Emmy
I'll bring dessert
She stared at the words. Too flirty? It sounded like a date. It wasn't a date. It was a professional meeting about sexual preferences, which was somehow worse.
She hitsendanyway, then closed her phone in disgust.
Emmy pulled Madeline's file closer.
Focus. She had a job to do.
Madeline Talbott arrived exactly on time.
The woman who slid into the seat across from Emmy was polished without being glossy, attractive without being intimidating. Simple cashmere sweater, dark jeans, small gold studs. She had the kind of face that belonged on a J.Crew catalog—approachable, trustworthy, the woman you'd ask to watch your bag at the airport.
"Emmy Woodhouse?" Her handshake was firm. "Thanks for meeting with me. I have to say, I wasn't sure what to expect from this whole process."
"How do you mean?"
"I've done the apps. I've done the setups from well-meaning friends." Madeline shrugged, settling back in her chair. "This is my first time being professionally vetted. It's a little surreal."
Most of Emmy's candidates came in eager—performing their best selves, trying to impress. Madeline seemed genuinely unbothered by the stakes. Like this was just another meeting in a full calendar, not a potential gateway to Grant Knight.
They ordered. Madeline asked for chai tea, laughing that coffee made her "vibrate at frequencies only dogs can hear." Emmy found herself smiling despite the weight still pressing on her chest from the morning.
"Tell me about your work," Emmy said. "PR for nonprofits—that's a specific choice."
"It found me, honestly." Madeline wrapped her hands around her mug. "I did corporate communications for years. Good money, soul-crushing work. Then a friend asked me to help with a fundraiser for the animal shelter where she volunteered, and something clicked." She smiled, and it reached her eyes. "The pay is significantly worse, but I actually like who I see in the mirror now."
Emmy found herself smiling back. There was something about Madeline's open posture, the wry humor, the way her eyes sparked when she talked about the work itself rather than the paycheck. No performance. Just a woman who'd figured out what mattered to her and arranged her life accordingly.
"What about you?" Madeline asked. "How did you end up in matchmaking?"
The question caught Emmy off guard. Most people she interviewed didn't turn the lens back on her.
"I've always been good at reading people," she started—the rehearsed answer, the one that fit neatly on a business card.
But something about Madeline's direct gaze made the words feel hollow.
"Honestly?" Emmy set down her coffee. "I'm still figuring that out. I thought I knew—I thought it was about being useful, being good at something practical. But lately..." She paused, surprised by her own honesty. "I think it's more than that. Everyone's so specific, you know? The particular way someone laughs, the thing that makes them feel seen, the exact shape of the loneliness they're trying to fill. And when you can connect two people who fit those shapes for each other—" She shook her head. "There's nothing else like it. It feels like the only thing I've ever done that actually matters."
Madeline regarded her for a moment. "That's not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"Something about algorithms and compatibility metrics." Madeline's smile was wry. "You might not be able to articulate it yet, but it's obvious you're in this for the right reasons."
"I do." Emmy meant it. That was the thing she kept forgetting, buried under Cecelia's pressure and the viral video and the professional stakes. She actually cared.
They talked for another hour—about Madeline's sister, her rescue dog, the half-marathon she was training for. Madeline mentioned her divorce without bitterness, laughed at herself easily, asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers.
Emmy found herself genuinely liking her. Which made everything both better and worse.
This was the kind of woman Grant deserved. Someone with her own full life. Someone who wouldn't need him to perform or entertain or be anyone other than who he was.
"Can I ask you something?" Madeline said, as they were gathering their things. "About Grant?"
Emmy's stomach tightened. "Of course."
