Chapter 2 #4
"West doesn't know everything about my life." She reached for her water glass, and Grant caught the slight tension in her fingers. "It wasn't serious."
"You dated him for almost a year."
"And yet." Emmy took a sip, set the glass down with precision. "Here I am. Single. Professionally focused. Living my best unattached life."
Grant watched her. Twenty years. He knew when she was deflecting.
"What happened?"
"Nothing dramatic. We wanted different things." Her smile was too bright, too practiced. "Turns out I'm not great at the whole relationship thing. Which is ironic, given my career choice."
"Emmy—"
"Those who can't, teach." She said it lightly, like a joke, but something flickered behind her eyes. "Or in my case, those who can't stay in a relationship longer than eight months become professional matchmakers. It's basically the same skill set, just... applied externally."
Grant didn't laugh. "Eight months is your ceiling?"
"Apparently." Emmy shrugged, but the gesture was too casual, too controlled.
"Owen was eight months. Nathan was eleven, but the last three were mostly inertia.
Before that—" She stopped herself, waved a hand.
"Ancient history. The point is, I'm much better at analyzing other people's patterns than my own. "
"That's—"
"Enough about me." Emmy pulled her laptop closer, the professional mask sliding back into place.
"We're here to talk about your love life, not my lack of one.
Now. I'll fill out your profile myself. We're looking for someone who has her own life but wants to build a quiet corner with you.
.." She paused. "She needs to be beautiful, obviously.
Don't look at me like that, Grant. You have a type. "
"I don't—"
"Please. Your dating history looks like the final five of The Bachelorette. I'm not judging. I'm just noting a pattern."
They settled into a comfortable silence. Emmy pulled out her phone, scrolling with the focused intensity she brought to everything. Probably already building his profile in whatever system Elite Connections used. Probably color-coding it.
"So," she said, glancing up. "Now that you're signed—secretly—I can start scouting other potential clients to build out my roster. Other athletes who might actually let me use their names."
"Already planning your empire?"
"Cecelia wants results, not just one client.
" Emmy set down her panini, eyes bright with an enthusiasm that made her look younger.
More like the girl who used to make vision boards for summer vacation.
"I actually have a lead on my next target.
Word is, Tyce Duke just got hired as the new pro at The Commonwealth Club. "
Grant's coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. "Tyce Duke? The tennis player?"
"The very one. Wimbledon quarterfinalist, retiring from the tour to take the head pro job.
High profile, notoriously single, exactly the kind of client Cecelia would love.
" Emmy's voice picked up speed, excited now.
"I'm going to pitch him to her tomorrow.
I'm sure she'll want to give him to a more experienced matchmaker but I really think I can get him. "
Grant set his cup down carefully. He knew Tyce Duke by reputation—regular US Open contender, a fixture in sports headlines, the kind of guy who made every room feel like it was built for him.
Grant's jaw tightened. He'd crossed paths with Duke enough times to know the difference between charm and sleaze.
"Stay away from him, Em."
Emmy blinked. "Why? He's perfect for the agency."
"What do you know about him?" Grant leaned forward, voice dropping. "Not his serve stats. Not his Wimbledon run. What do you actually know about how he treats people when the cameras are off?"
Emmy opened her mouth—and hesitated.
"That's what I thought." Grant held her gaze. "I share a zip code with these people. I've watched him work charity rooms. He's gifted at making every woman feel like she's the only one he sees." A pause. "I've also watched him leave those rooms. Different story."
Emmy bristled. "I'm the professional here. I can handle a tennis pro."
"Then handle him like a professional. Not like a fan." Grant's voice was quiet. "This is part of the deal. If I'm in this, you listen to me on the vetting. I say a guy is bad news, you trust me. Just... tread carefully. Promise me."
She considered him for a long moment, weighing his concern against her ambition. The scales tipping one way, then the other.
Finally, she nodded.
"Fine. I'll be careful. But I'm still going to pitch him."
Grant let out a long breath. This arrangement was already more complicated than he'd planned. He hadn't just signed on to be a client; he'd signed on to watch her walk into rooms full of people who'd use her enthusiasm against her.
They finished in comfortable silence. When Emmy started gathering her things, Grant signaled Antonio for the check.
"I'm expensing this," Emmy said. "Client meeting. It's professional."
"I'm not on your clock until you send me that first match." Grant pulled out his wallet. "This one's on me."
He left cash on the table—enough to cover the bill and a tip that would make Antonio's crossword-solving afternoon a little better. The old man deserved it for two decades of letting them take up booth space.
Outside, the September air was crisp, hinting at the season to come. Emmy pulled out her phone, probably already composing the message to Cecelia that would save her career. The sun caught her hair, turning it almost golden.
"Thank you," she said, looking up from the screen. "Really. I know I steamrolled you into this."
"You didn't steamroll me." Grant put his hands in his pockets. "I'm in. We're doing this."
"I won't let you down, Grant. And I won't let your name slip. I promise."
"I know."
She surprised him by stepping forward and hugging him—quick, grateful, impulsive.
She smelled like the hazelnut latte and something floral underneath, and Grant's arms came up automatically, the gesture as old and unthinking as sliding her water glass out of reach.
When she pulled back, she was already retreating toward her beat-up Civic.
“We’ll get together about some matches next week," she called over her shoulder. "Don't embarrass me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Her dented bumper disappeared around the corner. Grant stood there longer than he needed to, hands still in his pockets, the September wind cooling the spot on his chest where her head had been.
He should feel guilty about lying to her—about the fact that he had zero intention of finding a partner, and that his only goal was to protect West's little sister while running out the clock on her probation period.
But guilt required caring more about the deception than the outcome, and his primary concern was keeping Emmy safe from an industry that would chew her up and never even notice.
Grant pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to West:
Grant
Had coffee with Emmy. She's doing okay.
The response came back thirty seconds later:
West
Cool. What did she want?
Grant stared at the screen. He could tell West the truth. That Emmy had talked him into letting her find him dates, that she was using him as her star client to break into athlete matchmaking, that he'd signed a contract with more conditions than a mortgage.
Except West would immediately worry it was going to blow up in Emmy's face.
He'd want to "talk strategy," insert himself into the whole thing, probably call Emmy and make her feel like she couldn't handle it on her own.
Not to mention that Grant would never live it down in the locker room.
Grant Knight, professional dater. His offensive line would have a field day.
Better to keep it simple.
He typed and deleted three different responses. Settled on:
Grant
Just catching up.
Not technically a lie. Just an incomplete truth.
He pocketed the phone. Two Woodhouses in one afternoon, both convinced he was being straight with them. At this rate, he'd need a spreadsheet to track his own honesty.
Grant walked to his car, already running through his game plan.
Five strategically bad dates. Four networking events where he'd play the supportive family friend.
Complete operational secrecy from everyone except Cecelia.
By the end of the season, Emmy would have her job secured and he'd have his life back exactly the way it was.
Simple.