"God, I wish my brother's friends were like that," Harper said. "Mine all hang around high school parties trying to look cool. Grant's so—“ She made a vague gesture. "Big. Put-together. Like a real adult."
"He's thirty-two."
"Exactly. A grown-up. With a job and everything." Harper sighed. "So what happened next? Did Thea throw a drink in your face? Did you pull her hair?"
"What? No." Emmy shook her head. "Grant ended things with her."
"And?"
Emmy's mind flashed to the terrace. October cold biting through her bare back. The weight of his jacket settling on her shoulders, warm from his body, smelling like something woodsy and expensive. The way he'd looked at her—the warmth in his eyes, the slight curl at the corner of his mouth. She'd felt it in her chest, a slow bloom of heat, and she hadn't wanted him to stop looking at her like that.
Then Tyce had appeared in the doorway, voice too loud, hand landing on her shoulder right over Grant's jacket, and she'd fled like the terrace was on fire.
"And nothing. That's it."
Harper shrugged. "If you say so."
"When's your match again?"
"Noon."
"Right." Harper slid off the barstool, heading toward the bathroom. "I'm doing your hair. And while I do that, you're going to tell me about my date prospects. Because someone promised to find me a non-crypto-bro and I've been very patiently waiting."
Emmy followed, grateful for the subject change. "I do have someone. Cole Weston. Physical therapist in Brookline, volunteers at the children's hospital on weekends."
"A physical therapist." Harper's eyes lit up. "So he's good with his hands?"
"Harper."
"What? It's a reasonable question!" She rummaged through Emmy's bathroom drawers, pulling out bobby pins and hair ties. "Tell me more. What does he look like?"
"Tall. Dark hair. Kind eyes." Emmy paused. "I gave him the 'describe yourself as a grocery store aisle' question and he said cereal—‘colorful, a little chaotic, but everyone's happy to see you in the morning.'"
"Cereal aisle." Harper considered this. "I could work with cereal aisle. Sit."
Emmy sat on the edge of the bathtub while Harper sectioned her damp hair.
"What about Ryan?"
The question caught Emmy off-guard. "Ryan?"
"Ryan Martinez. The doorman at your office." Harper's voice was carefully casual—too casual. "Have you, um. Seen him around lately?"
"Every day? He works there."
"Right. Obviously." Harper's fingers moved through Emmy's hair, twisting sections into something complicated. "Has he, you know. Mentioned me?"
Emmy frowned. "Why would he mention you?"
A beat of silence. Harper's hands stilled.
"No reason. Just wondering." Her voice was flat now. "He seems nice. That's all."
"Heisnice." Emmy thought about Ryan's easy smile, the way he held the door for everyone, how he remembered names. "I just don't want you falling into old patterns, you know? Putting all your energy into someone before you know if they're serious about you."
"Cole seems serious."
"Exactly." Emmy relaxed, warming to the topic. "Cole filled out a twelve-page questionnaire. He's actively looking for something real. That's the kind of man you should be dating. Someone who's ready."
