7. The Algorithm of Attraction
7
THE ALGORITHM OF ATTRACTION
Heart & Soul Connections, Seattle, WA
ROSALIND
The thing about January in Seattle is that the rain makes everything feel like a metaphor. This morning's steady drizzle patters against my office windows like nature's own PowerPoint presentation—each drop a bullet point in an endless list of why mixing business with pleasure is a terrible idea.
Especially when "pleasure" involves a certain tech CEO who definitely didn't text me "good morning" with a statistical analysis of last night's "successful relationship presentation metrics."
I tear my eyes away from my phone—and the viral photos lighting up every tech blog on the West Cost—to focus on the client file in front of me.
- Serena Johnson
- Corporate lawyer
- Thirty-eight
- Looking for someone who can keep up with her intellectually but isn't afraid to be spontaneous.
Good luck with that combo .
"You're brooding again," Olivia announces, appearing in my doorway like the ghost of relationships past. "And wearing yesterday's backup office cardigan."
"I am not brooding." I tug the worn blue sweater closer. After last night's designer dress, it feels like leaving the penthouse and coming home to a cozy cabin. A cozy cabin that smells like burnt marshmallows. "I'm working. And this cardigan is a classic."
“Classically full of holes. But I get your point.” She settles into my visitor's chair with the ease of someone who's been my best friend since that fateful speed-dating disaster fifteen years ago. “So, how was last night?”
“Last night was…fine.”
“Fine. Huh. So fine that you've been staring at the same file for twenty minutes while sighing at your phone?"
"I don't sigh."
"MOMMY!" A small tornado of pink sequins and K-pop merchandise bursts into my office. "Jun-seo oppa posted a new dance video!"
"Inside voice, Bianca," Olivia reminds her eldest, just as her younger daughter Mia skips in wearing what appears to be every BTS accessory ever manufactured.
"Daddy says we can get bubble tea after lunch!" Mia announces at exactly the same volume. "Can Roz come? She never has lunch with us anymore."
Derek appears in the doorway, still in his hospital scrubs, looking exactly like the hot barista-turned-doctor who caught Olivia's eye at Meet Cute Coffee Co. all those years ago. "Sorry, babe. They insisted on surprising you at work before our lunch date."
"Best surprise ever," Olivia says, and the way they look at each other—still, after all these years—makes my heart do a cha-cha in my chest.
"Roz!" Bianca tugs at my cardigan. "Did you see the new Blackpink video? Mom says you're dating a billionaire now. Does he like K-pop? Can he buy us concert tickets?"
"I'm not—" I start, but Mia's already climbing into my lap, her BTS backpack somehow managing to knock over both my coffee and Serena Johnson’s file.
"Can we come to your wedding? I want to be a flower girl. Bianca says she should be flower girl because she's older but I say we should both?—"
"Okay!" Derek swoops in, somehow managing to gather both girls and their various K-pop paraphernalia in one practiced motion. "Let's let Roz work. We can interrogate her about her love life over bubble tea next time."
"But Dad! Jun-seo oppa?—"
"Will still be dancing on your tablets after lunch," he finishes, shepherding them toward the door. "Come on, your mom's only got an hour before her next client meeting."
Olivia stands, but instead of following her family, she gives me that look—the one that usually precedes uncomfortable truths.
“Nope,” I warn her. “Don’t even.”
"Don't even what? Point out that you're hiding in your office wearing your emotional support cardigan while your fake boyfriend's face is trending on socials?”
"I'm not hiding. I'm working." I gesture at the scattered papers from Serena’s file. "Some of us can't spend our lunch breaks making heart eyes at our soulmates."
"Some of us wouldn't have soulmates if a certain matchmaker hadn't pushed me to give the cute barista my number." She perches on my desk. "You know, back when you believed in taking chances."
"I still believe in taking chances." At her look, I amend, “Just better ones.”
"Right. Which is why you're wearing this sweater instead of any of the gorgeous new clothes your billionaire boyfriend bought you."
"He's not my?—"
“Sure he isn’t. All I’m saying is that fifteen years ago, you saw two people who might work together and took a chance. No algorithms. No compatibility metrics. No faking. Just instinct."
"Ah, and we see how well my instinct turned out in my marriage,” I mutter. At that, Olivia opens her mouth to say something, but Derek chooses that moment to poke his head back in.
"Babe? The girls are teaching the lobby about Korean honorifics. I think Aunt Dani's taking notes."
"Coming!" Olivia slides off my desk, then pauses. "Just... think about it, okay? Not everyone needs to have their whole life plotted out in a spreadsheet."
"I'll have you know my spreadsheets are very sophisticated," I call after her, but she's already gone, leaving me with scattered client files and too many thoughts.
My phone buzzes. I take a second before I answer.
Speaking of spreadsheets...
I recognize the deep voice on the other end immediately.
"The photos are everywhere," Grayson says without preamble. His voice carries that particular strain of someone who's probably been up since 5 AM optimizing crisis management strategies.
"Good morning to you too." I resist the urge to touch my cardigan defensively. "I assume you've created an algorithm to calculate the statistical impact on our respective brands?"
"Three, actually. But that's not—" He breaks off, and I hear what sounds like his AI assistant in the background announcing new social media metrics. "We need to coordinate our story. Emily Hanning keeps calling my PR team. "
My stomach tightens, thinking of the TechCast reporter's real interest in Jessica's match. "What does she want?"
"Details about our relationship. The press is digging, and if they find any holes in our story..." He doesn't finish, but I hear the unspoken concern. Douglas Franklin's investment depends on our convincing performance.
"Look," I say, "we should probably discuss this in person."
"My thoughts exactly. My place, seven o'clock?"
"Your place?"
"My AI can run interference if any reporters try to track us, and I have a detailed presentation prepared about potential media strategies?—"
"Of course you do."
"—including a comprehensive analysis of optimal relationship narrative structures based on successful celebrity couples?—"
"Grayson."
"Yes?"
"Has anyone ever told you that you might be slightly over-planning this?"
A pause. "I believe Connor mentioned something similar this morning. Right before he sent me a link to a WikiHow article on 'How to Fake a Relationship Without Looking Like a Robot.'"
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "Your friends sound wise."
"They're menaces." But there's something in his voice—something almost human. "Seven o'clock?"
"Fine. But I'm not staying late. Some of us don't have AI assistants to run our lives."
"Noted. I'll have dinner delivered." Another pause. "And Rosalind?"
"Yes?"
"The green cardigan looks nice on you. "
I glance up sharply, but he's already hung up. Through my office windows, I spot a sleek black Aston Martin pulling away from the curb.
Has he been watching my office?
Before I can process that, my door bursts open again. This time it's Dani, looking slightly singed around the edges.
"So," she announces, "good news and bad news. Good news: the pickle-bagpipe situation is resolved. Bad news: we may need to repaint the lobby. Also, William's now writing a K-pop opera about fermentation. Apparently, my nieces were very inspiring."
I drop my head to my desk, narrowly missing my spilled coffee.
Five and a half weeks until Valentine's Day. Five and a half more weeks of fake-dating my ex-father-in-law’s biggest investment—a man whose love life I’m responsible for ruining.
What could possibly go wrong?