Emmy and the All-Pro (The Modern Classics #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Emmy was late for the most important interview of her life, but Mrs. Jasinski's groceries weren't going to carry themselves.

"You don't have to do this every time," Mrs. Jasinski said, slightly out of breath on the second-floor landing. She was seventy-four and refused to accept that four bags of groceries might be too much for one trip.

"I'm already going up," Emmy said, which was technically true even though she'd been halfway across the lobby when she'd spotted her favorite neighbor struggling with the bags—and also when she'd realized the pearl drop earrings were overkill and she should have gone with the studs.

Too late now. "Besides, these oranges look amazing.

I haven't found anything half this ripe in weeks—I need to know where you got them. "

Mrs. Jasinski laughed and started telling her about the market in Chinatown, and Emmy listened while calculating whether she could still make it to Elite Connections on time if she hit every green light.

She probably couldn't. But Mrs. Jasinski lived alone and her daughter was in California, and Emmy wasn't about to let one of her people struggle with groceries while she had two free hands.

They made it to the third floor. Mrs. Jasinski unlocked her door and Emmy carried the bags to her kitchen, which smelled like butter and dill and something with cabbage and was approximately the size of Emmy's closet.

"You have somewhere to be," Mrs. Jasinski observed, studying Emmy's dress. "Job interview."

"How did you—"

"That's your lucky necklace." Mrs. Jasinski started unpacking groceries with efficient movements. "You'll do wonderful. You're a smart girl. Kind, too. That matters more than people think."

Emmy felt her throat go tight. "Thank you."

"Now go. Don't be late because of an old woman's oranges."

Emmy made it to her car with seven minutes less than she'd planned. She checked her rearview mirror—makeup still perfect, hair still in place—and only then looked at her father's text.

Dad

The printer is making that noise again. Also matchmaking seems uncertain. Very uncertain. Did you remember the linen paper? The 32lb, not regular? Traffic on Boylston is terrible this time of day. Take Newbury.

Emmy stared at the screen. He'd managed to express doubt about her career choice, request tech support for something he could google, micromanage her interview materials, and offer routing advice, all without once wishing her luck.

Emmy

Printer manual is on your desk. Already printed on the good paper. Taking Newbury. I'll call you after

Anything less would generate three more texts about toner levels and whether she was absolutely certain she had the travel hand sanitizer he'd slipped into her bag last Christmas.

She needed to be sharp. Confident. The version of herself who knew exactly what she was doing.

The version who'd spent six months trying to get here—six months that had felt like sitting in a waiting room for a doctor who never called her name.

Emmy started the car and merged into Boston traffic. Delivery trucks blocked intersections, pedestrians had apparent death wishes, and every third driver seemed to have learned vehicle operation via correspondence course. She navigated on autopilot, her brain running through her pitch.

I understand relationships. Not just the theory—the actual mechanics of how people connect, what makes partnerships work, why some couples thrive while others implode despite looking perfect on paper.

True. The problem was never the understanding.

The problem was the six months after she'd left the wedding planning business, when she had nothing to apply it to.

Unemployed Emmy was a machine with no input—still running, still processing, still cataloging every couple she passed on the street (mismatched attachment styles, give it eight months), every first date visible through a restaurant window (he's performing, she knows it, she's going to let him anyway).

Her brain wouldn't stop reading people just because no one was paying her to do it.

It just read them for free, all day, with nowhere to put the data, until the observations piled up like mail under a door no one was opening.

Six months of that. Six months of watching West build his new life in Newton, watching the city move around her like a parade she couldn't join. Three majors, three careers, and now this—the longest she'd committed to anything was the chignon, and that had taken three YouTube tutorials.

So why did she still feel like she was trying to convince herself?

Emmy parked three blocks from Elite Connections. Street parking in this neighborhood was its own financial investment. She fed the meter with quarters kept specifically for this purpose, grabbed her portfolio, and walked.

Two blocks from the building, she stopped at a coffee shop. Not for coffee—she was already jittery—but for the bathroom's better lighting.

The single-occupancy space smelled like expensive hand soap. Emmy studied her reflection. First impressions were everything, and this one had to land.

Navy dress: still perfect. The cut made her look professional without trying too hard. Her mother would say it made her look grown up, which Emmy tried not to think about because she was twenty-five and should already look grown up.

Statement necklace: still catching light correctly.

Hair: still in place. Sleek. Sophisticated.

She looked good.

She looked like someone who belonged at Boston's most elite matchmaking firm.

She looked like someone who hadn't quit her job on a whim 6 months ago to pursue a career in the stable industry of matchmaking and never looked back.

Emmy took a breath. Squared her shoulders.

You're good at this. You understand people—really understand them, not just the surface stuff. You can read between lines, identify what someone needs versus what they think they want. That's rare. That matters.

She believed approximately sixty percent of this. Better than yesterday's forty percent.

Emmy left the coffee shop and walked the final block. The building was beautiful—original brick renovated with unlimited budget and excellent designers. A discreet brass plaque beside the door was so understated it basically screamed we don't need to advertise.

The door opened before Emmy could reach for it.

"Welcome to Elite Connections," the doorman said with a warm smile. His name badge read RYAN. "You must be the two o'clock."

“I’m Emmy." She smiled and extended her hand for him to shake. "Tell me something—do I look like Elite Connections' newest junior matchmaker?"

"I thought you already worked here," he said with a wink.

Emmy felt herself smile. "I'm going to remember you said that."

"Yes ma'am," he said, and held the door wider.

The lobby hit her all at once.

Cream marble. Contemporary art. Furniture that belonged in a different tax bracket entirely.

But it wasn't just beauty—it was atmosphere.

The sense that everyone who walked through this door was someone.

Someone successful, someone who mattered, someone whose time was valuable enough to hire professionals for every aspect of life, including love.

Emmy wanted to be someone who belonged here.

She wanted it so badly her chest ached.

A woman at the reception desk looked up. Probably Emmy's age, maybe younger, but she had that effortless elegance that suggested she'd never stressed about rent or googled ‘how to negotiate salary’ at 2 AM. Her nameplate read BECKANNE.

Emmy Woodhouse." Steady. Confident. Convincing. "I have a two o'clock with Ms. Ferrance."

Beckanne's smile was tightly professional but not warm. "She'll see you shortly. Please have a seat."

Emmy chose the chair facing the elevator—amateur mistake to sit with your back to the room—and set her portfolio on her lap. Resisted the urge to pull out her phone.

Instead, she waited.

She'd been at one of their weddings once—a bride she'd planned for, matched by Elite Connections.

The way that woman had looked at her husband wasn't about his trust fund, his connections, or his grandmother's cottage in Nantucket.

It was something Emmy had never seen at a wedding before.

There you are. She'd spent the entire reception pretending she had something in her eye.

She wanted to do that. Put the right two people in the same room and watch the rest take care of itself.

"Ms. Woodhouse?" Beckanne was standing, gesturing toward a hallway. "Ms. Ferrance is ready."

Emmy stood. Smoothed her dress. Followed Beckanne down a corridor lined with art illuminated from above by little brass spotlights.

The hallway opened into a corner office with windows overlooking downtown Boston. The harbor glittered in afternoon sun, the financial district's towers rose against the sky, and the sprawl of the city Emmy had lived in most of her life stretched out in all directions.

She barely registered it because Cecelia Ferrance was sitting behind her desk, and everything about her was more intimidating than any skyline.

Fifty-something. Blonde in that expensive way that involved a colorist and regular maintenance.

Wearing Chanel—Emmy's fashion knowledge was limited but she knew Chanel when she saw it.

Everything about Cecelia said I built this empire from the wreckage of my marriage, and I'd do it again without hesitation.

She didn't stand. Just gestured to one of two chairs.

"Sit."

Emmy sat.

Cecelia inspected her for a long moment. Emmy forced herself to maintain eye contact, to project confidence she didn't entirely feel. Reading people was the one thing she'd never had to learn. So she read Cecelia now.

Skeptical but not dismissive. Curious but guarded. A woman who'd built something valuable and wasn't interested in risks that didn't pay off. Every hire was an investment. Every employee represented the firm.

Emmy could work with that.