Chapter 12 #2
"Uh-huh." Grant's expression said he didn't believe her for a second. "We'll come back to that."
"We will not—"
"Next question."
Emmy huffed but looked at the paper. "Do you prefer to initiate or be pursued?"
"Both." Grant stretched his arm along the back of the couch, casual, but his eyes never left hers. "I like knowing someone wants me enough to show it. I like showing them the same." He paused. "But there are few things hotter than a woman who goes after what she wants."
Emmy wrote something on the questionnaire. She had no idea what. Her handwriting was probably illegible.
"Your turn."
"I don't—" She shook her head. "I've never really thought about it."
"Liar."
"Fine." The word came out sharper than she intended. "Pursued. At first. Until I trust them. Then... both."
Grant nodded slowly. His eyes held hers a beat longer than the question required, and Emmy's face burned.
"How do you communicate about intimacy?" She read the next question fast, trying to regain professional footing on a floor that kept tilting. "Direct conversation? Nonverbal cues?"
"Direct. Always." Grant's voice was firm. "Guessing games are exhausting. But it's also nice to be known well enough that not everything needs to be spelled out."
"Agreed," Emmy said, and their eyes met, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
She cleared her throat. "Physical affection outside the bedroom. PDA comfort level."
"In public? Minimal." Grant shrugged. "That's private. If nobody knew who I was, it would be a lot harder to keep my hands to myself. But I've learned to be careful."
The image arrived uninvited—Grant's hands, the size of them, the controlled strength she'd felt when he'd corrected her grip during the tennis lesson. His chest against her back. His voice low in her ear.
She stared at the questionnaire so hard the words swam.
"Okay. Next." Wrong register. Too bright. She pushed through it. "On a scale of traditional to adventurous, how would you describe your preferences?"
Emmy smoothed the blanket over her knees. A habit. Not a tell.
"Define adventurous."
"I don't—that's not—" Emmy gestured vaguely with the pen. "It's a spectrum. Traditional being, you know, standard. Adventurous being more... experimental."
"Experimental how?"
He was doing this on purpose. She could see it in the slight curve of his mouth, the way he was watching her squirm like it was the best entertainment he'd had all week.
"Like—" Emmy's face was on fire. "Incorporating things. Toys. Role play. Voyeurism. Multiple partners. I don't know, Grant, use your imagination."
"I'd say I'm open." His voice had dropped lower.
"With the right person. Someone I trust completely.
I'm not interested in performance or checking boxes.
But if something makes her feel good?" He held her gaze.
"I want to know about it." He paused. "But no sharing.
Any woman of mine is mine alone, and I expect the same from her. "
Emmy wrote:
OPEN
TRUST
MONOGAMOUS
…in handwriting that looked like she'd had a stroke.
"Your turn."
"I'm not answering that."
"Reciprocity, Em."
"Fine. Traditional. Mostly." She stared at the paper. "I don't know. I've never been with someone who made me want to... explore."
The silence that followed had weight.
Emmy refused to look at him.
"Next question," Grant said, and his voice was rougher than before.
Emmy looked at the questionnaire. The next question made her want to throw the whole thing into the fireplace.
"What—" She cleared her throat. "What's your most common fantasy? The one you find yourself returning to."
"Pass."
"You can't pass. You made me answer the last one."
"Fine." Grant was quiet for a long moment.
When he spoke, he wasn't looking at her anymore—he was looking at the darkening windows, and his voice had dropped into something raw and unprotected.
"Someone who knows me. All of it—the good parts, the broken parts, the parts I don't show anyone.
Someone who's seen me at my worst and still wants me.
Not the jersey. Not the name. Me." He turned back to her.
"That's the fantasy. Being wanted for who I actually am. "
Emmy couldn't breathe.
"Your turn," Grant said quietly.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"Someone who already knows." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Someone I don't have to explain myself to. Who knows what I need before I have to ask." She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. "Someone I don't have to pretend with."
The brownstone was very quiet. Just the distant sound of traffic on Commonwealth Ave, the tick of a clock somewhere in another room.
"Been faking a lot of orgasms, have you?"
Emmy's head snapped up. Grant's expression was unreadable—somewhere between teasing and something darker, something that made her stomach flip.
She snapped the notebook closed and stood on wobbly legs.
"I should go. Early morning. You have practice."
"Em—"
"Thank you for dinner. And for being honest." She was already pulling out her phone, scrolling to her calendar, grateful for something to do with her hands. "You marked tomorrow night as available, five to seven. I have a date for you."
Grant's expression shifted. Closed off, just slightly. "Okay."
"Madeline Talbott. She runs her own PR firm, works with nonprofits. She's smart, warm, has her own life." Emmy kept her voice brisk. The professional register came back like muscle memory, and she clung to it. "I vetted her myself. She's good, Grant. Really good."
"Where?"
"Oleana. Eight o'clock. I'll send you the details."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
Emmy shoved her phone back in her bag. "I'll have the questionnaire processed by tomorrow. Cecelia will be thrilled."
Grant followed her to the door. They stood in his entryway, close enough that she could smell him—woodsy cologne and something clean underneath, soap or laundry detergent or just him—and Emmy's whole body was humming with something she refused to name.
Madeline Talbott's profile sat in her bag, next to the questionnaire with Emmy's handwriting going sideways across the page.
"I should go," she said again.
"Yeah," Grant said. He didn't move.
Neither did she.
"Goodnight, Grant."
"Night, Em."
She left. Not because of anything he did—because of what she felt. Because staying felt dangerous in a way she couldn't afford to examine.
The walk to her car felt like a mile. The quiet street, the gas lamps flickering, the weight of everything they'd said pressing against her ribs.
Her fingers were shaking on the steering wheel the whole drive home.
Emmy was on her second cup of coffee and elbow-deep in the Elite Connections database, scrolling through profiles she'd already rejected twice, when a number she'd saved just last week lit up her screen.
Madeline Talbott
Hi Emmy. Do you have a few minutes to talk? I wanted to give you feedback on last night before I submit the official form.
Emmy's stomach tightened. Feedback before the form meant something had gone sideways—or Madeline wanted to say something she couldn't put in writing.
Emmy
Of course. I can call you now if that works?
Madeline Talbot
Perfect.
Emmy took a breath and dialed.
Madeline picked up on the second ring. "Emmy. Thanks for calling."
"Of course." Emmy kept her voice professional, pleasant. "How was dinner?"
"The restaurant was wonderful. And Grant was..." Madeline paused, and Emmy heard her choosing her words with the care of someone who writes press releases for a living. "He was lovely. Genuinely. Kind, attentive, easy to talk to. I can see why you think so highly of him."
The but hung in the air like smoke.
"But?" Emmy prompted.
"But I don't think I'm what he's looking for." Madeline's voice was gentle, matter-of-fact. "And I don't mean that as a criticism of him or of you. He was a perfect gentleman. But I've been on enough dates to know when someone's heart isn't in it."
Emmy's grip tightened on her coffee mug. "What do you mean?"
"He was present. Engaged. Asked good questions, remembered details from my profile—he even asked about my sister's gallery opening, which I'd only mentioned once during our vetting call.
" Madeline laughed softly. "Someone prepped him well.
But there was this... distance. Like part of him was somewhere else the whole night. "
Somewhere else.
"I'm sorry," Emmy said, and meant it. "I really thought you two would be a good match."
"On paper, we probably are." Madeline's tone held no bitterness. "But paper doesn't account for whatever's already taking up space in someone's heart. And something is, Emmy. I'd bet money on it."
The line went quiet. Emmy pressed the phone harder against her ear, as if the problem were reception.
"Anyway," Madeline continued, "I wanted to tell you directly rather than just submitting a form. You were so thoughtful during our coffee meeting—I figured you'd want the real feedback, not the sanitized version."
"I appreciate that." Steadier than she felt. She'd take it. "I'm sorry it didn't work out."
"Don't be. He's a good man. He'll make someone very happy." A pause. "I hope he finds her."
Her. Like there was a specific person Madeline had glimpsed in the spaces between Grant's polite attention.
"Thank you, Madeline. Really."
"Of course. Good luck, Emmy."
The call ended. Emmy sat at her kitchen counter, phone in hand, staring at nothing.
Three dates. Three misses. She tried to console herself with statistics—the average person went on dozens of first dates before finding a long-term partner. Three was nothing. Three was barely getting started.
But those people weren't working on a deadline set by a despot of a woman who could end Emmy's career with a single phone call.
She should be worried. Cecelia's voice echoed in her head: Grant Knight is your only asset right now. Deliver.