6. LinkedIn for Love
6
LINKEDIN FOR LOVE
Seattle Museum of Innovation, WA
ROSALIND
"Your dress makes you look like a sexy Excel spreadsheet," Dani announces through my earpiece as I hurry up the museum's steps, dodging January raindrops that seem determined to ruin my newly corporate-approved hair. "I mean that as a compliment."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" I tug at the hem of my new designer dress—a sleek, metallic number that costs a small fortune. The clothing allowance Grayson's lawyer insisted on burns a hole in my conscience, even as the dress hugs curves that didn’t develop until I was at least 38.
"I'm just saying, if Microsoft Word had a hot sister, she'd wear that dress."
"You're supposed to be helping." I pause under the museum's modernist overhang, checking my reflection in the rain-streaked glass. The woman staring back looks like she could run a Fortune 500 company or maybe steal classified documents. Neither seems like me. "Why aren't you here again?"
"Because someone has to handle the pickle crisis. "
"The what now?"
"Duncan—the artisanal pickle maker I'm maybe dating?—just showed up at the office with three gallons of his latest experimental batch. But then Angus?—"
“Who’s Angus?”
"The bagpipe player I also might be dating. Well, he also showed up. With his pipes. They're having some kind of fermentation-versus-Celtic-heritage standoff in the lobby."
I close my eyes, counting to ten. "Please tell me you're joking."
"Nope. Duncan's trying to prove his kimchi-habanero blend pairs perfectly with traditional Scottish music, but Angus keeps drowning him out with 'Scotland the Brave.'" A cacophony of bagpipes and what sounds like jars clinking carries through the line. "On the bright side, the bread maker I also met from SecureMatch William says the acoustics are doing wonders for his sourdough fermentation."
"Dani—"
"Don't worry! I've got this covered. You focus on convincing Seattle's tech elite that you and Mr. Algorithms-Are-Sexy are madly in love."
"We're not supposed to be madly in love," I remind her, though my body still remembers that kiss from last night. "We're supposed to be professionally, mutually beneficial-ly dating."
"Is that even a word?"
"You know what I mean." I spot Grayson's Aston Martin—as promised—pulling up to the valet. "He's here. I have to go."
"Wait! One last thing—Emily Hanning from TechCast just called again. She really wants that interview about Jessica's match..."
I end the call before she can finish. That's tomorrow's problem. Tonight's goal: convince Douglas Franklin our relationship is real enough to keep funding SecureMatch, which will somehow save both our businesses. Simple.
I straighten my spine as Grayson approaches, looking exceptionally tall and unfairly broad in a tailored suit. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, and something about the way it curls at his temples makes my fingers itch to?—
No. Focus.
"Ms. Carpenter." His voice carries that same whiskey warmth from this morning. “You know, I really wish you had a let me pick you up. This is supposed to be a date.”
“And miss the look on your face when it’s already too late to make me go in the house and change?”
“I would have done no such thing.” He gives me a once-over. “You look..."
"Like a sexy Excel spreadsheet?"
His lips twitch. "I was going to say 'different.'"
"Different good or different 'what happened to the vintage-loving matchmaker I fake-kissed last ‘night?”
"Different interesting." He offers his arm. "Ready to convince Seattle's tech elite we're madly in love?"
"Professionally, mutually beneficial-ly in love," I correct, taking his arm. His body heat seeps through the expensive fabric, and I try not to lean in like a house-cat cozying up in the sun.
We're halfway up the steps when my phone buzzes. Dani again: EMERGENCY. Duncan's kimchi exploded. Angus claims bagpipe music accelerated fermentation. William crying about sourdough contamination. I think I swallowed more than I can chew.
I show Grayson the text. "Still think algorithms are more complicated than human relationships?"
For a moment, something that might be actual amusement crosses his face. Then the museum doors open, spilling out light and music and Seattle's wealthiest tech pioneers, and his CEO mask slides back into place .
Game time.
The Museum of Innovation's main hall has been transformed into what I can only describe as Silicon Valley's version of Versailles. Interactive displays showcase the latest tech while waiters circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres that would make Marie Antoinette feel impoverished.
"Remember," Grayson murmurs as we enter, "according to the contract, section twelve, paragraph?—"
"No public displays of affection beyond hand-holding unless cameras are present," I finish. "I read the manual."
"It's not a manual, it's a?—"
"Legally binding agreement quantifying every aspect of our fake relationship, including but not limited to approved conversation topics and coordinated workout schedules?"
The corner of his mouth twitches again. "You really did read it."
"Unlike some people, I don't need an algorithm to do my homework."
Before he can respond, Douglas Franklin materializes like a venture capital ghost, his Brooks Brothers suit practically radiating money.
"Grayson! And... Rosalind." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I didn't expect... that is, I assumed after last night’s party…”
"That I'd keep our star CEO away from public events?" I screw on my best society smile. "Now what kind of girlfriend would that make me?"
"Speaking of girlfriends," a familiar voice cuts in, "or should I say ex-girlfriends?"
A woman nearby takes a step forward. With hair the color of a brawny sunset and a silky violet dress on, the woman I now recognize from the internet as Emily Hanning, TechCast's most relentless reporter, appears with the kind of timing that makes me suspect she's been lurking behind a nearby AI display. Her press badge gleams like a warning sign.
"Emily." Grayson's hand tightens on my waist. "I wasn't aware TechCast covered charity events."
"Oh, we cover all kinds of things." Her smile would make sharks nervous. "Like how Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor found love the old-fashioned way—with the city's premier traditional matchmaker. Though that does raise some interesting questions about SecureMatch's effectiveness..."
"Actually," I cut in, "Grayson and I met at?—"
"The gym's coffee shop," he says.
"At six AM," we finish in unison.
Emily's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Really? Because I could have sworn?—"
"Emily!" Douglas Franklin booms. "Have you seen the new quantum computing display? Fascinating stuff. Very... quantum." He practically drags her away, leaving Grayson and me in a bubble of awkward silence.
"That was close," I mutter.
"Too close." He guides me toward a less crowded corner, his hand still warm against my back. "We need to coordinate our story better."
"What's wrong with the coffee shop?"
"Nothing, except you flinch every time we mention it. And you're still wearing vintage earrings with your new dress."
I touch the pearl drops self-consciously. "They were my grandmother's."
"They don't match the image?—"
"The image of the perfect tech girlfriend? Sorry, I left my robot costume at home."
His whiskey-brown eyes narrow. "That's not?—"
My phone buzzes again. Dani: Update: Pickle juice corroded through lobby floor. Angus trying to bagpipe away toxic fumes. May need new office space .
"Problems?" Grayson asks.
"Nothing compared to convincing your investors we're compatible." I gesture at the room full of Seattle's elite. "Look at them. They probably summer in Silicon Valley and winter in tax shelters."
"Most actually summer in the San Juan Islands," he corrects. At my look, he adds, "What? It's a statistically significant trend."
"Of course it is." I accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, wondering if there's an approved drinking protocol in our contract. "Just like there's probably a statistically significant correlation between venture capital funding and golf handicaps."
"Actually, it's tennis rankings." His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. "Though there is an interesting pattern involving yacht ownership and?—"
"Grayson!" A woman who looks like she stepped out of a Tech Wives of Seattle casting call approaches. "Darling, you must introduce me to your... friend."
Friend. The way she says it makes it clear she's read every tabloid speculation about our relationship.
"Vivian." Grayson's CEO voice is back. "This is Rosalind Carpenter, my?—"
"Girlfriend," I finish, sliding closer to him. Two can play this game. "Though really, labels are so... algorithmic, don't you think?"
Vivian blinks, clearly thrown. "I... suppose? Though speaking of algorithms, I was just telling Harrison—you remember my husband, the one developing that blockchain solution for pet food distribution?—about SecureMatch's latest user retention statistics..."
My phone vibrates again. Without looking, I know it's either Dani updating me on the pickle apocalypse or Emily Hanning demanding answers about Jessica's match. Instead of checking, I lean into Grayson's side, playing the role of supportive girlfriend while he explains something about engagement metrics that probably makes sense to people who summer in the San Juans.
The party swirls around us, a tech-meets-Gatsby blur of designer labels and startup pitches. I catch fragments of conversations about Series A funding and NFT marketplaces, watch Seattle's elite navigate social algorithms more complex than anything SecureMatch could code.
And through it all, Grayson's hand stays warm against my back, his presence simultaneously grounding and unsettling.
Every time he shifts, every accidental brush of contact sends little sparks through my designer dress. Sparks that don’t compute coming from a man who’s a control freak wrapped in good fabric.
Definitely not my type. I don’t think…
"Rosalind?" His voice breaks through my thoughts. "Vivian was asking about your approach to matching clients..."
Of course. Because I'm not just arm candy—I'm supposedly the woman who cracked the code of love better than his precious algorithms.
I open my mouth to deliver my practiced speech about intuition versus data, but before I can start, a commotion erupts near the quantum computing display.
"Is that... bagpipe music?" Grayson asks.
Horror dawns as I recognize the opening notes of "Scotland the Brave" floating over the crowd.
"Oh no." I pull out my phone to find six missed texts from Dani:
Angus found out about the event at the museum, probably following the pickle fumes
Says must warn you about potential chemical reaction
Duncan also following with neutralizing agents
Currently in loading doc k
Security involved
HELP
"Everything okay?" Grayson's question is interrupted by a crash from the direction of the service entrance, followed by what sounds suspiciously like someone yelling about kimchi.
"We should probably—" I start.
"Move to the balcony?" He’s already steering me toward the nearest exit. "Absolutely."
We make it outside just as chaos erupts behind us. Through the glass doors, I catch glimpses of security chasing what appears to be a man in full Highland dress, while someone else waves jars of fermented vegetables and shouts about pH levels.
"Friends of yours?" Grayson asks as we watch Duncan attempt to explain the scientific properties of lacto-fermentation to a very confused museum guard.
"Would you believe me if I said no?"
"Statistically speaking?—"
"Don't you dare."
His laugh—his actual laugh, not that deep CEO, contained chuckle—catches us both by surprise. For a moment, we're just two people hiding from chaos on a rainy balcony, and the warmth in his eyes has nothing to do with business strategies.
Then Emily Hanning's voice carries through the doors: "Rosalind! Just a quick question about the feature…”
Grayson's expression shutters. “Feature?”
Before I can explain, Angus strikes up another tune, this one apparently aimed at driving out evil pickle spirits.
“It’s p-probably best that we-“ I stutter out.
"Handle damage control?” His face shows no expression. “Absolutely."
As we head back inside to face the music (literally), I can't help wondering which will be harder to explain: the bagpipe-pickle incident or the fact that I might have accidentally matched his ex-fiancée with her current fiancé .
Either way, I have a feeling neither situation is covered in our contract's carefully quantified PDA guidelines.
"Just so you know," I tell him as we approach the security team now attempting to confiscate both musical instruments and fermented goods, "this is still less complicated than trying to calculate love with algorithms."
His only response is to squeeze my hand—exactly 2.3 seconds longer than specified in section twelve, paragraph four of our agreement.
I'm definitely not counting.
Much.