Chapter 11 #2
Cecelia's expression flickered—Loss? Calculation? Something Emmy couldn't quite read. She gestured for Beckanne to set the arrangement on the side table, then waited until the door closed again before speaking.
"Interesting." She glanced to the flowers, then Emmy's face. "He's still pursuing contact. That's something we can use."
Emmy thought about Tyce—the way he'd handed her that golf club, the barely concealed delight when she'd swung. He was like a little boy whose prank had been a hit with his classmates but gotten him in trouble with the teacher. The flowers weren't an apology. They were a consolation prize.
"He's not pursuing anything," Emmy said. "He's gloating."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps he genuinely wants to maintain a connection." Cecelia moved back to her desk, settling into her chair with the deliberate grace of someone who never made an unconsidered movement. "Either way, that interest has value. Don't waste it."
Emmy nodded because she didn't trust herself to speak.
"One more thing." Cecelia's voice stopped her at the door. Emmy turned, bracing for another blow.
"Don't confuse protecting a client with protecting yourself." Cecelia's gaze was steady, unblinking. "They're not always the same thing."
The coffee shop on the corner of Tremont was nearly empty at this hour—too late for the morning rush, too early for the lunch crowd. Emmy ordered a latte she didn't want and sat at the same high-top where she'd helped Harper delete her dating apps all those weeks ago.
Harper. Emmy had been so consumed with Grant and Tyce and her own career implosion that she'd let the Cole situation drift for weeks. Harper deserved better than a matchmaker who couldn't even follow through on her own pro bono project.
Her stomach felt like it was still in Cecelia's office, churning against the coffee she'd forced down.
Tyce's flowers were on her desk back at Elite Connections, clogging her tiny office with their aggressive tropical scent, and Grant's flowers sat on her actual kitchen counter, wilting, and she couldn't decide which image made her feel worse.
Keep him close. That interest has value.
Like she was supposed to cultivate Tyce Duke's attention. Like his public humiliation of her was an asset to be managed rather than an injury to be survived.
Harper
How'd it go with the ice queen?
Emmy
Still employed. Barely. Two weeks to prove I can deliver on both clients or I'm done. Also I have to ask Grant about his sexual preferences bc I left that page blank on his intake form
A pause. Then:
Harper
wait. you have to ask what?
Like if he likes role-play or butt stuff or something
can I come
Emmy
HARPER
Harper
no pun intended lol. also ew he's like really old. Still hot tho
Not for you obviously
Emmy
I'm going to die
I'm going to have to sit across from him and ask about handcuffs and I'm going to spontaneously combust.
Harper
ask him if he's a top or a bottom and report back
Emmy
Why did I pick you
Harper
because I'm the best. text me after, I need to know EVERYTHING
Emmy set her phone down and stared at the ceiling. First things first. Review Madeline. Meet with Grant. If she survived the embarrassment of asking him about his bedroom preferences, get him to agree to a date sometime during the next century.
One crisis at a time.
The door chimed and Emmy looked up into a familiar face—Cole Weston, Harper's theoretical perfect match.
His expression brightened when he spotted her, that open, genuine smile that had first made Emmy think he'd be great for someone who needed steadiness instead of chaos.
He made his way over, coffee already in hand.
"Emmy. I was hoping I'd run into you." He slid onto the stool across from her. "Can I ask you something? About Harper?"
Emmy's matchmaker instincts flickered to life, pushing aside the morning's humiliation. "Of course."
"I've been on the apps for months now. You learn to read the signs, you know?
When someone's just being polite." Cole shrugged, but there was genuine concern in his eyes.
"We've been texting, but she seems... distracted.
Short responses. Like she's not really there.
I like her. I want to get to know her better.
But I can't tell if I'm imagining things or if she's actually not interested. "
Emmy thought about Harper passing by Elite Connections "on her way to work"—six blocks out of her way—just to see Ryan. About the coffee Ryan had brought her on his day off. About the way Harper's whole face had lit up when she'd mentioned him, even while insisting Cole was the better choice.
"Can I ask you something honest?" Emmy said.
"Sure."
"When you talk to Harper, does it feel easy? Natural? Or does it feel like work?"
Cole considered this. "It feels like... potential. Like we could be great together if she'd just let me in." He grinned, self-deprecating. "Plus she's really hot. That doesn't hurt."
Potential. The word Harper kept chasing in all the wrong men. Except this time, Harper wasn't the one chasing it—Cole was.
"That's not the same thing," Emmy said gently. "All relationships take effort, don't get me wrong. But the connection itself shouldn't be something you have to work for. When it's right, you don't have to convince yourself it could be great. It just is."
Cole's expression went wry—no self-pity, no defensiveness, just honest acceptance. It reminded Emmy why she'd liked him for Harper in the first place. "You're saying she's not interested."
"I'm saying she might not be the right match for you. And you deserve someone who lights up when she sees your name on her phone, not someone who's just being polite." Emmy reached across the table and touched his arm briefly. "I'm sorry. I really thought you two might work."
"Yeah." Cole let out a long breath. "Me too." He finished his coffee, then stood, managing a rueful smile. "Hey—keep me in mind if you find someone who might be a better fit? I'm not giving up on the whole love thing just yet."
"I will," Emmy said.
He left. She added his name to the mental list of people she'd somehow let down this week. It was getting long.
A calendar reminder slid across her screen:
Madeline Talbott - coffee meeting, 2 PM.
Three hours. She had three hours to pull herself together.
Emmy relocated to a corner table, spread out her laptop and notes, and tried to focus.
She pulled up Tyce's profile first—the personality assessment she'd promised Cecelia she'd send him.
Enneagram. Attachment styles. Something to give them concrete data instead of his vague insistence that he wanted someone "real. "
She drafted the email quickly, keeping her tone brisk:
Thanks for the flowers. If you really want to make it up to me, fill out the attached assessment and get it back to me by end of day. —E
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
Next: Grant.
She opened their text thread. The last exchange stared back at her:
Emmy
Thank you for the flowers. You didn't have to.
Grant
Yeah, I did.
Three days ago. Friday. She'd been so wrapped up in the fallout—frustrated, defensive, humiliated—that she hadn't responded.
Hadn't known what to say. Part of her had wanted to apologize, to admit he'd been right about Tyce all along.
But a larger part of her had just wanted to see him.
To sit across from him and feel like herself again instead of the viral disaster everyone kept watching on loop.
And now she had to text him about sexual compatibility assessments. About whether he preferred—
Emmy groaned and closed the thread. Opened it again. Stared at the screen.
Hey, I need to go over some questionnaire stuff with you before your next date. Free this week?
Too casual. Like she was asking him to grab coffee, not interrogate him about his bedroom preferences.
Cecelia flagged some incomplete sections on your intake form. Can we schedule a call?
Too corporate. He'd know something was wrong.
She deleted both texts and typed quickly, before she could overthink it:
Emmy
Free this week?
She hit send, then immediately wanted to throw her phone into the harbor.
The response came twenty minutes later, while she was deep in Madeline Talbott's file:
Grant Knight
Thursday works. Your place or mine?
Emmy stared at the screen. Your place or mine. Like it was nothing. Like sitting across from him in a private setting was just another Tuesday.
She pictured him at her apartment. The cherry stems on the coaster. The way he'd sprawled on her couch eating pizza, taking up space, making the room feel smaller just by existing in it.
Emmy
Yours
7pm?
Immediately regretted it. His place was worse. He'd moved since West had been his roommate—she'd never even seen the new place. His place was uncharted territory, the private Grant that existed behind closed doors.
Grant Knight
I'll cook
Emmy
I'll bring dessert
She stared at the words. Too flirty? It sounded like a date. It wasn't a date. It was a professional meeting about sexual preferences, which was somehow worse.
She hit send anyway, then closed her phone in disgust.
Emmy pulled Madeline's file closer.
Focus. She had a job to do.
Madeline Talbott arrived exactly on time.
The woman who slid into the seat across from Emmy was polished without being glossy, attractive without being intimidating.
Simple cashmere sweater, dark jeans, small gold studs.
She had the kind of face that belonged on a J.Crew catalog—approachable, trustworthy, the woman you'd ask to watch your bag at the airport.
"Emmy Woodhouse?" Her handshake was firm. "Thanks for meeting with me. I have to say, I wasn't sure what to expect from this whole process."
"How do you mean?"
"I've done the apps. I've done the setups from well-meaning friends." Madeline shrugged, settling back in her chair. "This is my first time being professionally vetted. It's a little surreal."
Most of Emmy's candidates came in eager—performing their best selves, trying to impress. Madeline seemed genuinely unbothered by the stakes. Like this was just another meeting in a full calendar, not a potential gateway to Grant Knight.
They ordered. Madeline asked for chai tea, laughing that coffee made her "vibrate at frequencies only dogs can hear." Emmy found herself smiling despite the weight still pressing on her chest from the morning.
"Tell me about your work," Emmy said. "PR for nonprofits—that's a specific choice."
"It found me, honestly." Madeline wrapped her hands around her mug.
"I did corporate communications for years.
Good money, soul-crushing work. Then a friend asked me to help with a fundraiser for the animal shelter where she volunteered, and something clicked.
" She smiled, and it reached her eyes. "The pay is significantly worse, but I actually like who I see in the mirror now. "
Emmy found herself smiling back. There was something about Madeline's open posture, the wry humor, the way her eyes sparked when she talked about the work itself rather than the paycheck. No performance. Just a woman who'd figured out what mattered to her and arranged her life accordingly.
"What about you?" Madeline asked. "How did you end up in matchmaking?"
The question caught Emmy off guard. Most people she interviewed didn't turn the lens back on her.
"I've always been good at reading people," she started—the rehearsed answer, the one that fit neatly on a business card.
But something about Madeline's direct gaze made the words feel hollow.
"Honestly?" Emmy set down her coffee. "I'm still figuring that out.
I thought I knew—I thought it was about being useful, being good at something practical.
But lately..." She paused, surprised by her own honesty.
"I think it's more than that. Everyone's so specific, you know?
The particular way someone laughs, the thing that makes them feel seen, the exact shape of the loneliness they're trying to fill.
And when you can connect two people who fit those shapes for each other—" She shook her head.
"There's nothing else like it. It feels like the only thing I've ever done that actually matters. "
Madeline regarded her for a moment. "That's not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"Something about algorithms and compatibility metrics." Madeline's smile was wry. "You might not be able to articulate it yet, but it's obvious you're in this for the right reasons."
"I do." Emmy meant it. That was the thing she kept forgetting, buried under Cecelia's pressure and the viral video and the professional stakes. She actually cared.
They talked for another hour—about Madeline's sister, her rescue dog, the half-marathon she was training for. Madeline mentioned her divorce without bitterness, laughed at herself easily, asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers.
Emmy found herself genuinely liking her. Which made everything both better and worse.
This was the kind of woman Grant deserved. Someone with her own full life. Someone who wouldn't need him to perform or entertain or be anyone other than who he was.
"Can I ask you something?" Madeline said, as they were gathering their things. "About Grant?"
Emmy's stomach tightened. "Of course."
"Why is he doing this?" Madeline's expression was curious, not suspicious. "A man like him doesn't need a matchmaker."
"He's private," Emmy said—the rehearsed answer again, though it felt thinner now. "He doesn't trust the usual channels. He wants someone real, not someone who sees him as a headline."
Madeline nodded slowly. "And you've known him a long time? You said he's a family friend."
"Since I was a kid."
"That must be nice." Madeline's voice was soft. "Having someone who's seen all your versions."
Something in Emmy's chest twisted. "Though the joke's on him—the current version is turning out to be pretty buggy."
Madeline laughed. "Aren't we all."
"Well." Madeline stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'm interested. Send me the details whenever you're ready."
She left the way she'd arrived—unhurried, self-possessed, completely right for Grant in every way that mattered on paper.
Emmy sat alone at the corner table, her laptop still open, Madeline's file still glowing on the screen.
She'd done it. She'd found someone good. Someone real. Someone who could actually make Grant happy.
The framework had finally worked. Madeline Talbott was everything Emmy's system said Grant needed — the groundedness, the humor, the full life, the zero interest in performing. Emmy could see the compatibility the way she could see a finished puzzle. Every piece fit. The picture was complete.