Chapter 2 #3
"She's going to be frustrated," Emmy said finally. "She wanted the credibility. The feather in her cap that her company matched notorious playboy Grant Knight."
He gave her a look. "She can have that. Eventually.
" Grant met her eyes. "If you actually find me someone, and it sticks, and I'm happy—then fine.
She can take credit. I'll do a testimonial, shake hands at a gala, whatever she wants. I'm sure I’d be thrilled to shout from the rooftops about how I met my dream woman.”
He couldn't keep the mocking tone from his voice. He couldn't imagine it any more than she could.
"But not before. And not without my explicit permission."
"So I have to deliver results before she gets any value out of you."
"Welcome to performance-based contracts. You're in sales now."
A startled laugh escaped her—half frustration, half genuine amusement. "You're a nightmare client. You know that, right?"
"I'm fully aware." Grant allowed himself a small smile. "But I'm your nightmare client, princess. Congratulations. I'll show up. I'll take it seriously. I'll give your matches a genuine chance. I just won't be paraded around like a prize stallion at auction."
Emmy shook her head, but she was smiling now. "Fine. Complete confidentiality until you're successfully matched. Cecelia gets the paperwork, no one else on staff knows, and the world finds out only when and if you want them to."
"And West?"
"And West doesn't know." Emmy's expression shifted—understanding now, not just negotiating. "Because he'd make it weird."
"He'd make it unbearable. He's been on me about 'settling down' since he met Brynn. If he finds out I actually signed up for matchmaking, he'll have us double-dating by Thursday. Brynn will be planning the engagement party before I've had a second date."
"God, he would." Emmy grimaced at the mental image. "Okay. Not even West. This stays between us and Cecelia."
Grant nodded, satisfied. "What else do you need?"
Emmy's pen started moving again, back in business mode. “Conditions?”
"I have veto power. If you set up a date and I think it's a bad fit, I can decline."
"Within reason—"
"I told you I'll take it seriously," Grant said. "But I'm not going through with something that feels wrong just to make your numbers look good."
Emmy nodded slowly. "Fair."
"And no involvement with the team. No networking events at games, no using my teammates as leads without asking them first. I don't bring work drama into the locker room."
"I wouldn't—"
"You would, if you got desperate enough." Grant said it gently. "I'm not saying you'd do it on purpose. I'm saying you're building a career in a cutthroat industry, and pressure makes people creative. My teammates are off-limits unless they come to you."
Emmy's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. She pushed a heavy cream-colored document toward him. "Sign at the bottom."
Grant picked up the pen. The cap clicked under his thumb.
He was about to promise Emmy Woodhouse six months of his personal life while lying to her about every one of his intentions.
Protecting her. Deceiving her. The same act, somehow.
His mother would have had opinions about that distinction—she'd always had opinions about the distance between good reasons and good behavior.
He signed his name.
Done.
Emmy picked up the contract like it was a holy relic, something sacred and breakable.
For a second, he thought she might cry. Instead she let out a breath that seemed to deflate her entire frame—the rigid posture collapsing, the business armor still on but the person inside it slumping back against the booth like she'd just crossed a finish line she'd been sprinting toward for days.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "I thought I was going to throw up."
Grant laughed—a startled, involuntary sound. There she was. The Emmy he actually knew. The one who admitted when she was terrified. The one who didn't pretend to be bulletproof.
"Eat your panini," he said. "You look like you're about to pass out."
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Emmy relaxed by degrees, color returning to her face. He thought they might spend the rest of the afternoon catching up—how her parents were doing, whether her dad had discovered any new ailments, if she'd read anything good lately.
He underestimated her.
She pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her portfolio with a decisive motion, like a general unrolling a campaign map.
"Okay," she said. "Now the real work starts."
Grant paused, last bite of panini halfway to his mouth. "I thought the contract was the real work."
"That was the legal stuff. That's for Cecelia.
" She gestured between them, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face with an intensity that made him want to check if he had sauce on his chin.
"This is the vibe check. I can't match you if I don't know who you actually are right now.
Not the 'Grant Knight' on the billboard.
The guy eating at a dive of a diner in a twenty-year-old baseball cap. "
Grant chewed slowly. "I'm the same guy."
"You're not. I grew up with you, Grant. I know you have different versions of yourself.
" She leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"There's the Grant who showed up at our house at midnight because West called from some party.
And there's the Grant who does press conferences without blinking.
" She paused. "West told me about the script you have for letting women down easy. "
Grant choked slightly on his bite. "West told you what?”
"West tells me things. Told. Before he got boring and started caring about gutters." She leaned forward. "The point is, you compartmentalize. You have versions of yourself for different contexts. And I need to know which version actually wants a relationship."
Grant set his panini down. He didn't like how accurate that was. And he really didn't like that West had apparently been narrating his dating life to his little sister. He was going to have words with his best friend about operational security.
She'd gathered intel from the best source possible—her brother, who'd watched him navigate breakups for a decade.
Same move he'd seen his mother pull in trial prep: find the person who'd been in the room longest and get them talking.
He respected the strategy even as it made him want to throw something at West's head.
"Fine," he said, crossing his arms. "So what are you doing? Reading my aura? Checking my chakras?"
She gave him a droll look. "I don't need to read you," she said, leaning her chin on her hand. "I know you. Now, tell me about Sunday morning. Not in the season. Say… June. No practice. No film. What does it look like?"
"Sleeping," Grant said immediately.
"Boring. Try again." Her eyes didn't leave his. "You're awake. You're in your kitchen. Ideally, who is there? What's the noise level?"
Grant looked at her. He wanted to give a joke answer, something about game tape or his trainer. But Emmy was looking at him with that expression she'd had since she was a little girl—soft, unblinking, impossible to bullshit. It was deeply annoying.
"Quiet," Grant admitted. The truth slipping out before he could catch it. "It's quiet. Maybe some music, but low. I'm making coffee. The good stuff."
"And the partner?" Emmy asked softly. "Is she getting ready for brunch? Live-streaming the view?"
"God, no." Grant rubbed the back of his neck. "She's just... there. Wearing sweatpants. Maybe reading. We're not doing anything. We're just recovering. Together."
Emmy nodded slowly. She wasn't writing anything down. She was just absorbing it, cataloging it somewhere behind those sharp eyes.
"You want a sanctuary," she diagnosed. "Your life is loud. You need a partner who brings the volume down, not up."
"Is that a diagnosis, Doctor Love?"
"It's an observation. And it explains why your last three relationships imploded."
Grant frowned. "They didn't implode. They ran their course."
"Jessica. Tara. Sloane." Emmy ticked them off on her fingers like a prosecutor listing charges.
Grant paused. "Wait. How did you know Sloane and I broke up?"
"Please." Emmy's expression went flat. "She went live during the bouquet toss at the wedding.
And I overheard her in the bathroom talking about all the exotic locales you were going to take her to during the off-season.
The Maldives. Santorini. A yacht in Monaco.
" She raised an eyebrow. "Do you even own a yacht? "
"No."
"She seemed very confident about the yacht."
Grant winced internally. Sloane had been beautiful and ambitious—with her own career as an architect, he'd thought.
But they'd only been casually dating a few months when she'd started dropping hints about their "future"—mostly featuring her, spending his money, on the imaginary yacht.
Their spark in the bedroom had burned out almost before it caught, and after the wedding, he'd ended things without losing sleep over it.
"She wasn't—" Grant started.
"She wasn't right," Emmy finished. "None of them were. They were all performative women. Great for a red carpet. Terrible at Sleepy Sunday." She met his eyes. "You can't exhale with someone who's constantly checking her angles. You need someone grounded. But not boring."
Grant rubbed his jaw. He certainly wasn't bored now. "You're going to pry into every corner of my life, aren't you?"
Emmy smiled sweetly. "You already signed the contract."
"Fine. Pry away." Grant leaned back, crossing his arms. "But turnabout's fair play. What about you?"
Emmy's smile flickered. "What about me?"
"Last I heard, you were seeing someone. That guy from the—what was it? The startup thing?"
"Venture capital." Emmy's voice went carefully neutral. “Nathan. We broke up."
"When?"
"Four months ago."
Grant raised an eyebrow. "West didn't mention it."