Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Emmy was trying to read, but the words had declared mutiny somewhere around page forty-seven.
Except the exhale wouldn't come. She'd been sitting here for forty minutes, and her body didn't know what to do with the absence of a task.
Her left knee bounced. She'd caught herself checking her phone eleven times—not for anything specific, just for input, the way someone starving opens the fridge knowing it's empty.
The book was supposed to help. The wine was supposed to help.
She'd arranged this entire evening like a set piece—candle, cherries, cashmere—because she'd read somewhere that successful women enjoyed their own company, and Emmy was going to enjoy her own company if it killed her.
It might, actually. She'd spent the last forty-eight hours emailing revised questionnaires, analyzing response times, and flagging two new potential matches for Grant.
Her entire life, at this specific moment, was other people's love lives.
She hadn't even had time to buy groceries.
Dinner was a bowl of Bing cherries and a Pinot that deserved better company.
But internally, the calm was a lie.
The date had started at seven. Silence at 10:15 meant Grant was either having the time of his life, or he was currently drafting a lawsuit against Elite Connections.
"It's fine," she told the empty room, taking a sip of wine. "They're hitting it off. Juliana is fascinating. Grant appreciates efficiency. They're probably discussing the architectural integrity of the Zakim Bridge."
She refused to be the anxious matchmaker pacing the floor. She was a professional. She had standards.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound cracked through her carefully staged calm like a rock through plate glass. Heavy, rhythmic, authoritative.
Emmy set her wine glass down on a coaster—carefully—and went to the door. She checked the peephole, though she already knew who it was.
Grant.
She unlocked the door and swung it open.
Grant stood in the hallway, looking like he'd been through a war.
His blazer was slung over one shoulder like it had personally offended him.
His tie hung loose, a casualty of whatever battle he'd just survived.
His hair looked like it had been raked by hands that were having a very bad night.
Without the baseball cap, without the soft cotton of a Saturday afternoon, he looked like a man wearing a costume he'd already half-shed.
He looked exhausted. Frustrated. And—her brain supplied this unbidden, without permission, completely unhelpfully—deliciously rumpled. Like a GQ spread about the morning after.
But the most jarring detail was the large, grease-stained box from Sal's Pizza in his left hand.
"You," Grant said, his voice rough, "owe me."
Emmy stepped back to let him in, her eyebrows lifting. "That bad?"
"She sent the salmon back, Em." Grant walked past her, bringing the scent of cold night air, expensive cologne, and pepperoni into her sanctuary. "Twice."
Emmy closed the door and turned, crossing her arms over the silk of her top. "Was it undercooked?"
"It was 'improperly sourced.'" Grant walked straight to her kitchen island—which was spotless, thank God—and dropped the pizza box.
He tossed his blazer over the back of a barstool.
"She called the chef out to the table. Literally asked for the chef.
She asked for documentation. The man was holding a spatula and she demanded his fish papers. "
Emmy winced. "Okay. That's... intense."
Grant flipped the pizza box open. He looked at the pizza like it was a holy relic. "I didn't eat. I couldn't. I felt like if I chewed too loudly she'd deduct points from my performance review."
"So you went to Sal's."
"I needed grease. I needed carbs. I needed to sit somewhere a woman wasn't auditing me."
Grant grabbed a slice, and Emmy slid a ceramic plate in front of him. He looked at the plate. Looked at her. Looked at the pizza slice, dripping slightly.
"We aren't animals," she said.
"I've had a very long night, Em."
"And you'll have it on a plate like a person who was raised with manners."
He dropped the slice onto the ceramic, sighing like she'd won a war he hadn't realized he was fighting. He chewed, closed his eyes, and groaned—low, guttural, vibrating through the counter and into the soles of Emmy's bare feet.
She was already moving before the sound fully landed. Sparkling water. Pre-cut lemon from the fridge. Glass set down next to him with the efficiency of muscle memory.
She watched him eat, noting the tightness around his eyes. He was in the middle of the season, burning the candle at both ends to accommodate her matchmaking scheme, and the guilt arrived before she could brace for it.
"So, no chemistry?" she asked softly.
"Negative chemistry. I've felt more comfortable at my end-of-season contract negotiations." Grant opened his eyes.
The frantic energy of his arrival drained out like a tide. The silence of the apartment settled around them—soft jazz playing low on her speaker, the scent of the amber candle, the warm glow of the lamps.
Grant took a drink of the water. He didn't turn back to the pizza immediately.
Instead, his gaze traveled over her, then to the candle flickering on the coffee table, then to the half-empty glass of wine, then to the neatly folded stack of tiny clothes on the kitchen counter—a dinosaur onesie on top, clearly not hers.
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked, a subtle edge to his voice. "Candlelight. Wine. Looks... private."
Emmy laughed, shaking her head. "Just me. Thought I'd earned one night of silence."
Grant's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Smart. You look nice. Relaxed."
Something warm crept up the back of Emmy's neck. She fought the urge to smooth the fabric of her pants. "I try. Are you going to eat that standing up, or are you going to sit down?"
"Sitting. Definitely sitting."
He grabbed his plate and water, moving into her living room like he owned it. He sank onto her velvet sofa—the one that was definitively too small for his six-four frame—and patted the cushion next to him.
"Come here," he said. "I bought the one with the basil because I know you like it."
Nine words. Tossed out like nothing, like knowing her pizza order wasn't even worth mentioning.
Nathan never learned her pizza order. Eleven months, and he'd still ask "pepperoni or sausage?" every single time. She'd told herself it didn't matter.
She picked up her wine glass and the bowl of cherries, joining him on the sofa. She tucked her legs under her as she sat, maintaining a polite distance.
"Juliana is a catch on paper," Emmy defended gently, though her heart wasn't in it. "She's successful. She's disciplined."
"Em, she schedules her bathroom breaks. I saw it in the profile."
"That shows excellent time management—"
"It shows she'd pencil me in between 'optimize circadian rhythm' and 'alphabetize spice rack.'" He rolled his head to look at her. "She'd never have pizza with me at 11 PM. She'd calculate the glycemic impact and suggest we reschedule for a more metabolically appropriate window."
"So you want someone flexible," Emmy said, trying to turn this into data. Into a profile note. "Someone adaptable."
"Maybe." Grant's head dropped back against the sofa. "I just know I don't want to explain my caloric intake to a date."
Emmy reached for the bowl on the coffee table. She picked up a cherry by its long stem, bringing it to her lips. She bit down, and there was a soft, visceral pop as the fruit pulled free.
Grant stopped talking. He watched her work the pit to the side of her cheek, then let out a long, suffering sigh.
"Really?" he asked, giving her a flat look. "We're doing this?"
Emmy paused, the bare stem still between her fingers. "Doing what?"
"The cherry stem thing. It reminds me of high school. Girls trying to prove they were..." He waved a hand, looking annoyed by the memory. "Good kissers. It was a stupid party trick then, and it's a stupid party trick now."
Emmy smiled. "You're just grumpy because you can't bring it up and expect me not to try it when I have a bowl of them right here."
She popped the stem into her mouth.
Grant rolled his eyes, picking up his water glass. "Riveting content, Em."
Emmy ignored him. She worked the stem, feeling the familiar twist and tuck. It took a little longer than she remembered. She had to use her teeth a bit, but finally, she felt it catch.
She pulled the stem out. It was a knot, technically. A bit loose, lopsided, more of a loop than a tight fastening, but it held.
"Still got it," she announced, dropping the wonky stem onto the coaster. "Your turn."
Grant stared at the sad little loop on the coaster. "That is a slipknot at best."
"It's a knot! It holds!" Emmy picked up the bowl and held it out to him, rattling the cherries slightly. "Put your money where your mouth is, Knight. Or are you afraid you can't keep up?"
Grant looked at the bowl, then up at her face. He shook his head slowly, jaw set, eyes heavenward.
"Give me the damn bowl."
He reached in and plucked a cherry like the outcome was already decided. He didn't delicately bite the fruit like she had. He popped the whole thing—fruit, pit, stem, and apparent superiority complex—into his mouth.
He leaned back against the sofa, looking bored. His jaw worked once, twice. He spit the clean pit into his cupped palm and discarded it on his plate.
Two seconds later, he pulled the stem from between his lips and flicked it onto the table next to hers.
Emmy stared.
Her knot looked like it had been tied by someone having a medical emergency. His was textbook. It wasn't just a knot. It was a surgical, impossibly tight coil.
"Brat," he muttered, reaching for his pizza.
"That's not fair," she said. "That's not even the same skill. That's—that's showing off."
Grant's mouth twitched. "Adaptable," he corrected, and went back to his pizza like the matter was settled.