4. Tux & Spills A Love Story
4
TUX & SPILLS: A LOVE STORY
GRAYSON
Note to self: when your primary investor demands you explain why you're still single the same week your dating app launches and your ex announces her engagement, don't improvise. Especially not with a woman who just ruined your favorite shirt.
I lean against the balcony railing, watching the woman who may have just saved – or completely destroyed – my evening.
The slushy rain is picking up, turning Seattle's skyline into a soft blur of lights behind her. In the dim glow from the ballroom, her auburn hair catches the light like copper wire, and the vintage dress she's wearing...
Focus, Dixon. Analyze the variables.
"So," I say, studying her with the same attention I usually reserve for complex algorithms. "Heart & Soul matchmaking.”
"So," Rosalind Carpenter counters, crossing her arms in what I calculate is defensive posture #3. "SecureMatch."
I nod, feeling myself shrug. "You know, when I woke up this morning, I didn't expect to be fake-dating my biggest competitor by evening. "
"When I woke up this morning, I didn't expect to be ruining a tech billionaire's shirt while crashing my ex-husband's engagement party to my cousin, yet here we are."
Her voice carries a hint of something I can't quite quantify – maybe amusement, maybe panic. Either way, it’s the kind of emotional variable my algorithms still struggle to parse. But there's something compelling about the way she's holding herself, like she's one wrong move away from either fleeing or fighting.
"Interesting choice of event to crash," I say, running probability scenarios in my head.
The statistical likelihood of this particular collision of circumstances has to be astronomically low.
Joel Franklin's ex-wife happens to be my biggest competitor? And she happens to crash his engagement party the exact night I need a date?
"Though I have to admit, your timing is... convenient."
"Convenient?" She arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and I find myself cataloging the exact shade of amber in her eyes. For data purposes, obviously.
"Douglas Franklin was about to demand I explain why Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor is still single the same week his dating app launches and his ex announces her engagement."
"And I conveniently provided you with a girlfriend."
"While inconveniently destroying a thousand-dollar shirt."
"A thousand—Who pays a thousand dollars for a shirt?"
"Someone who's expected to look like he has all the answers." I run a hand through my hair, a tell I thought I'd eliminated years ago. My sister Natasha would be laughing if she could see me now. "Even when his dating app's numbers are falling short of projections and the press is having a field day with his ex's engagement."
She tilts her head, studying me. The rain has started making her dress cling in ways that are definitely interfering with my ability to maintain logical thought patterns.
"So what now?" she asks. "We just pretend we've been secretly dating?"
I calculate rapidly: investor confidence vs. press coverage, market perception vs. actual metrics, the probability of pulling off this particular deception in Seattle's incestuous tech circle. "Unless you'd prefer I let Beatrice Franklin announce to everyone that you crashed the party?"
"You wouldn't."
I let my smile sharpen into what Connor calls my 'board meeting smirk.' "Try me."
Inside, the party continues its elegant swirl of Seattle's tech elite, but out here, with the rain creating a natural sound barrier, I can actually think. Process. Analyze. Even if every algorithm in my head is struggling to categorize the woman in front of me.
She shivers slightly – temperature approximately 48 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity 82%, her dress definitely not designed for January in Seattle. But she doesn't move closer to the warmth of the ballroom. Interesting.
"You realize this is insane," she says, attempting to cross her arms but wobbling slightly on her heels. I reach out to steady her automatically, my hand finding her elbow. Her skin is cool from the rain but she radiates a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
"Completely illogical," I agree, noting how she doesn't immediately pull away. "Which is exactly why it might work."
"Work? For who?" She tries to step back but those heels – approximately four inches, Louboutin by the red sole, probably borrowed given how she's handling them – betray her again. "You realize I represent everything your soulless algorithm is trying to replace?"
"And you realize my 'soulless algorithm' is currently eating into your client base?" I can smell her perfume now, something warm and spicy. "We could help each other."
“’Help each other’? The storytelling billionaire who thinks love can be reduced to data points and the matchmaker who?—"
"Who just crashed her ex's engagement party wearing what I'm guessing is a very expensive revenge dress?"
"It's vintage Valentino," she says with the kind of defensiveness that tells me there's a story there.
"Of course it is." I find myself fighting another smile. When was the last time I smiled this much during a business negotiation? "Look, we both have something to prove. I need to show investors that SecureMatch works—that I understand relationships beyond algorithms. You need to prove Heart & Soul Connections can compete in today's market."
She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like "not helping" – though I'm not sure who she's talking to. Another variable that doesn't quite compute.
"What's not helping?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just... thinking out loud." She steps back, this time managing to keep her balance. The movement shouldn't feel like a loss. "So what exactly are you proposing?"
"A merger of sorts."
"Excuse me?"
"Not our companies," I clarify, though my business mind is already running the numbers on that particular possibility. "Just our public images. Six weeks of carefully crafted dating. We both get what we need, then an amicable parting of ways after Valentine's Day."
"Valentine's Day?"
"Well, the day after, specifically. My best friend is planning his engagement party then." I pause, realizing I should probably add, "Assuming she says yes tonight."
"Tonight?" Now she looks genuinely alarmed. "Wait. Alex Drake is proposing tonight? "
This catches my attention. "You know Alex?"
"You've got to be kidding me. Huh. Guess the universe really does have a sense of humor."
I'm about to ask exactly how our social circles overlap when my phone buzzes. Douglas Franklin's name lights up the screen, along with three missed calls from Connor.
Through the French doors, I can see the photographers circling closer, and Joel Franklin is making his way toward the balcony with a determined expression.
"We need to make a decision," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "Now."
She glances over her shoulder at the approaching storm – both meteorological and social. When she turns back, there's something in her amber eyes that makes all my algorithms stutter.
"Fine," she says. "But we need rules. Parameters. A clear exit strategy."
I definitely shouldn't find her use of technical terms attractive. "I can have a contract drawn up by morning."
"Of course you can." This time her laugh sounds genuine. "You know what? Why not. It's not like this night can get any more complicated."
The universe, apparently determined to prove her wrong, chooses that moment to add a new variable to our equation. My phone buzzes again, but this time it's a text from Alex: SOS. AT LA FAMIGLIA. RING MISSING. NEED BACKUP NOW.
Simultaneously, through the French doors, I hear Joel Franklin's voice: “Roz? Roz, you out there?”
Rosalind – Roz – peers at my expression. "What's wrong?"
"How do you feel about Italian food?"
"What?"
"We need to get out of here, my best friend is having a crisis, and I have a feeling you know exactly where La Famiglia is, given that you seem to know its soon-to-be-engaged owners. "
Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s right. If you know Alex, then…” She blinks. “Mac. Mackenzie Gallo is your best friend's girlfriend.”
"Soon to be fiancée. Assuming we can find the ring he was proposing with that has somehow gone missing."
"Oh God. Nonna Flora is going to have a field day with this."
"You know Nonna Flora?"
The French doors open. “Roz?” Joel calls. “I just wanted to?—“
I make a rapid calculation: nosy ex-husbands versus Alex's potential breakdown versus the intriguing woman still standing too close in the rain.
"Trust me?" I ask her.
Her laugh is just shy of hysterical. "I just agreed to fake-date you. Clearly, my judgment is already compromised."
I take her hand. "Then let's give them something to talk about."
Before she can respond, I pull her closer, one hand sliding to her waist while the other cups her jaw. Her amber eyes widen in understanding just before I kiss her.
It's meant to be strategic. Professional. The kind of public display of affection that will make Joel Franklin too uncomfortable to ask more questions.
It's not meant to feel like this.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, her fingers curling into my ruined shirt, and every algorithm in my head shorts out.
At forty-five, I thought I was past the kind of kisses that make your knees weak. Shows what algorithms know about love at any age.
The rain is still falling, the party is still swirling behind us, but for one moment, I forget about investors and apps and engagement rings .
Then Joel clears his throat from the doorway. "I'll... ah... never mind.”
His footsteps retreat. The kiss should end. That would be the logical thing.
Instead, it softens, shifts, becomes something that definitely isn't in any business strategy I've ever created.
When we finally part, we're both half-panting, chests rising and falling hard.
My date-of-the-moment’s skin is flushed—slightly pink. A drop of rain slides down her cheek, and I have to fight the urge to catch it with my thumb.
"I'll have my lawyer draw up the paperwork," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "We can meet tomorrow to discuss terms."
She nods, taking a step back. "Terms. Right. Very... professional."
"Completely professional."
We stare at each other for another moment before my phone buzzes again. Alex's crisis. Right.
"Tomorrow, then," I say.
"Tomorrow." She smooths down her dress, though it does nothing to hide how the rain has made it cling to every curve. "Good luck with the ring hunt."
I turn to go, then pause. “Do you?—“
“Have a ride? I do. My newest employee—who I’ll throttle later—is waiting for me.”
"Of course. Just checking. Have a good night…Roz.”
“You, too.”
I turn, already texting my car.
I leave her on the balcony there, alone—my brain already planning tomorrow's contract negotiations and definitely not thinking about the woman I tricked into fake-dating me tastes like wine.
And rain. And too many damn complications to count.