Chapter 1 #4
Emmy you're a saint. Liam spit up on literally everything. Dryer still dead. I owe you wine.
Callie's handwriting, the letters looping and frantic. Emmy picked up the basket and brought it inside.
She sat on her couch with a load of someone else's baby laundry. Grant would be at practice until at least six. She knew his schedule the way she knew West's—absorbed by proximity over years, not by effort. She had time. She just needed the right words.
Emmy had never moved through the world like money was a given, like belonging wasn't something you had to earn.
She'd had to earn every opportunity, prove herself at every turn, convince people she was worth taking a chance on.
And now she was asking Grant to take a chance on her based on nothing but childhood proximity and a shared connection to West.
It wasn't enough. She knew it wasn't enough.
But it was all she had.
Emmy opened Grant's contact one more time and pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. She was about to hang up—this was stupid, this was so stupid, what had she been thinking—when he answered.
"Emmy?"
His voice was the same. Deep. Calm. She hadn't heard it in months, and the familiarity of it did something inconvenient to her chest.
"Hey, Grant." She stood from the couch, pacing into the kitchen because sitting still was impossible. Her free hand gripped the counter edge. "Sorry to call out of nowhere. Do you have a minute?"
"Yeah, sure." There was noise in the background—music maybe, or a TV. "Emmy? Everything okay?"
"Fine. I'm fine. I have a—this is going to sound weird."
"Okay." She could hear the amusement in his voice now. "Hit me with the weird thing."
Where did she even start?
"I had a job interview today. At Elite Connections.
It's a matchmaking firm—high-end, very exclusive, Boston's best. The interview went great until the founder asked if I had any connections to professional athletes, and I—" She stopped.
Took a breath. Forced herself to just say it.
"I told her I could get you to sign on as a client. "
Silence.
Emmy kept talking, filling the void before Grant could reject her outright.
"I know we haven't talked in forever. I know this is completely out of nowhere.
But she asked about West, and West just got married, so he's off the table, and you were the only other person I could think of who fit what she was looking for.
And I know you don't need a matchmaker. I know you're busy and you probably have—"
"Emmy." Grant's voice cut through her rambling. "Breathe."
She breathed.
And in the silence, the full weight of what she'd just said landed on her like a physical thing.
Grant's agent—Tremaine—probably fielded a hundred calls like this a week.
People wanting Grant's name, his image, his presence, his connections.
People who saw him as an asset, not a person.
And here she was, calling out of nowhere after months of radio silence, asking him to do her a favor that would benefit exactly one person: Emmy Woodhouse.
"I'm sorry," she said, the words already out, tumbling past her teeth. "This was—I don't know what I was thinking. You don't owe me anything. I shouldn't have called."
"Emmy." His voice was even. "I said breathe. I didn't say hang up. Let me make sure I understand. You told a potential employer that I'd let you matchmake for me? Without asking me first?"
"Yes. Which sounds terrible when you say it like that. But in my defense, I was in the interview and she was asking about athlete connections and I panicked. And now I have two weeks to deliver or I don't get the job."
More silence. Emmy closed her eyes and waited for the polite, inevitable no.
Grant chuckled.
It raised the hair on her arms.
"Little liar," he said, and she couldn't tell if it was an accusation or something warmer. "Season just started. When do you need an answer?"
Emmy's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"You said you have two weeks. When do you need me to decide?"
The kitchen tilted slightly, or maybe that was just her brain trying to process what he'd said.
Grant Knight—who could have any woman in Boston, who definitely didn't need matchmaking services—had just said he was considering helping her.
The relief hit so hard she had to press her palm flat against the counter to steady herself.
"I—soon? Ideally?" She was afraid to hope. "But I understand if this is too weird or you're not interested or—"
"Can you do coffee tomorrow? I have practice in the morning but I'm free after two."
Emmy's brain stalled out. "Coffee?"
"Yeah. So you can explain what this actually entails and I can decide if I'm completely insane for considering it." He paused. "Because I am considering it. But I want details first."
"You're considering it."
"Emmy." Now she could definitely hear the amusement. "You just called me out of nowhere, admitted you lied to a potential employer about me, and asked me to help you out anyway. That takes either a lot of desperation or a lot of confidence. I'm curious which one it is."
"Both. Definitely both."
Grant laughed—an actual laugh, not just a polite chuckle. "Okay. Text me a coffee shop and a time. I'll be there."
"Thank you. Seriously, thank you. I know this is weird and I promise I'll explain everything and—"
"Emmy. Coffee shop. Time. Text me."
"Right. Yes. I'll text you."
"Good. See you tomorrow."
He hung up.
Emmy stared at her phone, trying to process what had just happened. Grant—who had zero reason to help her—had just agreed to meet her for coffee.
She sat with the hope for a moment. Then her brain kicked back on.
She couldn't just pick any coffee shop. Grant couldn't walk into half the places in this city without someone pulling out a phone.
She needed somewhere low-key—a neighborhood spot, not a destination.
A place where regulars minded their own business and nobody was there hoping to run into anyone famous.
She opened a text to West.
Emmy
Hey. Random question. If you wanted lunch somewhere in the city where no one would recognize you, where would you go?
Three minutes passed. Then:
West
probably antonios lol why
Emmy smiled and texted Grant the address.
Grant Knight
See you there.
Emmy set her phone down and allowed herself exactly ten seconds of victory celebration. Then she opened her laptop and started researching everything she'd need to know to convince Grant Knight that professional matchmaking was exactly what his life was missing.
She had less than twenty-four hours to prepare.
And Emmy Woodhouse was always, always prepared.