grant looked up, amusement dancing in his eyes. "She schedules her downtime? What does that look like? '7:00 to 7:15 PM: Experience joy'?"
"It means she's efficient."
Grant dropped the folder to the table and leaned forward. His voice went low. Direct.
"Em. Be real with me. If she schedules her sleep cycles and her protein intake... does she schedule the rest of it?"
Emmy blinked. "The rest of what?"
"Sex." Grant held her gaze, unblinking. "Is there a Calendar invite for that? Do I get a push notification fifteen minutes before?"
Emmy felt the heat climb instantly up her neck, settling bright and hot in her cheeks. She grabbed her water glass, desperate for something to do with her hands.
"Look at it like... intentional connection," she stammered, hating that she sounded like a pamphlet. "Better to be open and intentional about it than to let life get in the way and go without. Right?"
Grant went still. He tilted his head, studying her flushed face with a look that made the air in the booth feel very thin.
"Sweetheart," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. "No woman of mine is going to go without. In any regard."
Emmy choked on her water.
Grant watched her cough, grin spreading slow and devastating. "You're turning pink. I didn't know theprofessional matchmakercould still blush."
"I am not blushing," she wheezed, slamming the glass down. "I am assessing compatibility."
"Sure you are." Grant gave her a grin that probably made sideline reporters forget their own names. "Totally professional. That's why you're still pink."
"I'm flushed from walking fast," Emmy snapped, though her voice came out higher than intended.
