"Emmy." Grant's voice cut through her rambling. "Breathe."
She breathed.
And in the silence, the full weight of what she'd just said landed on her like a physical thing. Grant's agent—Tremaine—probably fielded a hundred calls like this aweek. People wanting Grant's name, his image, his presence, his connections. People who saw him as an asset, not a person. And here she was, calling out of nowhere aftermonthsof radio silence, asking him to do her a favor that would benefit exactly one person: Emmy Woodhouse.
"I'm sorry," she said, the words already out, tumbling past her teeth. "This was—I don't know what I was thinking. You don't owe me anything. I shouldn't have called."
"Emmy." His voice was even. "I said breathe. I didn't say hang up. Let me make sure I understand. You told a potential employer that I'd let youmatchmakefor me? Without asking me first?"
"Yes. Which sounds terrible when you say it like that. But in my defense, I was in the interview and she was asking about athlete connections and I panicked. And now I have two weeks to deliver or I don't get the job."
More silence. Emmy closed her eyes and waited for the polite, inevitableno.
Grant chuckled.
It raised the hair on her arms.
"Little liar," he said, and she couldn't tell if it was an accusation or something warmer. "Season just started. When do you need an answer?"
Emmy's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"You said you have two weeks. When do you need me to decide?"
The kitchen tilted slightly, or maybe that was just her brain trying to process what he'd said. Grant Knight—who could haveany woman in Boston, whodefinitelydidn't need matchmaking services—had just said he was considering helping her. The relief hit so hard she had to press her palm flat against the counter to steady herself.
"I—soon? Ideally?" She was afraid to hope. "But I understand if this is too weird or you're not interested or?—"
"Can you do coffee tomorrow? I have practice in the morning but I'm free after two."
Emmy's brain stalled out. "Coffee?"
"Yeah. So you can explain what this actually entails and I can decide if I'm completely insane for considering it." He paused. "Because I am considering it. But I want details first."
"You're considering it."
"Emmy." Now she could definitely hear the amusement. "You just called me out of nowhere, admitted you lied to a potential employer about me, and asked me to help you out anyway. That takes either a lot of desperation or a lot of confidence. I'm curious which one it is."
"Both. Definitely both."
Grant laughed—an actual laugh, not just a polite chuckle. "Okay. Text me a coffee shop and a time. I'll be there."
"Thank you. Seriously, thank you. I know this is weird and I promise I'll explain everything and?—"
"Emmy. Coffee shop. Time. Text me."
"Right. Yes. I'll text you."
"Good. See you tomorrow."
He hung up.
Emmy stared at her phone, trying to process what had just happened. Grant—who had zero reason to help her—had just agreed to meet her for coffee.
She sat with the hope for a moment. Then her brain kicked back on.
She couldn't just pick any coffee shop. Grant couldn't walk into half the places in this city without someone pulling out a phone. She needed somewhere low-key—a neighborhood spot, not a destination. A place where regulars minded their own business and nobody was there hoping to run into anyone famous.
She opened a text to West.
