She didn't stand. Just gestured to one of two chairs.
"Sit."
Emmy sat.
Cecelia inspected her for a long moment. Emmy forced herself to maintain eye contact, to project confidence she didn't entirely feel. Reading people was the one thing she'd never had to learn. So she read Cecelia now.
Skeptical but not dismissive. Curious but guarded. A woman who'd built something valuable and wasn't interested in risks that didn't pay off. Every hire was an investment. Every employee represented the firm.
Emmy could work with that.
"You're younger than I expected." Cecelia's voice was cool, assessing. "Your portfolio is impressive for twenty-five, but it raises questions. Three career pivots in four years suggests either remarkable adaptability or an inability to commit. Which is it?"
Most interviewers eased into the hard questions. Cecelia apparently preferred going straight for the jugular.
Emmy opened her portfolio, buying herself three seconds. Inside were printed samples from her advice column, testimonials from wedding clients, and a market analysis of Boston's matchmaking industry. She didn't pull anything out yet. Just used the motion to center herself.
"I prefer to think of them as vertical moves." She met Cecelia's gaze. "Advice column to wedding planningto matchmaking—each one gets closer to the actual work. Understanding what people need from each other."
She paused, watching Cecelia's reaction. Still skeptical, but listening.
"Wedding planning taught me the gap between what clients say they want versus what they actually need. I had a bride who insisted on a massive church ceremony because that's what her family expected. What sheactuallywanted was to elope to Hawaii with ten people. We did the Hawaii wedding. She cried—happy tears—the entire ceremony." Emmy allowed herself a small smile. "Her family got over it."
"And now you want to be a matchmaker." Cecelia's tone was mild. "Or you want to help brides overcome the genetic load of family expectation and find their spines."
"The spine part was a side effect. What I actually want is to be in the room before any of that becomes necessary."
Cecelia leaned back. Emmy noticed she wasn't touching the portfolio yet. Either she wasn't interested, or she wanted to assess Emmy first, separate from the carefully curated materials.
"Elite Connections doesn't deal in advice columns or wedding logistics. We broker partnerships between Boston's most successful individuals. People who don't have time for dating apps or mediocre setups from well-meaning friends. They come to us because we understand what they need before they do." She tilted her head slightly. "Can you honestly tell me you're prepared for that level of responsibility?"
Emmy pulled out her market analysis. Slid it across the desk with steady hands.
“I’ve spent the last several months studying Elite Connections' client base. Your sweet spot is professionals aged thirty-five to fifty-five who've prioritized career over relationships and are now realizing they want partnership.They're successful, selective, and skeptical of traditional dating because it's inefficient and often disappointing."
Cecelia glanced at the analysis but didn't pick it up yet.
"They're also exhausted by the performance of modern dating. The apps, the games, the constant wondering if someone wants them or wants access to their life. What they need is someone who can cut through all of that and identify genuine compatibility. Someone who can see past what they present to who they actually are."
"And you can do that."
"Yes." Emmy didn't hesitate. "I'm good at reading people. Not just the obvious surface stuff—anyone can do that. But the gaps between what someone says and what they mean. What they're afraid of. What they're not letting themselves want." She leaned forward slightly. "That's what matters in matchmaking. Understanding the truth someone's not telling you—sometimes not even telling themselves."
It was the truest thing she'd said—the part she usually kept folded up small, somewhere ambition couldn't trample it.
Cecelia picked up the market analysis. Flipped through it slowly. Emmy watched her face for any reaction and found nothing. The woman could have been reading a grocery list or a declaration of war—identical expression.
Finally, Cecelia set it down.
"Your brother is West Woodhouse. Wide receiver."
Emmy's stomach dropped. She'd known this was coming—how could it not?—but she'd hoped it would come later. After she'd established herself. After Cecelia saw her as Emmy first, not as someone's little sister.
"Yes."
Cecelia's fingers tapped once against her desk—the first fidget Emmy had seen from her. "Professional athletes are notoriously difficult to match. High-profile lifestyles,demanding schedules, and—to be frank—a dating pool that self-selects for people interested in status rather than substance."
Emmy nodded. West had dated a string of increasingly interchangeable women before meeting his wife, and exactly none of them had seen him as anything beyond ‘NFL player with good genetics and better salary,’ until Brynn.
