Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harper arrived at Emmy's apartment at nine-thirty on Saturday morning carrying two coffees and enough energy to suggest she'd been awake since six.
"I know you said you were fine." Harper pushed past Emmy with the determination of a woman on a mission. "But you went radio silent at a museum gala where your star client was on a date, and for you, that's basically the bat signal. What happened?"
She'd been staring at herself in the mirror for twenty minutes trying to assemble a facial expression that didn't scream I am having a crisis.
It had not been going well.
"I was so busy all night I never even looked at my phone. Went straight to sleep when I got home."
"Uh-huh. That must be why you look so well-rested." Harper set the coffees on the kitchen island. October sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes. Everything felt strangely slow-motion.
"You went to a museum gala last night." Harper's voice was flat. "You texted me nothing. Not a single emoji. Not one 'OMG you'll never believe.' And now you have a tennis match against a Wimbledon quarterfinalist in—“ She checked her phone. "Two and a half hours. And you're 'fine.'"
Emmy reached for one of the coffees. Harper slid it toward her.
"Hazelnut latte. I remembered."
Emmy's throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Now spill." Harper hopped onto a barstool, pulling her legs up.
The oversized cardigan she wore—marigold, another grandmother creation—swallowed her whole, and her hair was piled in a chaotic bun held together by what appeared to be a chopstick.
"How was the gala? Did you schmooze? Did you network? Did you—” Her eyes narrowed. "Wait. How was Grant's date?"
Emmy's hand tightened on the cup.
"Fine. It was fine."
"Three 'fines' in under a minute." Harper leaned forward. "Something happened."
Emmy took a long drink.
"Grant ended things with Thea."
Harper's eyebrows shot up. "He did? Why? I thought you said she was perfect."
Emmy gave her the short version—Thea's dismissal, the donor who'd called athletes glorified gym rats, Emmy's very public defense. She left out the terrace. She left out the jacket.
"So you made a scene," Harper said when she finished.
"I made a point."
"At a museum gala. In front of your boss." Harper was grinning. "Emmy Woodhouse, chaos agent."
"It wasn't chaos. It was—“ Emmy stopped.
What was it? She'd heard Thea's voice, that patronizing little laugh, and something in her chest had cracked open.
Not anger exactly. Something worse. The feeling of watching someone she—someone she knew—be dismissed as less-than. "I couldn't just stand there."
"Because he's your client."
"Yes. And my friend."
Harper's face softened. She knew what it meant to have Emmy in your corner.
"God, I wish my brother's friends were like that," Harper said. "Mine all hang around high school parties trying to look cool. Grant's so—“ She made a vague gesture. "Big. Put-together. Like a real adult."
"He's thirty-two."
"Exactly. A grown-up. With a job and everything." Harper sighed. "So what happened next? Did Thea throw a drink in your face? Did you pull her hair?"
"What? No." Emmy shook her head. "Grant ended things with her."
"And?"
Emmy's mind flashed to the terrace. October cold biting through her bare back.
The weight of his jacket settling on her shoulders, warm from his body, smelling like something woodsy and expensive.
The way he'd looked at her—the warmth in his eyes, the slight curl at the corner of his mouth.
She'd felt it in her chest, a slow bloom of heat, and she hadn't wanted him to stop looking at her like that.
Then Tyce had appeared in the doorway, voice too loud, hand landing on her shoulder right over Grant's jacket, and she'd fled like the terrace was on fire.
"And nothing. That's it."
Harper shrugged. "If you say so."
"When's your match again?"
"Noon."
"Right." Harper slid off the barstool, heading toward the bathroom. "I'm doing your hair. And while I do that, you're going to tell me about my date prospects. Because someone promised to find me a non-crypto-bro and I've been very patiently waiting."
Emmy followed, grateful for the subject change. "I do have someone. Cole Weston. Physical therapist in Brookline, volunteers at the children's hospital on weekends."
"A physical therapist." Harper's eyes lit up. "So he's good with his hands?"
"Harper."
"What? It's a reasonable question!" She rummaged through Emmy's bathroom drawers, pulling out bobby pins and hair ties. "Tell me more. What does he look like?"
"Tall. Dark hair. Kind eyes." Emmy paused. "I gave him the 'describe yourself as a grocery store aisle' question and he said cereal—‘colorful, a little chaotic, but everyone's happy to see you in the morning.'"
"Cereal aisle." Harper considered this. "I could work with cereal aisle. Sit."
Emmy sat on the edge of the bathtub while Harper sectioned her damp hair.
"What about Ryan?"
The question caught Emmy off-guard. "Ryan?"
"Ryan Martinez. The doorman at your office." Harper's voice was carefully casual—too casual. "Have you, um. Seen him around lately?"
"Every day? He works there."
"Right. Obviously." Harper's fingers moved through Emmy's hair, twisting sections into something complicated. "Has he, you know. Mentioned me?"
Emmy frowned. "Why would he mention you?"
A beat of silence. Harper's hands stilled.
"No reason. Just wondering." Her voice was flat now. "He seems nice. That's all."
"He is nice." Emmy thought about Ryan's easy smile, the way he held the door for everyone, how he remembered names. "I just don't want you falling into old patterns, you know? Putting all your energy into someone before you know if they're serious about you."
"Cole seems serious."
"Exactly." Emmy relaxed, warming to the topic. "Cole filled out a twelve-page questionnaire. He's actively looking for something real. That's the kind of man you should be dating. Someone who's ready."
Harper's hands paused in Emmy's hair. "Can I ask you something? About your job?"
"Sure."
"Are staff ever allowed to... you know. Date clients?"
Emmy's stomach tightened. "God, no. That's like—it's like a doctor dating their patient. Massive ethical violation. Elite Connections has a zero tolerance policy. Immediate termination, career over, reputation destroyed." She shook her head. "Why?"
"No reason." Harper's fingers resumed their work, but something in the air had shifted.
"Your hair is done." Harper stepped back, admiring her work. "Nothing short of a hurricane is going to budge this ponytail. Are you sure you don't want pigtail braids? They're more functional. Plus, studies show braids make men think thoughts."
"What kind of thoughts?"
"Thoughts, Emmy. Thoughts." Harper waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Of the naked variety."
"I'm playing tennis against a potential client, not auditioning for a shampoo commercial."
"Just saying. Options exist."
"You know, I really didn't peg you for the functional sneaker type," Harper gestured to the shoes sitting by Emmy's duffel bag. "Those look serious. Like they have traction."
"Grant made me get them," Emmy muttered. "He said my platforms were a liability."
Harper's eyebrows rose. "He bought you shoes? Interest-ing."
"Thank you." Emmy turned to face her, ignoring the implication. "For this. For the coffee. For—”
"Go survive your tennis massacre." Harper's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "I mean match. Text me after—if you're still alive."
The Commonwealth Club loomed through Emmy's windshield like a final exam.
Georgian columns. Immaculate hedges. A line of luxury cars waiting for valets in matching polo shirts. The parking lot alone looked like it had been landscaped by someone who was an ace with a protractor.
Emmy pulled in behind an Audi and parked her Civic in the visitor section like a good little commoner.
The membership office had emailed her a guest pass that morning, along with instructions to park in the "visitor section”—a subtle banishment from the main lot—and check in at the front desk. She'd read the email three times, looking for hidden tests.
This was Tyce Duke's world. The world she needed to crack if she was going to build Elite Connections' athlete division. The world where people summered as a verb and probably didn't think twice about dropping a thousand dollars on tennis lessons.
Emmy locked her car and walked toward the clubhouse. The replacement tennis dress had arrived at her apartment without a word from Grant, gift-wrapped and perfectly sized, but when it came time to change she'd impulsively reached for workout leggings and a tank top instead.
She was here. She'd gotten a meeting with a Wimbledon quarterfinalist. An NFL All-Pro quarterback had helped her make sure she could hit a ball over the net. She could walk into a country club.
The front desk woman—Clancy, according to her name tag—was polished and professional.
"Emmy Woodhouse? Mr. Duke is expecting you. Court Three." Clancy handed over a laminated pass. "Through the main hall, out the back doors, turn left."
Thick carpets, thicker endowments. The main hall practically whispered. Emmy walked through it like she belonged there.
Court Three was tucked behind a magnificent oak, its leaves just starting to turn gold. Not a single one had been allowed to touch the ground—the groundskeeping staff here probably worked in shifts.
And there, on the far baseline, was Tyce Duke.
He was already warming up, feeding balls from a basket with the lazy efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times. Each swing was fluid, economical, and humiliating by comparison.
Tyce looked up as she approached. "Emmy Woodhouse." He grinned, setting down his racquet to walk toward the net. "You made it."
"You seem surprised."
"Not surprised. Impressed." He looked her up and down—assessing. "I thought you were beautiful in that red dress last night, but this Emmy is even better."