Harper stared at her. "That's... terrifyingly accurate."
"You don't have an ambition problem, Harper. You have a 'potential' problem. You see a guy with a vision board and think 'driven.' But driven people actually drive. They don't just narrate the journey from the couch while you work double shifts."
"I just—" Harper's voice was small. "I just wanted to believe in someone, you know? To be part of something bigger."
"I know," Emmy said softly. She did. She understood the architecture of that impulse better than she wanted to admit.
Emmy reached into her bag and pulled out her Elite Connections card.
"I work in matchmaking. Real matchmaking, not the apps," Emmy said, tucking the card into Harper's apron. "I can help you fix this. Come by the coffee shop on the corner of Tremont, Monday at ten. We're going to recalibrate that radar of yours. Nomore crypto bros. No more guys who use the word 'female' as a noun."
Harper looked at the card, then at Emmy. "You want me to hire you? I make tips, I can't afford?—"
"Pro bono," Emmy said firmly. "Call it a scholarship. We're going to raise those standards and find someone who actually deserves you."
Harper turned the card over in her fingers. "Why would you help me for free?"
"Because I'm very good at seeing what people need," Emmy said, checking her own lipstick in the mirror. "And you, Harper, need to stop dating men who think reading Rich Dad Poor Dad counts as financial literacy. Now go serve the finance bros. And charge them for extra bread."
Harper let out a shaky breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded. "Okay. Thank you. Seriously."
"Ten AM," Emmy called as Harper pushed out the door.
Emmy waited a beat. She caught her own reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes lit up like she'd just closed a deal. She was good at this. She was great at this.
She smoothed her skirt and walked out like she owned the building.
When Emmy slid back into the booth, Grant was watching her.
He'd picked up his water glass but set it back down without drinking, his eyes tracking her face.
"You did something," he said.
Emmy picked up her menu. "I went to the bathroom."
Grant's eyes narrowed, cataloguing. "Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are brighter. And you're walking like you justwon the lottery." He tilted his head. "If it was anyone else, I'd say you just did a little pick-me-up in the bathroom. But that's not you." A pause. "So where are they?"
Emmy blinked. "Where's who?"
"The stray you just invited to sleep on your couch until they get back on their feet."
Emmy flushed. "Sir Heathcliff was a distinguished gentleman."
"Sir Heathcliff was a three-legged cat with rage issues who lived under your porch."
"He was adjusting to trauma!"
"Em, he peed on every pair of shoes you owned for six months. Your mom threatened to move to a hotel. I still have a scar on my ankle from when I tried to feed him."
"He eventually became very affectionate," Emmy insisted, though she knew her defense was weak. Sir Heathcliff had, in fact, been a menace to society. But he'd had nobody else.
"To you," Grant corrected. "He drew blood from everyone else." He sighed, shaking his head. "Who was it this time? Please tell me you didn't adopt a raccoon from the alley."
"It was a server. Her boyfriend broke up with her via text because she wasn't 'grinding' enough." Emmy rolled her eyes. "He's a crypto bro with a vision board."
Grant groaned. "And let me guess. You offered to fix her life."
"I gave her my card. She needs guidance, Grant. She's dating men who think competence is a threat."
