"Right." Grant took a long drink of water, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "So this scheduled sex thing—is that a dealbreaker for me, or are you thinking I need the structure?"
Emmy straightened in the booth, chin up. "It's not a dealbreaker. And you don't need structure. You need someone who respects your time."
"Uh-huh." Grant didn't look convinced, but he picked up the folder again.
He flipped another page. "Gallery director. Does that mean I have to pretend to understand art?"
"No. It means you have to listen while she talks about art. You're good at listening."
"I'm good at listening to coaches, to my teammates.” He rubbed his jaw. "I'm bad at art. You remember when I took you to the MFA? Your parents had that conference, West was supposed to take you but he got detention, so I drew the short straw."
"I was nine," Emmy said, wishing she could erase that memory. "And I wanted to see the mummies."
"You spent twenty minutes interrogating a blank white canvas about why the painter had given up on it. And then you asked a security guard—very seriously, with genuine concern—if anyone had thought to offer the nude statues sweaters."
"I was a compassionate kid!”
"You tried to drape your jacket over a marble torso. I had to physically remove you from the Greek wing, then buy you three cannolis in the North End to get you to stop asking about their 'surprising anatomy.'"
Emmy couldn't help the smile that broke through. "They were very good cannolis."
"Best in the city." Grant pointed a fry at her. "Point is, I'm uncultured swine, Em. Juliana the Gallery Director is going to eat me alive."
"She won't," Emmy said softly. "She'll like that you're real. That you don't pretend to be something you're not."
Grant looked at her for a long moment. His eyes had gone quiet—not amused, not resistant, something she couldn't catalog. Then he closed the folder.
"Seven o'clock. Mamma Maria in the North End. Private table in the back. I've already cleared it with the owner."
She waited for the pushback. She'd prepared a three-point rebuttal for why he shouldn't cancel, mentally rehearsed counter-arguments for his schedule, the location, Juliana's intensity.
"Okay," Grant said.
Emmy's hand stalled on her water glass. "Okay?"
"Sure. I've got a light practice that day."
Emmy frowned. This was too easy. Grant Knight didn't just agree to things. He asked questions. He strategized. "You don't seem... excited."
"I am," Grant said, his face a perfect mask of polite interest. "Just ready to get it done."
Emmy's eyes narrowed. She knew him well enough to hear what he wasn't saying. "You'll change your mind when you meet her."
"I'm sure," Grant said smoothly.
"Grant, you have to actually try," she started. "If you go into this thinking it's a chore?—"
Dad
The wind has shifted, Emmy. It is coming off the harbor now. Very damp.
I hope you aren't walking outside. That is how one catches a chill that settles in the chest.
Emmy smiled, a reflex honed by twenty-five years of managing John Woodhouse's micro-anxieties. She typed back immediately, her tone gentle.
Emmy
I'm indoors, Dad. Far away from the harbor drafts.
