"Em." The teasing was gone. Grant leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You are barely keeping your head above water with Cecelia. You're betting your entire career on me—a guy who actively doesn't want to be there. And now you're taking on charity cases in bathrooms?"
"She's not a charity case. She's a project."
"You can't save everyone."
Emmy stiffened. Her hand found her water glass—gripped it, released it. She saw the concern in his eyes, the set of his jaw that meant he was going to keep pushing.
He didn't see that she wasn't just soft. She was skilled.
"I'm not trying to save everyone," Emmy said, her voice steady. "Just the ones who need it. Besides, I can multitask."
Grant was quiet. The corner of his mouth tightened, like he was deciding whether to say the next thing.
"What happened to that girl you used to hang out with?" he asked. "The one with the nose ring. You two were always at that coffee shop in Allston."
Emmy blinked at the shift. "Zarina? She moved to California two years ago. Why?"
"You need friends, Em. Real ones. Not projects." He pointed a fry at her—the same gesture he'd used for "uncultured swine," but the voice was different now. "This server you just met—you're helping her because you're good at it. But maybe she could also just be... someone you grab coffee with. Someone who isn't West or me or a networking contact."
Something twisted in her chest. When had she last had a friend who wasn't related to work? Someone she called just to talk, not because she needed something or they needed something?
"I have friends," she said, but it sounded defensive even to her own ears.
"You have colleagues. You have family. You have me because I come with West." Grant leaned forward. "I'm just saying—don't turn everyone into a project. Sometimes people are just... people."
He wasn't wrong. Somewhere between the six months of unemployment and the desperate scramble to prove she belonged at Elite Connections, she'd let the friendships quietlyflatline. Mika in California. Sarah who got married and had a baby. Rachel who she kept meaning to text back but never did.
"Okay," Emmy said quietly. "I'll try."
Grant nodded, satisfied. "Good."
They walked out of the bistro ten minutes later. The September air had a bite to it, crisp and clean.
She put her hand on his arm, a professional touch—brief, deliberate—meant to convey confidence. Except the muscle under her palm wasn't a client's muscle. It was Grant's. And it tensed under her fingers.
Her hand stayed a beat longer than the gesture required.
"I really think you'll like her," she said, pulling her hand back and tucking it into her jacket pocket like it needed somewhere safe to go.
"I'm sure," Grant said, that same smooth evasion.
"I mean it." Emmy's voice softened. "You deserve someone who makes your life easier, not harder. Someone you can actually relax with. That's what I'm looking for. Not just anyone—the right one."
Grant looked down at her. He had his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. The sun caught the edge of his jaw, and for a second—just a second—something pulled tight behind her ribs. A pang. Sharp, specific, and gone before she could turn and look at it straight.
He really was a great guy. He deserved someone great.
"I'll text you after," Grant said quietly.
"Good. I'll be waiting." She smiled. "I really think this could be something, Grant."
Grant gave her the crooked smile—the real one, not the fan one—and turned toward his car.
Emmy turned the other way, heading for the T station. The afternoon sun was warm, but the wind off the harbor carried autumn in it, sharp and clean.
She passed a glass-fronted gym on the corner. A couple walked out the front door in matching athletic gear, sharing a water bottle and laughing about something. Sleek. Focused. A winning team.
Her brain supplied the image unbidden: Grant and Juliana, post-marathon, sharing a protein shake and comparing mile splits.
