Chapter 12 #3
But underneath the professional anxiety, underneath the pressure and the stakes and the growing certainty that she was failing—
Relief.
Sudden and sharp and completely inappropriate. Relief that Madeline had ended it herself. Relief that Emmy wouldn't have to watch Grant fall for someone who wasn't—
She cut the thought off before it could finish.
Harper
brunch? I have THINGS to tell you
Emmy
yes please. where?
Harper
that place on newbury with the bottomless mimosas. I need alcohol and carbs
Emmy
give me an hour
The restaurant was packed with the usual Saturday wreckage—hungover college students, couples on lazy dates, groups of women in oversized sunglasses nursing regret and orange juice. Harper had snagged a corner booth and was already halfway through her first mimosa when Emmy slid in across from her.
"You look terrible," Harper said cheerfully.
"Thank you. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"I mean it with love." Harper pushed the bread basket toward her. "Your under-eye concealer is doing heroic work."
Emmy grabbed a croissant and tore into it. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the first bite hit her stomach.
"So," Harper said, watching her eat. "How was the sex questionnaire thing?"
Emmy choked on croissant. Grabbed her water, coughing.
"That good, huh?" Harper grinned. "Did he answer all the questions? Did you learn anything scandalous? Is he secretly into, like, feet or something?"
"I'm not discussing my client's sexual preferences with you."
"That means yes. He's into something weird." Harper leaned forward, delighted. "What is it? Role play? Bondage? Does he want to be called Daddy?"
"Harper."
"Fine, fine." Harper sat back, but her eyes were still sparkling. "Keep your professional secrets. I'll just imagine the worst."
The server appeared, and Emmy ordered her own mimosa and eggs benedict. When they were alone again, Harper's expression shifted—still bright, but with something nervous underneath.
"So," Harper said. "I have news."
"You said. What's the news?"
Harper took a long sip of her mimosa. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"Ryan asked me out."
Emmy blinked. "Ryan. The doorman?"
"Ryan the doorman, yes." Harper's cheeks were flushed. "He came by the bistro again yesterday. Brought me a latte—he remembered my order from weeks ago, Emmy, the exact order—and asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime."
"And you said...?"
"I said yes!" Harper's face split into a grin, a little squeal escaping. "Emmy, I said yes."
The words hung in the air between them. Emmy's stomach dropped—a quick, stupid lurch, like missing a step on stairs she'd walked a thousand times.
She knew, logically, that Cole had already told her Harper wasn't interested.
That he'd read the signs, accepted the reality, moved on with grace.
But somehow Emmy had still been holding out hope that Harper would come around—that she'd see what Emmy saw, that the compatibility metrics and the sheer logic of it would eventually click into place.
"What about Cole?" The question came out before she could stop it.
Harper's grin faltered. "What about him?"
"Cole Weston. The physical therapist I've been setting you up with. The one who filled out a twelve-page questionnaire and volunteers at children's hospitals and is actively looking for a serious relationship." Emmy heard the edge in her own voice but couldn't quite soften it. "That Cole."
"I know who Cole is."
"Then why are you going out with Ryan?"
Harper's jaw tightened. "Because Ryan asked. Because I like him. Because when he looks at me, I feel like—" She stopped, shook her head. "Why does this feel like an interrogation?"
"It's not an interrogation. I'm just—" Emmy took a breath, tried to modulate. "I'm trying to understand. You've been texting with Cole for weeks. I thought things were going well."
"Things were fine. Cole is fine." Harper's voice was flat now, and the flatness was worse than anger. "He's nice and he's stable and he checks all the boxes. But Emmy, I don't want to check boxes. I want to feel something."
"And you feel something with Ryan."
"Yes." Harper met her eyes, defiant. "I do. I know you think I'm making a mistake. I know you think I'm falling into old patterns or whatever. But this is different."
"How is it different? You barely know him."
"I barely knew Cole either! The difference is, when Ryan walks into a room, I can't breathe. When Cole texts me, I have to remind myself to respond." Harper's voice cracked slightly. "You're the one who told me—when it's right, you don't have to convince yourself it could be great. It just is."
Emmy opened her mouth. Closed it.
She had said that. To Cole, just a few days ago. About Harper. Telling him to let go of someone whose heart wasn't in it.
"Ryan hasn't been vetted," Emmy said. "We don't know anything about him. His relationship history, his attachment style, his—"
"He coaches youth basketball," Harper interrupted. "He's helping his dad with medical bills. He's teaching himself to cook because he wants to be able to make dinner for someone someday." She laughed, a little wild. "What else do I need to know?"
"Those are nice qualities. But nice qualities aren't the same as compatibility. You could have all the chemistry in the world and still be fundamentally wrong for each other."
"Or I could date the 'right' guy on paper and spend every dinner wishing I were somewhere else.
" Harper's eyes were bright now, angry. "You want to know why things with Cole feel like work?
Because they are work. Every text, every conversation, I'm performing enthusiasm for a man who should be perfect and isn't. And I'm tired, Emmy.
I'm tired of trying to manufacture feelings because someone looks good on a spreadsheet. "
"I'm trying to help you—"
"No, you're not." Harper's voice went sharp. "You're trying to be right."
Emmy's hand stilled on her mimosa glass.
"You're mad because it wasn't your idea," Harper continued, the words picking up speed now, a dam breaking. "Because you can't take credit for this one. You've spent weeks telling me Cole was the answer, and now I'm choosing someone you didn't pick, and you can't stand it."
"That's not—"
"It is, though." Harper's eyes were too bright, her voice cracking at the seams. "You're so desperate to prove you're good at this—at relationships, at matchmaking, at fixing people—that you need the reflected glory from everyone else's love life.
Because if you can make it work for me, for Grant, for whoever, then maybe that proves you're not a disaster at relationships yourself. "
Eight months is your ceiling.
Grant's voice, from that first meeting at Antonio's. She'd laughed it off then. Made it a joke. Those who can't, teach.
But the truth was uglier than that. Daniel, who'd been sleeping with his coworker for three months before Emmy finally noticed the signs she should have seen from week one. And before Daniel, the musician who'd gaslit her so thoroughly she'd apologized when she caught him lying.
Two examples. She had more.
And every single time, Emmy had missed the warning signs that should have been obvious.
She was supposed to be good at reading people. Where had she ever gotten that idea?
Emmy couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could only sit there while Harper's accusation echoed in the space between them.
The server arrived with Emmy's food. Neither of them spoke while she set down the plates.
When she left, Harper's voice was quieter. Gentler. "I'm sorry. That was harsh."
"It was honest." Emmy's voice came out thin.
"Yeah." Harper sighed. "It was."
They sat in silence for a moment. Emmy stared at her eggs benedict without seeing them.
"I just want you to be happy," Emmy finally said. "That's the whole point."
"Then let me be happy." Harper reached across the table and grabbed Emmy's hand. "Ryan makes me happy. Real, stupid, can't-stop-smiling happy. Even if it doesn't work out—even if I get hurt—at least it'll be real. At least I'll have chosen it for myself."
Emmy looked at their joined hands. Thought about Grant's voice in his brownstone, low and honest: I want to feel like I'm home with someone.
Thought about Madeline's gentle observation: His heart wasn't in it.
Thought about her own answer, barely whispered: Someone I don't have to pretend with.
"Okay," Emmy said. "Okay."
Harper's smile returned, tentative but real. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Emmy squeezed her hand. "Tell me about the date. What are you going to wear?"
Harper launched into a detailed analysis of her closet options, and Emmy listened, and the tight knot in her chest loosened just slightly.
But Harper's words stayed with her.
You're so desperate to prove you're good at this that you need the reflected glory from everyone else's love life.
Was that what she was doing with Grant?
She pushed the thought away. Focused on Harper's voice, on the mimosas, on the safe territory of outfit choices.
The official feedback from Madeline came through the Elite Connections portal while Emmy was walking home. She read it on the sidewalk, squinting against the afternoon sun.
Client Feedback Form - Madeline Talbott
Date: Grant Knight (Client #4847)
Venue: Oleana
Overall Experience: Positive
Comments:
Pleasant evening, great conversation. No romantic chemistry on my end, but I wish him well in his search.
Professional. Sanitized. Nothing like the real conversation they'd had that morning.
Emmy closed the app and kept walking.
The hollow feeling in her chest didn't go away. But she was getting good at ignoring it.
The text came the next Sunday afternoon, while Emmy was staring at her ceiling and pretending the conversation with Harper hadn't left bruises.
Tyce
Woodhouse. You alive?
Emmy picked up the phone. She'd been texting with Tyce sporadically since the tournament—he'd sent the ostentatious flowers, she'd sent the personality assessment, he'd returned it with half the questions answered and a winky face where his attachment style should be.
Professional communication at its finest.
Emmy
Depends who's asking.
Tyce
Still mad at me?
Emmy stared at the screen. Was she? The video had 2.3 million views. Elite Connections' name recognition had never been higher—and every legitimate prospective client was giving them a wide berth. Cecelia had nearly handed Tyce to Sabine.
But she'd gone after Tyce. She'd lied about playing tennis, pushed for the meeting, worked him at the gala. He was her mess. Her responsibility. And if she gave up on him now, she was admitting her instincts couldn't be trusted. That she didn't know herself as well as she thought.
Emmy
Just busy.
Tyce
Well, clear your calendar. Commonwealth Club charity auction next Friday night.
Emmy
I'm supposed to be matching you with dates. Why don't I find someone from the database for your plus one?
Tyce
I don't want some picket-fence Barbie. I want you.
Emmy's heart gave a sour thud. Why Tyce still had the power to make it do anything at all was beyond her, and yet, here she was.
She closed her eyes. Most days she could convince herself the men in her past had left no lasting stamp on her.
And some days she had strangers DMing her that she deserved better and still felt unsure.
Emmy
It's against company policy to date clients.
Tyce
then it's not a date
Emmy hesitated.
Emmy
I'll have to check my schedule.
Tyce
Check faster. Deep pockets everywhere. I'll introduce you around, help you rebuild after your little... moment.
Emmy's jaw tightened. Little moment. Like she'd spilled wine on someone's shoes instead of becoming a viral cautionary tale.
Emmy
Generous of you.
Tyce
I'm a generous guy. Ask anyone.
She should say no. She should tell him she had other plans, other clients, a life that didn't orbit his gravitational field.
But Cecelia's voice echoed in her head: Two weeks. Tyce commits to a real search, or he's Sabine's.
Emmy
What time?
Tyce
7. Cocktail attire.
Then, cutting her off:
Tyce
I didn't tell you how beautiful you looked on Thursday.
Emmy blinked.
Tyce
I know the video got me in trouble. But I had to watch it three times before I noticed anything but how fucking gorgeous you are.
The words landed strangely—flattering and uncomfortable at once. Like being handed flowers wrapped in poison ivy.
Emmy
That's... a unique apology.
Tyce
Just facts. See you next week, beautiful.
Emmy set the phone down.
She should feel something. Flattered, maybe. Or angry. Or vindicated that he was still chasing her attention after everything.
Instead she just felt tired.
Emmy couldn't sleep.
She'd tried—an hour of staring at the ceiling, replaying Harper's words, replaying Madeline's gentle voice on the phone. His heart wasn't in it. I hope he finds her.
Finally she grabbed her laptop and propped it against her knees. If she couldn't sleep, she could work. Work had never betrayed her.
Grant's calendar was getting tighter. Practices, film sessions, team obligations stacking up as the season pushed toward playoff qualification. She scrolled through, looking for openings where she could slot in a date without adding stress to his schedule.
Then she saw it.
Commonwealth Club Charity Auction.
Her stomach dropped.
She'd agreed to go with Tyce three hours ago.
If Grant was there, he'd see her with Tyce. After she'd sworn to him there was nothing between them.
Emmy picked up her phone. Started typing:
Something came up, I can't make the auction—
Her thumb hovered over send.
She thought about Cecelia's face if she admitted she couldn't handle Tyce. She thought about Sabine swooping in to take him. She thought about being the matchmaker who couldn't close a single client without a catastrophe.
She deleted the text.
She switched back to her laptop and typed out a message to Grant:
Emmy
Hey—I see you have the Commonwealth Club auction next Friday. Want me to set something up from the database for that night? Two birds, one stone.
She sent it and put the phone face-down. Then stared at the ceiling, waiting.
Her phone buzzed.
Grant Knight
Actually, I'm already bringing someone.
Emmy sat up.
Emmy
From Elite Connections? I didn't send you anyone new—
Grant Knight
No. I met her last week. She was visiting one of the team physicians at the stadium. Her name's Bailey.
Emmy read the words twice. Three times.
Emmy
That's great. I can't wait to meet her.
The laptop glowed in the dark, Grant's calendar still open on the screen.
She closed it.
The apartment was quiet. The hollow feeling in her chest had a name now, but she still wouldn't say it.