"You look terrible," Harper said cheerfully.
"Thank you. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"I mean it with love." Harper pushed the bread basket toward her. "Your under-eye concealer is doing heroic work."
Emmy grabbed a croissant and tore into it. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the first bite hit her stomach.
"So," Harper said, watching her eat. "How was the sex questionnaire thing?"
Emmy choked on croissant. Grabbed her water, coughing.
"That good, huh?" Harper grinned. "Did he answer all the questions? Did you learn anything scandalous? Is he secretly into, like, feet or something?"
"I'm not discussing my client's sexual preferences with you."
"That means yes. He's into something weird." Harper leaned forward, delighted. "What is it? Role play? Bondage? Does he want to be called Daddy?"
"Harper."
"Fine, fine." Harper sat back, but her eyes were still sparkling. "Keep your professional secrets. I'll just imagine the worst."
The server appeared, and Emmy ordered her own mimosa and eggs benedict. When they were alone again, Harper'sexpression shifted—still bright, but with something nervous underneath.
"So," Harper said. "I have news."
"You said. What's the news?"
Harper took a long sip of her mimosa. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"Ryan asked me out."
Emmy blinked. "Ryan. The doorman?"
"Ryan the doorman, yes." Harper's cheeks were flushed. "He came by the bistro again yesterday. Brought me a latte—he remembered my order from weeks ago, Emmy, the exact order—and asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime."
"And you said...?"
"I said yes!" Harper's face split into a grin, a little squeal escaping. "Emmy, I saidyes."
The words hung in the air between them. Emmy's stomach dropped—a quick, stupid lurch, like missing a step on stairs she'd walked a thousand times.
She knew, logically, that Cole had already told her Harper wasn't interested. That he'd read the signs, accepted the reality, moved on with grace. But somehow Emmy had still been holding out hope that Harper would come around—that she'd see what Emmy saw, that the compatibility metrics and the sheer logic of it would eventually click into place.
"What about Cole?" The question came out before she could stop it.
Harper's grin faltered. "What about him?"
"Cole Weston. The physical therapist I've been setting you up with. The one who filled out a twelve-page questionnaire and volunteers at children's hospitals and is actively looking for a serious relationship." Emmy heard the edge in her own voice but couldn't quite soften it. "That Cole."
"I know who Cole is."
"Then why are you going out with Ryan?"
Harper's jaw tightened. "Because Ryan asked. Because I like him. Because when he looks at me, I feel like—" She stopped, shook her head. "Why does this feel like an interrogation?"
"It's not an interrogation. I'm just—" Emmy took a breath, tried to modulate. "I'm trying to understand. You've been texting with Cole for weeks. I thought things were going well."
"Things were fine. Cole isfine." Harper's voice was flat now, and the flatness was worse than anger. "He's nice and he's stable and he checks all the boxes. But Emmy, I don't want to check boxes. I want to feel something."
