Chapter 6 #3
She folded into the group with the easy grace of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere, listening with that focused attention she gave people that made them feel like the only person in the room.
The conversation meandered through safe territory—gallery exhibitions, public versus private funding, whether accessibility diluted artistic vision. Emmy contributed thoughtfully, asking questions that made the board members preen. Grant stayed quiet, tracking the rhythm like watching tape.
Then Dr. Ashford arrived.
She swept into the circle with a presence built from forty years of faculty meetings and the absolute conviction that she'd been right in every single one of them. Severe pearls. Posture that could cut glass. The board members straightened.
"Margaret," one of them said, relief evident.
"The commodification of art, yes, I heard." Dr. Ashford's gaze swept the circle, lingered on Grant, dismissed him. "Though I'm not sure we're qualified to discuss high culture when we're standing next to a monument to low entertainment."
She gestured vaguely toward the museum's sports photography exhibit across the atrium.
Thea's hand found his elbow.
"I think that's unfair," Emmy said. Pleasant. Professional. "High and low culture have always been in conversation. Shakespeare was popular entertainment."
"Shakespeare elevated popular forms through intellectual rigor." Dr. Ashford's smile could've frozen champagne. "There's a difference between accessible art and mere spectacle."
"Like sports?"
"Sports serve a purpose. Physical excellence has value. But let's not pretend it's intellectual."
Thea's fingers tightened on his arm. He expected her to jump in—to mention the concussion research they'd just discussed, the helmet sensors, the cognitive baseline testing. They'd been talking about it twenty minutes ago.
Instead, Thea gave a soft, diffusing laugh. "Well, we can't all be academics, Margaret." She patted Grant's arm—twice, like calming a dog. "Grant has his strengths. He's very... efficient at the physical side of things. We should probably leave the theory to you."
Grant's jaw locked.
Efficient at the physical side of things.
Like he was hired muscle.
He was done.
"That's not—" Emmy started.
But Dr. Ashford was already moving on, pleased to have been proven right. "Exactly. Athletic excellence and intellectual rigor are simply different skill sets—"
Emmy's champagne glass hit the nearby table with controlled violence.
"You're conflating strategy with instinct when they're fundamentally different cognitive processes.
" Each word measured, precise, furious. "Split-second decision-making under pressure requires pattern recognition and situational awareness that most people never develop.
It's not just physical. It's intellectual. "
The circle went quiet. Other conversations stalled, attention swinging.
Across from him, Sabine had materialized with Cecelia, both their faces carefully blank. Thea's hand was still on his arm, but Grant barely registered it.
He was looking at Emmy.
"No one's arguing they're the same." Emmy's voice sharpened, hands moving now. "I'm arguing that dismissing one as purely physical is intellectually lazy."
Cecelia's lips had gone thin. One of the board members took a careful step backward. Thea's hand dropped from Grant's arm.
"Reading a defense pre-snap. Adjusting a play call in under two seconds based on what eleven moving bodies are doing.
Processing all of that while three-hundred-pound men who lift cars for fun are sprinting toward you with clear intent—" Emmy's voice was rising, her hands carving the air, completely oblivious to the silence spreading around her.
"That requires high-level cognitive function.
That's not instinct. That's pattern recognition under pressure most people never develop because they've never had to. "
Where had she learned progression reads?
"The average NFL quarterback processes more information in three seconds than most people handle in three minutes.
Pre-snap reads. Post-snap adjustments." Emmy's breathing had quickened, voice gaining speed.
"Hot routes versus audibles. Understanding not just what the defense is doing but what they're trying to make you think they're doing. "
Grant went very still.
Hot routes versus audibles. She knew the difference. That wasn't ESPN highlight terminology—that was film study language.
"Zone versus man coverage. Recognizing the distinction in under two seconds while reading the safety's eyes and tracking the Mike linebacker.
" Emmy was locked on Dr. Ashford like they were the only two people in the room.
"Processing all of that and making the correct decision more often than not—that's what separates quarterbacks who succeed from ones who wash out. "
She'd been studying. Not skimming articles for cocktail party facts—actually studying. Learning the architecture of his job.
"That's why Grant Knight is at the top of his field." Emmy's face was flushed, eyes bright, breathing hard. "Because he can process all of that information and make the right call. That's not instinct. That's intelligence."
Someone laughed—surprised, genuine. The pun had landed.
Grant barely heard it. He was watching the way her chest rose and fell, how the flush had spread to the bare skin between her shoulder blades.
She'd defended him. After Thea had dismissed him—after his own date had patted his arm and told a room full of strangers to leave the thinking to the grown-ups—Emmy had gone to war.
Not for his profession or his sport. For him. Specifically him. Had researched his world so she could articulate exactly why they were wrong about the person standing in it.
And she wasn't looking at Thea. Wasn't checking if her sales pitch had worked. She was still locked on Dr. Ashford, breathing hard, that red dress catching light with each breath. Defending him like he was hers to defend.
"Well." Dr. Ashford's voice could've etched glass. "I believe you've made your point, Miss Woodhouse. Though perhaps with more passion than is appropriate for the venue."
Emmy's flush deepened. Her chin lifted. "I believe accuracy is always appropriate."
Cecelia stepped forward, smile sharp enough to cut. "Margaret, have you met our star client? Grant Knight, Dr. Margaret Ashford."
Grant found his voice. Extended his hand. "Dr. Ashford."
Her grip was firm. "Your matchmaker is quite... spirited in your defense."
"Emmy's one of the smartest people I know." The words came out steady, professional, while his pulse hammered against his collar. "If she says something's accurate, it probably is."
Emmy's attention snapped to him. Those eyes wide, flush still bright on her cheeks.
Thea stiffened beside him.
"If you'll excuse us," Grant continued, already turning toward Thea, "I think we should probably call it a night."
Thea's eyebrows rose. But she was too polished to make a scene. "Of course."
Grant nodded to the circle. Didn't look back at Emmy, though he tracked her in his peripheral vision the way he tracked pressure off the edge—automatically, involuntarily.
The way her hand reached for her abandoned champagne, then stopped.
How she was still breathing hard. The exact shade of pink spreading across her collarbone.
She'd studied football for him.
After his own date had dismissed him to his face.
He needed to end things with Thea.
And then he needed air.
Grant caught Thea's elbow before she could drift back into the atrium's warmth.
"Outside," he said. "Two minutes."
To her credit, she didn't argue. Just collected her coat from the check and followed him into the marble corridor where museum security pretended not to notice them.
"That was quite a scene." Thea slipped into her coat, the emerald silk settling around her shoulders. "Your matchmaker is very protective."
"She was right."
"Of course she was. I wasn't disagreeing with her." Thea turned, adjusting her collar—precise, controlled. "I was trying to defuse the situation. Dr. Ashford is a major donor. Emmy was making a scene."
Grant's hands stilled on his own coat. "She was defending me after you dismissed me."
"I didn't dismiss you." Genuine surprise. "Grant, I was being diplomatic. You know how these events work—you can't challenge a donor to their face."
"You told a room full of people to leave the thinking to the academics."
"I was joking—" But her mouth opened, then closed. She blinked once. "You're very good at what you do. I never suggested otherwise."
"Efficient at the physical side."
Thea reached for his arm. Grant stepped back—not far, just enough. The same distance he'd put between them outside the restaurant on their first date when she'd wanted to see his penthouse view.
She went still. Then studied his face the way she might study a text she'd misread.
"This isn't about Dr. Ashford," she said quietly. "Or even what I said."
"No."
"Then what?"
Beautiful, brilliant, comfortable in every room they'd entered tonight. But she'd wanted to see his penthouse, not his game tape. Had asked intelligent questions about concussion protocols over dinner, then thrown him to the academics when it counted.
"You're looking for someone who can navigate your world," Grant said. "That's fair. But I need someone who sees all of mine."
Thea's chin lifted. "I was trying to help you in there. Dr. Ashford is a major donor. You can't just—"
"I know how donors work."
"Do you?" Her chin came up higher—the look of someone revising their thesis in real time and not enjoying it. "I thought we were on the same page about how these things go."
"We're not."
A beat. Then Thea smiled—smaller, sharper. "Well. I suppose that's that."
"I'll make sure you get home—"
"I'm fine." She was already pulling out her phone. "My Uber's two minutes out."
She didn't touch his arm. Didn't offer wisdom or absolution. Just gave him one last assessing look—filing him away under not worth the complication—and walked toward the front steps.
Grant stood in the empty corridor. He should leave. Get his car. Go home. Film study, ice bath, pretend the last two hours hadn't happened.
Instead, he walked back inside.
The gala had thinned—donors in smaller clusters, servers clearing tables, the string quartet gone.
Emmy was on the terrace.
Alone, leaning against the stone balustrade, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. That red dress a blade of color against the night.
Grant pushed through the glass doors.
She turned. Surprise, relief, then carefully constructed professional distance—all in under three seconds. A magic trick. He'd watched her do it his entire life and still couldn't catch the mechanics.
"Grant." She straightened, unwrapping her arms. "I thought you'd left. I'm so sorry about—I shouldn't have made a scene. Cecelia's going to kill me."
"You weren't wrong."
"I was inappropriate. Dr. Ashford is a major donor. I just heard what Thea said and I—" She stopped. "Where is Thea?"
"Gone."
Emmy's eyes widened. "Gone? Grant, you didn't—because of what I said—"
"Because of what she said."
He crossed the terrace. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to see her pulse jump at her throat.
"I didn't know you followed football."
The shift caught her off-balance. "I don't. I mean—"
"Hot routes versus audibles. Progression reads. Pre-snap reads." Color climbed her neck. "That's not casual fan knowledge, Em."
Her chin lifted. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Grant Knight."
"Apparently."
He took another step. She was backed against the balustrade now. The October wind picked up, carrying exhaust from Huntington Avenue, car horns muffled by museum walls. Her perfume cut through it—the same thing from the tennis court, from her apartment. He was building an involuntary catalog.
"You studied."
"I might have done a little Googling.” She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the city lights, chin lifted, like this was perfectly normal. "A few articles. Some videos. Nothing excessive."
"A few articles."
"Maybe a documentary."
"Emmy."
"Fine. I watched a lot of game tape. It was educational." Now she looked at him—defiant, flushed, that stubborn set to her jaw he'd known since she was twelve and argued him into letting her play quarterback in the backyard. "It was important that I understand what's important to you."
The words hung in the cold October air.
Grant couldn't breathe.
"For matchmaking purposes," Emmy added.
Too late. Half a beat too late.
And they both knew it.
The wind gusted. Emmy shivered—one sharp jerk that traveled from her bare shoulders down to her fingertips.
Grant shrugged out of his jacket. Settled it around her shoulders.
The weight of it pulled her forward slightly. The sleeves pooled past her wrists. She tilted her chin up at him, and Grant's next breath came in wrong—too sharp, too shallow, caught somewhere it couldn't get past.
"For matchmaking purposes," he said. Rough. Like the words had scraped something on the way out.
Emmy nodded. Pulled his jacket tighter around herself. "Of course."
"Right."
Neither of them moved.
Close enough to count her heartbeats in the hollow of her throat. Close enough to see her pupils blow wide when he didn't step back.
Close enough to lean down and—
"There you are."
Tyce Duke filled the doorway, backlit by the atrium. Emmy turned so fast she nearly caught her heel on the terrace stone.
"I've been looking everywhere." Tyce stepped onto the terrace, his eyes tracking from Emmy to Grant, cataloging the jacket around her shoulders, the distance that wasn't distance at all. His smile sharpened. "Mind if I borrow her, Knight?"
He stepped forward, his hand landing heavy on the shoulder of Grant's jacket, right over Emmy's skin.
"Cecelia wants to introduce her to someone."
Grant looked at Emmy. She was already pulling off the jacket with shaking hands. Grateful for the exit.
"Keep it," Grant said. "You're freezing."
"I'm fine." She thrust the jacket at him. "Thank you for—for earlier. For what you said. About me being smart."
She stepped toward Tyce. The other man didn't move out of the doorway immediately. He held Grant's gaze for a beat too long, his hand closing over Emmy's bare elbow.
"Don't worry, Knight," Tyce said, his voice low. "I'll keep her warm."
He guided her back inside.
Grant stood on the empty terrace, his jacket still warm from her body.
The October wind hit the sweat on his neck and he almost laughed—at Tyce's timing, at his own, at the sheer absurdity of standing alone on a museum terrace holding a jacket that smelled like someone else's perfume while the city carried on below like the ground hadn't just shifted.
Emmy Woodhouse had stopped being West's little sister.