"Okay," Emmy said, turning her laptop around. "I made a list. We call this 'The Ick Audit.'"
For the next hour, they didn't just strategize; they bonded. Emmy told Harper things she hadn't even told her work friends—about the pressure Cecelia put on her, about how tired she wasof people treating romance like a transaction. Harper listened with wide, empathetic eyes, nodding furiously and interjecting with stories about her own dating horrors that made Emmy laugh so hard her espresso became a safety hazard.
It wasn't a consultation. It was a sleepover in the middle of a Monday morning.
"Wait," Harper gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "He brought a puppet to the first date?"
"A hand puppet," Emmy confirmed, wheezing slightly. "Named Reginald. He used it to order his drink."
"Stop it! No!" Harper slapped the table, delighted. "Okay, you win. My crypto guy was bad, but Hand Puppet Paul is worse."
“Hand Puppet Paul was a low point," Emmy agreed. She checked her watch and sighed. "I hate to cut this short, but I have to get to the office. I have a client in San Francisco who needs micromanaging."
"The mysterious client," Harper wiggled her eyebrows as they gathered their trash. "Is he hot? Is he single? Can I date him?"
Something tightened below Emmy's ribs. Quick, unexpected, gone before she could look at it directly. She busied herself with her bag strap.
"He is... complex. And definitely not your type. He hates chaos."
"Rude. I am delightful chaos."
"You are," Emmy agreed warmly. "Walk with me? I'm just down the block."
They walked out into the crisp autumn air, shoulders bumping. It felt like childhood summers—running barefoot through someone's backyard, no agenda, no networking, just this.
They reached the glass doors of Elite Connections.
"This is where you work?" Harper asked, her eyes widening as she looked at the marble lobby. "It looks like... a place where people don't have pores."
"It's intense," Emmy admitted. "But I'm working on changing the vibe."
She reached for the door handle, but it was pulled open from the inside before she could touch it.
"Morning, Ms. Woodhouse," Ryan said. He was beaming, his uniform pressed, holding the door with that effortless, golden-retriever energy. "Beautiful day, right?"
"It is," Emmy agreed, stepping through. "Though the wind wants my scarf."
She turned to wave goodbye to Harper, but Harper hadn't walked away.
She was standing on the threshold like she'd walked into a wall.
Ryan was holding the door open like he'd forgotten what doors were for. They were staring at each other like two people discovering they'd been assigned as soulmates in a dystopian YA novel.
"Hi," Ryan said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, his ears turning pink. "Hi. Welcome to Elite Connections."
"Hi," Harper squeaked. She smoothed her violent orange sweater self-consciously. "I'm Harper. I mean, I'm with her. I'm not a client. I can't afford—I mean, I'm just dropping her off. Like a child. Not that she's a child."
"I'm Ryan," he said, ignoring the word vomit completely. His eyes were locked on hers like he was trying to memorize her face. "I like your sweater. It's... bright."
"My grandma made it," Harper said, her voice going soft and breathless at once. "When I wear it, I don't miss her as much."
Emmy stood between them, looking back and forth. Harper's cheeks were flushed. Ryan looked like he'd forgotten his own name.
And his grip on the door handle had tightened, like he was afraid to let go.
"Okay, you two," Emmy said warmly. "Harper, we should get you going—you have that thing. Ryan, I should head up before Beckanne sends a search party."
"Right!" Harper jumped, blinking rapidly as if waking up. "Homework. Apps deleted. No podcasts. Got it. Bye, Emmy! Bye... Ryan."
