22. Grayson
22
GRAYSON
W hile Margot and Madeline debate floral installations, seating charts, and signature cocktails named after celestial alignments, Cosmic Commitment and Hot Virgo Summer among the frontrunners, I’m holed up in the executive conference room with Olivia, three laptops, a tray of espresso shots, and a mountain of NDAs. The view of Manhattan behind us is pristine. The work in front of us? Less so.
Perfectly Matched is buzzing again, and this time it’s not from scandal. It’s from interest, specifically, interest from people we’d once have killed to land.
Olivia slides a black leather portfolio across the table toward me. Her nails tap twice on the cover before she speaks. "Two top-tier inquiries came in this morning. High-profile. Discreet. Both requested private onboarding, with you. Not me. Not the team. You."
I raise an eyebrow. "Just me?"
"Apparently your brooding face and viral suit moment did wonders for your approachability rating."
I sigh dramatically. "Guess I’ll cancel my dream of silent retirement in the Alps."
She snorts. "You’d be bored in thirty minutes and reorganizing the mountain goats by enneagram type."
I tap my pen against the desk, then flip open the folder. "Who are we talking about? Give me the drama."
"First one is Alexandra Devaux," she says, pulling up the file. "CEO of a sustainable fashion empire. Divorced, early forties, known for being brilliant, blunt, and pathologically opposed to small talk."
"Sounds like someone I’d either fall in love with or run from."
"Second one’s Mason Wolfe," she continues. "Former Formula One driver, now a media investor. Extremely charming. Owns too many cars."
"So basically my evil twin."
Olivia grins. "Want me to set up intro calls?"
"No need," I say, already dialing.
I make the call to Alexandra Devaux first, because I suspect she’s the type who times your punctuality to the second, and penalizes you in silence.
“Ms. Devaux? Grayson King here. Thank you for trusting us with your matchmaking process.”
Her voice is smooth, clipped, with just the faintest Parisian edge. “I don’t trust easily, Mr. King. But I do value systems that work. Yours appears to.”
“It does,” I say. “But it works best when you’re willing to let someone past your surface firewall.”
“You Googled me.”
“I read between the lines.”
She hums, amused but unimpressed. “Fine. Impress me. Match me with someone who doesn’t bore me in three minutes.”
“Only if you promise not to destroy them within five.”
That gets a laugh, short, dry, but real.
I glance through her intake form, and Olivia’s notes. Alexandra is, unsurprisingly, allergic to what she calls 'performative courtship.' She doesn’t want flowers or love poems. She wants someone who can hold their own in a debate on climate policy and still make her laugh over coffee. Her last three dates, none of which she made it past dinner with, include:
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A hedge fund manager who showed her a slideshow of his watch collection.
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A plastic surgeon who quoted Hemingway over oysters and said he “wasn’t like other men.”
·
A tech founder who opened their first date with: “So, how much do you bench?”
She ghosted all three.
“You’re looking for someone who gets to the point,” I say. “Someone confident, grounded, and, ideally, not insufferable.”
“Exactly,” she replies. “And I’d prefer he not pitch me a startup mid-meal.”
“Noted.”
“And no poets. I can appreciate the arts, but I don’t want to date a man who calls me ‘his muse’ after two glasses of wine.”
“I think we can avoid the tragic artist archetype,” I assure her.
“Then we’ll get along just fine.”
I glance at my screen. "My assistant will be in touch with you shortly to confirm the details, time, format, and what kind of coffee you prefer during your onboarding."
"Black," she says, without hesitation. "And no muffins. Muffins are a distraction."
"Duly noted."
She hangs up with a time block already on her calendar. Efficient. Brutal. Delightful. I like her already.
Next up is Mason Wolfe. I shift gears immediately, he’s not a call-you-at-your-desk kind of guy. Sure enough, when he picks up, I hear background jazz, a low clink of glassware, and what sounds like a bartender violently shaking a Negroni to death.
The man’s file reads like a cocktail menu of contradictions: fast cars, fast exits, and a suspicious number of one-month relationships with women who all mysteriously moved to Bali after dating him. His last few dates include:
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A novelist who broke up with him mid-weekend in Monaco because he "talked during her writing sprints."
·
A sculptor who claimed he was too emotionally intense, then made a six-foot marble bust of him titled Chaos in a Suit .
·
A hedge fund heiress who ghosted him after he beat her at poker in front of her father.
Needless to say, Mason Wolfe is not everyone’s cup of tea. He’s more like a flaming whiskey shot served with a smirk.
"Grayson!" he says, like we’re old friends. "I was hoping it’d be you."
"You caught me between elite profiles and eloping fiancées. What can I do for you, Mr. Wolfe?"
"Find me someone who likes speed and dislikes pretense. Bonus points if she can outdrink me and win at chess."
"You want a unicorn."
"No," he says. "I want a woman who scares me a little."
I grin. "We might just have her. But she plays dirty."
"So do I.
I pause, then shift my tone just slightly. "My assistant will follow up shortly to schedule your onboarding, unless you’re planning to jet off to Barcelona or buy a racehorse in the next forty-eight hours."
"I’ve already done both this quarter," he replies. "I’m all yours."
"We’ll see how long that lasts."
He laughs, then adds, "Tell your assistant I take my espresso black and my women clever."
"Duly noted, Mr. Wolfe."
By the time I hang up, I lean back in the chair, one arm slung across the backrest, and glance at Olivia. She’s already typing out follow-up notes, her brows furrowed in that exact way that means we’re about to solve ten problems before lunch.
“Think they’ll commit?” I ask.
She nods once. “If we do this right? They’ll be our biggest success stories. Maybe even our next case study.”
I smile, slow and sure. The kind of smile that doesn’t come from surviving, but from building. This isn’t just cleanup. It’s a comeback, and damn, it feels good to win again.
I stand and stretch, the weight of the day tugging at my shoulders. I roll them back once, then gather the folders and my tablet into a clean stack. The espresso tray is mostly empty, a few cups clinking quietly as I carry it to the credenza.
Olivia glances up. "Heading back to your office?"
"Yeah," I say. "Want to get the client files started before the wedding planner breaks into the office demanding Margot approve napkin fonts."
She snorts. "Fair warning, she left a voice message using the phrase 'champagne tones with emotional undertones.'"
I wince. "Terrifying."
I swipe my badge and step into my office, the quiet a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Sunlight pours in across the glass desk, catching on the engraved frame that holds a photo of Margot and me, laughing, mid-moment, in blurry, perfect imperfection.
I sit, crack my knuckles once, and begin pulling up the intake forms. Alexandra Devaux. Mason Wolfe. High-stakes clients with impossible standards and zero patience for mediocrity. My kind of challenge. I begin drafting notes, mapping compatibility tiers, cross-referencing soft data from our intake algorithms with Olivia’s real-world insights. My fingers fly across the keyboard.
Matchmaking, when done right, is more art than science. But I’ve always believed the best art has structure. Precision. And just a touch of instinct. I pause only once, to glance back at the photo of Margot, and smile. Let the matchmaking begin.