"Why is he doing this?" Madeline's expression was curious, not suspicious. "A man like him doesn't need a matchmaker."
"He's private," Emmy said—the rehearsed answer again, though it felt thinner now. "He doesn't trust the usual channels. He wants someone real, not someone who sees him as a headline."
Madeline nodded slowly. "And you've known him a long time? You said he's a family friend."
"Since I was a kid."
"That must be nice." Madeline's voice was soft. "Having someone who's seen all your versions."
Something in Emmy's chest twisted. "Though the joke's on him—the current version is turning out to be pretty buggy."
Madeline laughed. "Aren't we all."
"Well." Madeline stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'm interested. Send me the details whenever you're ready."
She left the way she'd arrived—unhurried, self-possessed, completely right for Grant in every way that mattered on paper.
Emmy sat alone at the corner table, her laptop still open, Madeline's file still glowing on the screen.
She'd done it. She'd found someone good. Someone real. Someone who could actually make Grant happy.
The framework had finally worked. Madeline Talbott was everything Emmy's system said Grant needed — the groundedness, the humor, the full life, the zero interest in performing. Emmy could see the compatibility the way she could see a finished puzzle. Every piece fit. The picture was complete.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The box from Mike's Pastry sat on Emmy's passenger seat, white cardboard tied with red and white string, and she'd been parked on Marlborough Street for four minutes.
Four minutes of staring at the brownstone and telling herself this was fine. Professional. She was here to complete a questionnaire, not to?—
Not to anything.
Emmy grabbed the cannolis and got out of the car.
Grant had moved after West got married. She knew that abstractly—had heard West mention it, something about Grant finally getting his own place instead of rattling around in the condo they'd shared since Grant's rookie year. But she'd never seen it. Never had a reason to.
The street was quiet, lined with trees just starting to turn, the kind of Back Bay block that felt removed from the city even though downtown was a fifteen-minute walk. Old brick, black iron railings, gas lamps that had been converted to electric but still flickered like they remembered their origins. The brownstone itself was a double-wide, which meant Grant ownedboth units—more space than any single person needed, but private. No shared walls. No neighbors hearing your business.
Very Grant.
Emmy climbed the front steps, her heels clicking on worn stone, and rang the bell.
Grant opened the door in a faded t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, and the domesticity of it hit her somewhere under her ribs.
"Hey." He stepped back to let her in. "You found it."
"GPS is a miracle of modern technology." She held up the bakery box. "Cannolis. From Mike's."
"The North End?" The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile she hadn't seen before—or hadn't let herself notice. Not his press conference smile. Not even his family dinner smile. Something older.
"Best in the city. Someone told me that once."
"Someone smart." He took the box. "Come in. Dinner's almost ready."
She followed him inside, and then stopped.
She'd expected—what? Chrome and leather. The kind of place that looked like a hotel suite, professionally decorated and utterly impersonal. The kind of place that matched the Grant Knight on billboards.
This wasn't that.
