10. Excel at Dating, Fail at Love
10
EXCEL AT DATING, FAIL AT LOVE
Heart & Soul Connections, Seattle, WA
ROSALIND
Four weeks until Valentine's Day, and love is literally in the air—mainly because someone just delivered thirty "romantic" balloon arrangements to our lobby.
"They're from Sir Galahad," Dani explains, ducking under a particularly aggressive heart-shaped helium creation. "He says they represent his undying devotion."
I peer around a cascade of metallic cupids. "Sir who now?"
"My latest SecureMatch date. He's a professional LARPer." She adjusts her cardigan, which appears to have acquired a fabric rose. “He’s super committed to the medieval aesthetic."
"How... nice?" I try to navigate toward my office, but the balloons have created some kind of romance-themed obstacle course. "And he sent all these because...?"
"Oh, these aren't from him. These are from the men he challenged to duels this morning."
I stop so abruptly that a balloon bouquet bops me on the head. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Apparently, after he defended my honor against the FedEx guy—don't ask—word got around. Now half of Seattle's eligible bachelors want to prove their worth through ceremonial combat." She brightens. "Plus side: our lobby's never smelled better!"
I'm saved from responding by my phone buzzing. Again. Grayson's name lights up the screen, and I definitely don't smile as I answer.
"Let me guess," I say instead of hello, "Alex has another engagement party crisis?"
"He wants to hire professional pasta acrobats."
"Still?"
"Now with added fire elements." He sighs, and I can picture him sliding his fingers through his perfect hair. "Think you could meet for lunch? I need a voice of reason before I let my AI calculate the statistical probability of pasta-related injuries."
"Can't." I dodge another balloon assault. "I'm heading to Meet Cute Coffee Co. Mrs. Rodriguez asked to see me."
A pause. "Everything okay?"
"Probably just wants to critique my love life like everyone else in Seattle." I aim for light, but even I can hear the worry in my voice. Meet Cute has been my second home since that fateful speed-dating night where I met Olivia fifteen years ago. "I'll call you after?"
"I could meet you there," he offers. "Keep up appearances."
Right. Appearances. Because that's all this is.
"Sure," I answer. “That would be professionally beneficial."
Through the glass walls of my office, I spot what appears to be a man in full chainmail approaching our building.
"Gotta go," I tell Grayson. "I think Sir Galahad has arrived to defend Dani's honor again."
"Sir who?—"
"Trust me, you don't want to know."
I end the call just as our newest knight errant bursts through the doors, brandishing what I really hope is a foam sword.
"Fair maiden!" he announces to a startled Dani. "I come bearing news of great import!"
"Inside voice, Chad," she reminds him. "Remember what we discussed about modern courtship protocols?"
"But hark! A rival approaches!" He points his sword at a very confused DoorDash delivery guy. "Dost thou dare challenge my claim to the lady's affections?"
"Uh..." The delivery guy holds up a paper bag. "I just have a lunch order for William?"
"A likely story, varlet!"
I leave Dani mediating between her medieval suitor and our potentially sword-threatened lunch delivery, heading out into Seattle's perpetual January drizzle. The weather forecast keeps threatening snow, but so far we've just gotten increasingly dramatic rain.
Meet Cute Coffee Co. looks exactly like it has for the past decade and a half—warm lights glowing against exposed brick, mismatched armchairs arranged for optimal conversation, and the kind of atmosphere that makes even Seattle's tech elite put down their phones occasionally.
Mrs. Rodriguez is behind the counter, gray hair escaping her bun as she argues with her ancient espresso machine.
"Rosalind!" She brightens when she spots me. "Good, you're here. This machine your tech boyfriend gave me is too smart for its own good. Keeps trying to tell me how to make cortados. I've been making cortados since before it was born!"
"He's not my—wait, Grayson gave you an espresso machine?"
"Said something about 'optimizing beverage preparation protocols.'" She wipes her hands on her apron. "But that's not why I called you here."
My stomach drops. "Mrs. R, if this is about the rent?— "
"It's about all of it." She sighs, looking around her beloved cafe. "Times are changing, mijita. People don't meet in coffee shops anymore. They swipe right, let algorithms tell them who to love."
"That's not true," I protest, but even I can hear the uncertainty. "Just last week we had three successful first dates here!"
"And how many of those came from your matchmaking service versus dating apps?"
I busy myself with a napkin dispenser.
"Exactly." She pats my hand. "Don't worry about me. My nephew's been trying to get me to retire to Florida for years."
"Florida? But you hate Florida!"
"I hate going out of business more." She straightens as the bell above the door chimes. "Speaking of business..."
Grayson walks in, looking like he was photoshopped from a men’s catalogue in what has to be a custom suit. The elderly ladies who perpetually occupy the corner table immediately start whispering behind their biscotti.
"Your tech boy's been coming around a lot lately," Mrs. Rodriguez observes. “Such convenient timing."
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Emily Hanning again, reminding me that her feature deadline is due Valentine's Day—the day before Alex's engagement party.
I silence it just as Grayson reaches us.
"Mrs. Rodriguez." He actually smiles—not that investor-courting polite smile, but the real one I've started cataloging despite my better judgment. "How's the new espresso machine working out?"
"It's too smart for its own good." She eyes him. "Like some people I know."
He accepts this with surprising grace. "I hear that a lot."
"Hmph." But she's smiling as she turns away. "Your usual orders?"
I blink. "We have usual orders? "
"Of course you do! Though how anyone can drink that much espresso..." She bustles off, muttering about millennials and their caffeine tolerances.
"We have usual orders?" I ask Grayson again as we settle into what I'm starting to think of as our corner.
"CORA keeps track of everyone's preferences." At my look, he adds, "What? It's efficient."
"Of course it is." I tell myself that his efficiency is most certainly not endearing. Not at all. "Speaking of efficiency, how's the engagement party planning going?"
"Alex's latest suggestion involves teaching doves to sing 'Can't Help Falling in Love' while making pasta."
"How would that even?—"
"Don't ask. But it did remind me..." He reaches into his perfect suit jacket and produces an envelope. "The Children's Hospital Foundation is hosting their annual gala this weekend. Very high profile, lots of press..."
"Ah." I take the envelope. "Good for our 'relationship narrative,' as your lawyer would say?"
"Exactly." But something in his voice makes me look up. He's watching me, his honeyed-brown stare steady. "Plus, I hear there's dancing."
"Dancing?" I echo, thinking of his kitchen, of almost-moments and interrupted kisses.
“Strategic dancing. For business purposes."
"Of course." I tuck the envelope away. "Purely professional."
Mrs. Rodriguez delivers our drinks—my lavender latte and his quadruple espresso, because apparently even his coffee order is overachieving.
"You two remind me of another couple," she says, straightening napkins that don't need straightening. "Fifteen years ago. Girl came in looking lost, boy was working through medical school making lattes..." She gives me a pointed look. "Sometimes the best matches are the ones you don't plan. "
She walks away before I can remind her that my matchmaking success with Olivia and Derek was entirely professional. Mostly professional. Okay, so I might have locked them in a supply closet together, but that was different.
My phone buzzes yet again. This time it's Dani: Update: Sir Galahad has challenged the entire Seattle tech scene to prove their worth. Also, he’s making William nervous and now William is panic-stuffing his face with his own goods.
“Everything alright? You look worried,” Grayson declares.
"Nothing my AI can't handle," I tease. "Oh wait..."
He laughs, and my chest squeezes at the deep rumbling sound.
"About this weekend," he starts, but he's interrupted by a commotion outside. Through Meet Cute's windows, I spot a familiar figure in chainmail confronting what appears to be a group of software engineers.
"Varlets!" Sir Galahad/Chad's voice carries through the glass. "Dost thou dare claim superior coding skills? Have at thee!"
"I should probably..." I stand, gathering my coat.
"Handle that before someone challenges someone else to a duel at dawn?" His mouth twitches. “How valiant of you."
"More valiant than letting my employee's medieval suitor terrorize Seattle's tech community with a foam sword."
"Point taken." He rises too, and suddenly we're standing very close. "Though you should know..."
"What?"
"I'm excellent at strategic dancing."
With a final grin, Grayson takes off, the exit door’s bell chiming overhead as he heads out. I try not to watch him the entire way.
The grand ballroom of the Seattle Children's Hospital is a spectacle of elegance and opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the polished marble floors, reflecting off the shimmering gowns and tailored tuxedos of Seattle's elite. The air is filled with the soft melodies of a live orchestra, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the murmur of polite conversation.
At the entrance, a red carpet stretches out, flanked by photographers and reporters eager to capture the arrivals. The atmosphere is electric, a blend of anticipation and excitement that seems to hum through the air.
I step out of the sleek black limousine, my heart pounding in my chest. The cool January air nips at my exposed shoulders, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins keeps me warm. I smooth the silk of my gown, a deep gold 40s number that shimmers under the lights. The dress is a masterpiece of elegance, with a sweetheart neckline and a flowing skirt that whispers against the ground as I walk.
My hair—a coppery dark brown—is swept up in an updo, adorned with delicate pearl pins that catch the light.
As I turn to wait for Grayson, a flutter flapping in my lower belly. This is more than just a charity gala.
It's a statement, a performance for the press and the public. Our "relationship" is the talk of the town, and tonight, we have to sell it.
Grayson emerges from the limousine, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. He's dressed in a tuxedo that looks like it's been melted over his muscles, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to his waist. The crisp white shirt contrasts sharply with his tanned skin, and his bow tie is perfectly knotted. His honeyed-brown eyes meet mine, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
"You look stunning," he murmurs, offering his arm.
I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of his body next to mine. “Right back at you, Mr. Dixon.”
Together, we walk down the red carpet, the flash of cameras and the murmur of the crowd fading into the background. Grayson's hand rests lightly on the small of my back, a possessive touch that sends a shiver down my spine. We pause for photographs, smiling and posing like the perfect couple we're supposed to be.
Inside the ballroom, the atmosphere is even more enchanting. Tables draped in white linen are adorned with centerpieces of fresh flowers and candles, casting a soft, romantic glow. The orchestra plays a waltz, and couples sway gracefully on the dance floor.
Grayson leads me to our table, where we're greeted by familiar faces—investors, philanthropists, and socialites. Conversation flows easily, but I can't shake the feeling of being on display. Every glance, every smile, every touch is scrutinized, analyzed, and reported.
As the evening wears on, Grayson leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Dance with me?"
I nod, feeling a tingle of anticipation. He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor, his fingers intertwining with mine. The orchestra strikes up a slow, romantic melody, and Grayson pulls me close, one hand resting on my waist, the other holding mine.
"Everyone's watching," I murmur, trying to ignore how perfectly we fit together.
"Let them," he replies, his thumb tracing small circles on my spine. "It's good for our story."
Right. Our story. The carefully crafted narrative we're selling to the press, to his investors, to everyone who's watching Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor fall for the old-fashioned matchmaker.
Except.. .
Except something about the way he's looking at me doesn't feel like a performance.
“I can hear your thoughts from here,” he says softly.
"Just calculating optimal dance trajectories," I counter. "Isn't that how you do everything?"
"Not everything." His hand tightens slightly on my waist. "Some things can't be calculated."
"Like what?"
"Like—"
"Rosalind!" Emily Hanning materializes beside us like a journalist ninja. "I've been trying to reach you. I’d love to talk about?—“
"Ms. Hanning." Grayson's CEO voice is back. "I believe this is a private event."
"Oh, but I have an invitation." She smiles like a shark. "And so many questions about your relationship. Like how Seattle's most logical bachelor ended up with?—"
“Excuse us. I need to talk to Ms. Carpenter.” His brown eyes blink slowly. “Alone.”
I don't hear whatever else Emily says because Grayson's already steering me away, through the crowd and toward what turns out to be a coat check room.
The door closes behind us with a soft click, leaving us alone in a forest of designer outerwear.
"Sorry," he says, still holding me close. "I thought she might?—"
"Follow us into the coat closet?"
"It was tactical."
"Very strategic," I agree, trying to ignore how the small space seems to amplify every point of contact between us. "Though your AI might have some opinions about the statistical probability of?—"
I don't finish because suddenly Grayson’s eyes are on my mouth, and they’re not moving. But suddenly he is .
He inches closer, and soon, all thoughts of statistics and strategies disappear. Lowering his head, the icy CEO I’ve started to figure out does something un-figure-outable.
He kisses me.
And as his lips meet mine, a surge of heat courses through my body, igniting every nerve ending. I can feel the rough stubble of his cheek against my skin, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me—sensual and smoky. My own hands grasp his lapels, and pull.
The kiss deepens, becoming more intense, more demanding as his tongue brushes against mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I’ve never kissed a man this tall, this broad—this hard. And it makes me moan.
For as cold as Grayson Dixon is in every calculated move he makes, this kiss is anything but.
I’m a walking, talking puddle in his capable hands. Hands that curve into the dip of my lower back, pressing the cool silk of my gown against my skin. Hands that move lower still, tracing the line of my thigh through the fabric.
His touch is confident, sure, as if he knows exactly what I want, exactly what I need. And in this moment, I do need.
I need more of his heat. More of his hardness.
More of him.
And speaking of hardness…
I groan, rubbing myself at the growing erection between us making itself known.
God, if this man is as large as he seems…
The thought is interrupted by a thud outside the closet, and suddenly Grayson’s hands are gone as fast as they came.
Reality begins to intrude, the haze of desire slowly lifting. I look up at Grayson, his honeyed-brown eyes dark with passion, his hair mussed from my fingers, his lips slightly stained from my own .
And I realize, with a sudden, stark clarity, that this—that we—may never have been “just business.”
Lowering his dark gaze, Grayson takes a step back, breathing hard, rubbing his stubbled jaw.
“I’m sorry,” I start. “That had to have been?—“
"The champagne," he offers with a grunt.
"Right. Champagne."
“What they served here was very…bubbly."
“Yeah. Bubbly. Extremely effervescent."
We stare at each other in the dim light, neither moving away.
My phone chooses that moment to buzz. Dani again: Emergency! Sir Galahad just challenged the entire board of Microsoft to trial by combat! Also, William's panic-baking has reached critical mass. Send reinforcements and/or Tupperware.
Lowering my face, I step away, sliding the silk of my gown back in its proper place.
"We should probably…I should…”
"Handle the medieval crisis?" He straightens his tie. “That would be very professional of you."
"More professional than making out in coat closets."
Something flashes in his eyes, but before he can respond, the coat attendant’s voice carries through the door: “Hello? Is anyone in there? The door seems locked.”
I close my eyes, counting to ten. When I open them, Grayson's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Just business," I remind us both.
"Of course." His CEO coolness slips back into place. "Nothing personal at all."
But as we rejoin the party, his hand finds the small of my back again, and I can't help thinking that some calculations just don't add up.
Especially when they involve hot fake billionaire boyfriends that you can’t keep your hands off of.