Chapter 3 #2
Elite Connections was a minefield of curated people who looked at her like she was an experiment they were running on how long confidence could survive without evidence.
Beckanne with her winged eyeliner and her silent judgment.
Sabine with her closed office door and her four matches per quarter.
Cecelia materializing like a ghost to remind Emmy that names didn't keep you employed.
Everyone at Elite Connections was watching her fumble.
Grant had watched her fumble for twenty years. He'd seen her fall off bikes and flunk math tests and cry over the three-legged cat. He knew she was terrible at sports and worse with directions and once got so lost in the North End she called West in tears from a cannoli shop.
He'd also seen her win.
He knew she was good at this. He didn't need her to prove it.
That was the comfort. Even when she was vibrating and hangry and three minutes late instead of ten minutes early.
"Fine," she said, smoothing her skirt one more time. "But I'm expensing this.”
"Expense away." He finally looked at her, leaning back with that infuriatingly relaxed older-brother smirk. "Now tell me why you look like you're about to rob a bank."
"I am not vibrating. I am focused." Emmy pulled the dossier out of her bag and slid it across the table.
"This is her. Juliana Deliberto. Thirty-one.
Director of the Newbury Street Contemporary Art Gallery.
She's brilliant, accomplished, beautiful, and she just qualified for Boston with a three twenty-four marathon time. "
The pitch came out smooth, the way it always did when she'd done the work.
She could sell Juliana to anyone. The problem was, she wasn't selling Juliana to anyone.
She was selling her to Grant, and somewhere between the marathon time and the gallery credentials, the confidence had sprung a leak she couldn't locate.
Grant flipped a page, one eyebrow hitching up. "She tracks her sleep cycles?"
"It shows she prioritizes recovery," Emmy said, trying to keep her voice even. "Look at the logistics, Grant. She's busy. You're busy. She's not looking for someone to entertain her. She schedules her downtime. She understands the grind."
Grant looked up, amusement dancing in his eyes. "She schedules her downtime? What does that look like? '7:00 to 7:15 PM: Experience joy'?"
"It means she's efficient."
Grant dropped the folder to the table and leaned forward. His voice went low. Direct.
"Em. Be real with me. If she schedules her sleep cycles and her protein intake... does she schedule the rest of it?"
Emmy blinked. "The rest of what?"
"Sex." Grant held her gaze, unblinking. "Is there a Calendar invite for that? Do I get a push notification fifteen minutes before?"
Emmy felt the heat climb instantly up her neck, settling bright and hot in her cheeks. She grabbed her water glass, desperate for something to do with her hands.
"Look at it like... intentional connection," she stammered, hating that she sounded like a pamphlet. "Better to be open and intentional about it than to let life get in the way and go without. Right?"
Grant went still. He tilted his head, studying her flushed face with a look that made the air in the booth feel very thin.
"Sweetheart," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. "No woman of mine is going to go without. In any regard."
Emmy choked on her water.
Grant watched her cough, grin spreading slow and devastating. "You're turning pink. I didn't know the professional matchmaker could still blush."
"I am not blushing," she wheezed, slamming the glass down. "I am assessing compatibility."
"Sure you are." Grant gave her a grin that probably made sideline reporters forget their own names. "Totally professional. That's why you're still pink."
"I'm flushed from walking fast," Emmy snapped, though her voice came out higher than intended.
"Right." Grant took a long drink of water, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "So this scheduled sex thing—is that a dealbreaker for me, or are you thinking I need the structure?"
Emmy straightened in the booth, chin up. "It's not a dealbreaker. And you don't need structure. You need someone who respects your time."
"Uh-huh." Grant didn't look convinced, but he picked up the folder again.
He flipped another page. "Gallery director. Does that mean I have to pretend to understand art?"
"No. It means you have to listen while she talks about art. You're good at listening."
"I'm good at listening to coaches, to my teammates.” He rubbed his jaw. "I'm bad at art. You remember when I took you to the MFA? Your parents had that conference, West was supposed to take you but he got detention, so I drew the short straw."
"I was nine," Emmy said, wishing she could erase that memory. "And I wanted to see the mummies."
"You spent twenty minutes interrogating a blank white canvas about why the painter had given up on it. And then you asked a security guard—very seriously, with genuine concern—if anyone had thought to offer the nude statues sweaters."
"I was a compassionate kid!”
"You tried to drape your jacket over a marble torso. I had to physically remove you from the Greek wing, then buy you three cannolis in the North End to get you to stop asking about their 'surprising anatomy.'"
Emmy couldn't help the smile that broke through. "They were very good cannolis."
"Best in the city." Grant pointed a fry at her. "Point is, I'm uncultured swine, Em. Juliana the Gallery Director is going to eat me alive."
"She won't," Emmy said softly. "She'll like that you're real. That you don't pretend to be something you're not."
Grant looked at her for a long moment. His eyes had gone quiet—not amused, not resistant, something she couldn't catalog. Then he closed the folder.
"Seven o'clock. Mamma Maria in the North End. Private table in the back. I've already cleared it with the owner."
She waited for the pushback. She'd prepared a three-point rebuttal for why he shouldn't cancel, mentally rehearsed counter-arguments for his schedule, the location, Juliana's intensity.
"Okay," Grant said.
Emmy's hand stalled on her water glass. "Okay?"
"Sure. I've got a light practice that day."
Emmy frowned. This was too easy. Grant Knight didn't just agree to things. He asked questions. He strategized. "You don't seem... excited."
"I am," Grant said, his face a perfect mask of polite interest. "Just ready to get it done."
Emmy's eyes narrowed. She knew him well enough to hear what he wasn't saying. "You'll change your mind when you meet her."
"I'm sure," Grant said smoothly.
"Grant, you have to actually try," she started. "If you go into this thinking it's a chore—"
Dad
The wind has shifted, Emmy. It is coming off the harbor now. Very damp.
I hope you aren't walking outside. That is how one catches a chill that settles in the chest.
Emmy smiled, a reflex honed by twenty-five years of managing John Woodhouse's micro-anxieties. She typed back immediately, her tone gentle.
Emmy
I'm indoors, Dad. Far away from the harbor drafts.
Dad
Good. Make sure you aren't sitting near the door. Every time it opens, it's a risk.
Emmy
I'm in a very safe, warm booth. How about a nice cup of tea?
Dad
It's too hot. I'm waiting for it to reach room temperature.
Emmy set the phone face down on the table, offering Grant an apologetic smile.
"Sorry. You know how Dad is about barometric pressure changes."
"I do," Grant said, a flicker of warmth softening his expression. "How are they doing?"
"He's bored. Mom has retreated into her study again—she's working on another book proposal that connects Edward de Vere to the lost library of Alexandria."
Grant snorted, picking up a fry. "Of course she is. And let me guess—John is convinced the dust from her old manuscripts is compromising the air quality?"
"It is a 'respiratory hazard of the highest order,'" Emmy quoted, laughing. "I'm heading over there Sunday to mediate the—"
"Holy shit."
A shadow fell over the table. Emmy looked up to find a guy in his thirties, wearing a Patagonia vest and holding a beer. His ruddy cheeks suggested it wasn't his first, and his eyes were wide with excitement. Beer at 2 PM, impressive.
"You're Grant Knight."
Grant didn't flinch. He didn't sigh. In the space of a nanosecond, he shifted—shoulders opened, chin lifted, and a warm, gracious smile appeared on his face. Like a suit he kept in the car.
"Guilty," Grant said, extending a hand.
"Man, that fourth-quarter comeback last week? Insane," the guy gushed, shaking Grant's hand a little too hard. "That throw to Davis on the sideline? How did you even see him?"
"Davis ran a great route," Grant said smoothly. "I just put it where he could get it. Appreciate the support, man."
"Can I get a quick pic? My dad won't believe this."
"Sure." Grant leaned in, smiled for the selfie, signed a napkin the guy produced from his pocket, and gave a final nod. "Take it easy."
The fan walked away, looking like he'd just met the Pope.
Grant's posture relaxed back into the slouch. He picked up his water glass. "Sorry. Where were we?"
Emmy had watched the entire exchange the way she'd watch a first date from across the restaurant—noting every micro-shift.
The suit went on. The suit came off. Seamless.
Patient, generous with his time—but the Grant who'd just signed that napkin and the Grant now stealing fries off her plate were not the same frequency.
"We were talking about Juliana," Emmy said.
"And that right there is why I think she could be good for you.
Not because she can handle the spotlight—though she can.
But because she won't need you to perform for her.
She has her own life, her own success. She'd get that you need space to just.. . be Grant."