Chapter two
Tessa
George is here.
I register it the way people probably register storms at sea or sudden drops in cabin pressure. One shift in the atmosphere, and my body knows before the rest of me catches up. He’s standing by the door of Conference Room B, tablet in hand, here on official business, and my palms are already damp enough to smear the wedding certificate.
I fuss with the folder, even though it’s perfectly straight.
Up front, the third bride of the week trembles ever so slightly. The officiant, our dignified judge, takes her usual steady tone, and the couple exchanges vows as though it’s the simplest task in the world. I nod at the right moment, and the ceremony moves on.
George sidles up next to me.
Which means my new top priority is not spontaneously combusting. His sleeve brushes my arm, barely enough to count, and still every nerve in that general region lights up like it has been waiting all morning for the opportunity. He smells faintlyof coffee and freshly sharpened pencils. It is absurd that I know that.
I lean slightly toward George.
“You know,” I say quietly, “statistically speaking, ERS couples who start with a ceremony like this have a forty-two percent higher long-term satisfaction rate.”
George nods, absorbing the information.
“Interesting,” he says. “Do we have a dataset on that?”
I stare at him.
Apparently we do not.
He’s looking at the couple instead of his screen, though he keeps his tablet out like a security blanket.
When it’s time, I slide the official certificate to the newlyweds and add my own small, tidy signature.
George leans in next, his pen strokes confident and angled, like a man who has never once questioned his own trajectory.
Watching him sign beside me sends a strange warm pull through my chest, half admiration, half envy, and irritatingly impossible to separate into clean categories.
I glance at him.
He’s already back to frowning at his tablet, having what appears to be a deeply meaningful private exchange with several columns of numbers. Just as well. I’m not especially interested in publicly displaying the last three years of meticulously managed feelings while standing beside a floral arrangement and a county judge.
George Maddox is the algorithmic mastermind at ERS, the man who built the matching engine I feed daily with awkwardly personal data. He is also a rather persistent riddle I have never been able to solve.
He tucks the tablet under his arm, pushes his glasses up with one knuckle, and I swear it’s one of those trademarkGeorge gestures that make me feel completely unprofessional for swooning over something so mundane.
And then that memory drifts through my mind, uninvited but insistent—George beside my desk yesterday, brows knit, voice low. “I need a girlfriend for the wedding.”
My brain had turned into radio static.
He chose me. Technically, temporarily, probably out of desperation—but still. Me. Three years I’ve been waiting for him to point those stormy gray eyes in my direction with a hint of interest, and apparently all it took was one family wedding and a scheduling dilemma I’m too afraid to question.
I tried to respond like a normal person. The words twisted in my throat on the way out.
He shifts his weight, and my spine instinctively straightens, giving away that I’m hyperaware of his presence.
“Bloom,” he says, in that half-there tone that suggests his mind is still rummaging through lines of code. I turn, summoning a breezy, nothing-to-see-here expression.
He’s closer than I realized, close enough that I can see the faint crease between his eyebrows, the slightly crooked collar of his shirt, and the pen tucked behind his ear that he very clearly has no idea is there.
The sight of it hits me with a ridiculous burst of affection, sudden and sharp and wholly uninvited.
