"So you went to Sal's."
"I needed grease. I needed carbs. I needed to sit somewhere a woman wasn't auditing me."
Grant grabbed a slice, and Emmy slid a ceramic plate in front of him. He looked at the plate. Looked at her. Looked at the pizza slice, dripping slightly.
"We aren't animals," she said.
"I've had a very long night, Em."
"And you'll have it on a plate like a person who was raised with manners."
He dropped the slice onto the ceramic, sighing like she'd won a war he hadn't realized he was fighting. He chewed, closed his eyes, and groaned—low, guttural, vibrating through the counter and into the soles of Emmy's bare feet.
She was already moving before the sound fully landed. Sparkling water. Pre-cut lemon from the fridge. Glass set down next to him with the efficiency of muscle memory.
She watched him eat, noting the tightness around his eyes. He was in the middle of the season, burning the candle at both ends to accommodate her matchmaking scheme, and the guilt arrived before she could brace for it.
"So, no chemistry?" she asked softly.
"Negative chemistry. I've felt more comfortable at my end-of-season contract negotiations." Grant opened his eyes.
The frantic energy of his arrival drained out like a tide. The silence of the apartment settled around them—soft jazz playing low on her speaker, the scent of the amber candle, the warm glow of the lamps.
Grant took a drink of the water. He didn't turn back to the pizza immediately. Instead, his gaze traveled over her, then to the candle flickering on the coffee table, then to the half-empty glass of wine, then to the neatly folded stack of tiny clothes on the kitchen counter—a dinosaur onesie on top, clearly not hers.
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked, a subtle edge to his voice. "Candlelight. Wine. Looks... private."
Emmy laughed, shaking her head. "Just me. Thought I'd earned one night of silence."
Grant's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Smart. You look nice. Relaxed."
Something warm crept up the back of Emmy's neck. She fought the urge to smooth the fabric of her pants. "I try. Are you going to eat that standing up, or are you going to sit down?"
"Sitting. Definitely sitting."
He grabbed his plate and water, moving into her living room like he owned it. He sank onto her velvet sofa—the one that was definitively too small for his six-four frame—and patted the cushion next to him.
"Come here," he said. "I bought the one with the basil because I know you like it."
Nine words. Tossed out like nothing, like knowing her pizza order wasn't even worth mentioning.
Nathan never learned her pizza order. Eleven months, and he'd still ask "pepperoni or sausage?" every single time. She'd told herself it didn't matter.
She picked up her wine glass and the bowl of cherries, joining him on the sofa. She tucked her legs under her as she sat, maintaining a polite distance.
"Juliana is a catch on paper," Emmy defended gently, though her heart wasn't in it. "She's successful. She's disciplined."
"Em, she schedules her bathroom breaks. I saw it in the profile."
"That shows excellent time management?—"
"It shows she'd pencil me in between 'optimize circadian rhythm' and 'alphabetize spice rack.'" He rolled his head to look at her. "She'd never have pizza with me at 11 PM. She'd calculate the glycemic impact and suggest we reschedule for a more metabolically appropriate window."
"So you want someone flexible," Emmy said, trying to turn this into data. Into a profile note. "Someone adaptable."
"Maybe." Grant's head dropped back against the sofa. "I just know I don't want to explain my caloric intake to a date."
Emmy reached for the bowl on the coffee table. She picked up a cherry by its long stem, bringing it to her lips. She bit down, and there was a soft, visceral pop as the fruit pulled free.
