8. Sheet-spreading, anyone?
8
SHEET-SPREADING, ANYONE?
Downtown Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
"Statistically speaking," I tell my best friends' faces on my tablet screen, "there's a seventy-eight percent chance of snow tonight."
"If you say 'statistically speaking' one more time," Connor threatens from his video window, "I'm telling your AI to play 'All By Myself' every time you enter your penthouse."
"You don't have that authority." I pause. "Do you?"
“God, you know so little about my skills, robot boy."
In his own video panel, Alex looks like he's either having a stroke or trying not to laugh. "Can we focus? My engagement party is falling apart and all you two can talk about is weather algorithms?"
"To be fair," Connor points out, "Gray's weather algorithms are probably more stable than your party plans."
He's not wrong. In the interminable days since his surprisingly successful proposal at La Famiglia, Alex has changed the engagement party venue six times, menu concepts twelve times, and theme approximately every four hours .
"The aquarium said no to the synchronized swimming proposal reenactment," Alex reports. "Apparently, live fish and underwater choreography don't mix."
"Shocking." I minimize a notification from my AI about the latest social media metrics regarding my "relationship" with Rosalind. "What about the original plan? The Four Seasons penthouse is classic, elegant?—"
"And where every media hound will be circling like piranhas waiting to get pictures and scoop," Connor cuts in. "Maybe read the room, Mr. Algorithm."
Right. Sometimes I forget how under a microscope my social circles can be. Especially since a certain auburn-haired matchmaker crashed my investor's son's party and turned my life into a reporter-salivating spectacle.
"The Space Needle's booked through March," Alex continues, passing fingers through his already messy dark hair. "The Chihuly Garden wants a million-dollar deposit in case the flash mob breaks anything?—"
"Flash mob?" Connor and I echo.
"Mac likes dancing!"
"Mac," I remind him, "is also part-owner of an Italian restaurant, who once threatened to ban TikTok dances from her family’s establishment."
"That was one time. And only because someone tried to film a pasta challenge during dinner rush." Alex's face takes on that particular panic I've come to associate with engagement-related spirals. "But now the venue's falling through, and the caterer quit because I kept changing the menu concept, and?—"
"I'll help," I offer, mostly to stop him hyperventilating.
Two identical looks of disbelief fill my screen.
"You?" Connor asks. "Mr. 'I Need an Algorithm to Choose My Breakfast'?"
"I don't—" I start, but my AI chooses that moment to announce: "Sir, based on current metabolic data and weather patterns, I recommend the steel-cut oatmeal with precision-measured protein supplementation."
"Thanks, CORA," I mutter.
"You named your AI CORA?" Connor's grin turns wicked. "Let me guess—Compatibility and Optimization Relationship Assistant?"
"Actually, it's Computational Optimization and Research Assistant," I correct, then immediately regret it as both my friends dissolve into laughter.
"I'm sorry," Alex wheezes, "but you really think you can plan a romantic engagement party? You? The guy who needed an app to tell him what flowers to buy his ex?"
"The app was very efficient?—"
"You got her systematically organized spreadsheets of flower varieties!"
"Which were arranged by season and optimal growing conditions?—"
A knock at my door cuts off what I'm sure would have been another round of mockery. Through the glass walls of my home office, I spot a familiar figure in the foyer.
Rosalind.
For our strictly business meeting about managing press coverage of our fake relationship.
Which I definitely haven't been thinking about all day.
"Gotta go," I tell my friends. "Business meeting."
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Connor waggles his eyebrows.
"You know," Alex muses, "Mac mentioned that Roz makes amazing tiramisu. Maybe for the engagement party?—"
I end the call before he can finish that particular disaster waiting to happen. "CORA, door."
"Of course, sir. Though may I point out that your heart rate has elevated by ? —"
"Door, CORA. Just the door. "
The smart locks disengage with a soft click. In an oversized dark coat, Rosalind steps in, and my carefully regulated penthouse suddenly feels different. Warmer, somehow. Less like a tech showcase and more like...
“Sorry to barge in. Your house manager Talia let me in. And then your AI just asked me about my feelings regarding automated climate control," she announces by way of greeting. "Is that normal?"
"She's thorough. And “by ‘she’, I mean the AI.” I gesture to the stack of media reports spread across my desk. "Speaking of thorough, Emily Hanning's been reaching out to everyone from my PR team to my college roommate. We need a strategy."
"What exactly is she after?" Rosalind settles into one of my ergonomic office chairs, though she somehow makes it look graceful instead of efficient.
"Details about our relationship. Timeline inconsistencies. She's particularly interested in how we really met." I don't mention the three other reporters who've started digging. "If we don't get our story straight?—"
"Douglas Franklin finds out it's all fake and pulls his investment," she finishes. "I know. I got cornered by two lifestyle bloggers at my coffee shop this morning. Apparently, our 'meet cute' is trending."
"Hence tonight's meeting." I pull up a presentation on my tablet. "I've prepared a detailed analysis of successful relationship narratives in the tech sector, including key milestone timelines and optimal public appearance schedules—" I motion to the kitchen, and Roz follows. "CORA, privacy mode please."
"Activating privacy mode. Though I feel compelled to note that your body temperature has increased by ? —"
"Thank you, CORA."
Blessed silence falls. Well, relative silence. Seattle's evening traffic creates a soft backdrop thirty-eight floors below, and the predicted snow has turned to the city's signature drizzle, tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"So," Rosalind says, shrugging off her coat to reveal an A-lined, 50’s-inspired dress that definitely isn't corporate-approved. "This is where Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor lives?"
"According to this morning's blog posts, I'm no longer eligible."
"Right. Because you're dating the crazy woman who crashed Joel Franklin's party and ruined your shirt." She runs a finger along my Italian marble breakfast bar. "Very... minimalist."
"Efficient," I correct, trying not to track the way she moves through my space like she's cataloging every detail. "The kitchen is fully automated?—"
"Of course it is."
"—and dinner should be here any minute."
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s Talia.
“Sorry, Mr. Dixon,” the message reads. “The delivery service was apologetic, at least. They say due to unexpected weather conditions and traffic patterns, your order has been canceled.”
I show Roz the message. "I suppose we could order something else?—"
"Or," she says, already opening my refrigerator, "we could actually cook something. You do know how to cook, right?"
"I have an app for that."
She turns to stare at me, one hand still on the refrigerator door. "Please tell me you're joking."
I'm not, but something about her expression makes me want to defend myself. "I have a chef. Had. She's off tonight because I thought we'd be having a business dinner."
"Right. Business." She surveys my kitchen's pristine surfaces. "Well, Mr. Efficiency, let's see what we can do with... exactly three eggs, some sad-looking vegetables, and..." She peers into the fridge. "Is this kimchi? "
“Your new hire, uh, Dani?” She nods, and I shrug. “She gave that to me on my way out of your office the other day. Says it’s a gift from her pickle-making friend. Apparently, he's branching out."
"Of course he is." She starts gathering ingredients with the same confidence she showed at the museum. "Okay, Chef Dixon, time to learn how to make a proper frittata."
"I don't?—"
"First rule of cooking: no algorithms allowed."
I watch her move around my kitchen like she owns it, pulling out pans and utensils I forgot I had. "You seem... comfortable with this."
"Nonna Flora taught me the basics after my divorce," she says, expertly chopping vegetables. "Said a woman can't survive on takeout and spite alone."
"Spite seems to be working fine for you so far."
She points a knife at me, but there's a smile playing at her lips. "Dice these onions, smart guy. And try not to create a spreadsheet about optimal cutting angles."
“I’ll have you know that was one time, and Connor promised never to tell that story."
Her laugh, full and raspy, does something to our chest that my lawyer sure didn’t cover in the contract. For a few minutes, we work in comfortable silence—her chopping with practiced ease, me trying not to calculate the most efficient vegetable-to-egg ratio.
"So," she says finally, "how does a tech genius end up with no food in his house?"
"I have food. It's just... precisely portioned."
"By your AI?"
"CORA helps optimize my nutrition intake based on—" I catch her expression. "Right. No algorithms in the kitchen."
"You know, some people actually enjoy a little spontaneity in their lives." She adds the vegetables to a pan with a sizzle. " Like Sunday dinner at La Famiglia. No planning, no schedules. Just good food and better company."
"Is that an invitation?"
Her hands still over the pan. When she looks up, there's something in her amber eyes that makes my normally busy brain go quiet.
"Maybe," she says softly. "Would you want it to be?"
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. On the screen, a message from Emily Hanning: Mr. Dixon, regarding your relationship with Ms. Carpenter...
I minimize it quickly, but not before Rosalind sees. "Problems?"
"Nothing I can't handle." I move closer, ostensibly to help with the cooking. "You never told me how you ended up at La Famiglia in the first place."
She's quiet for a moment, focused on stirring the vegetables. "Christmas morning, five years ago. First holiday after my divorce. My parents were... well, let's just say they had opinions about failed marriages. I was wandering downtown, feeling sorry for myself, when I smelled Nonna Flora's cooking.”
"She does Christmas morning service?"
"For anyone who needs a place to go." She adds the beaten eggs to the pan with practiced ease. "That morning, it was me, three international students, a retired bus driver, and the Gallos. We ate Italian desserts, drank too much coffee, and somehow... became like family."
Something in her voice makes me want to step closer. So I do.
"You're good at that," I observe. "Making families. Building connections."
"Better at it for other people than myself, apparently." She reaches past me for herbs, and suddenly we're standing very close. "Some things can't be calculated, you know."
"Like what? "
"Like chemistry." Her eyes meet mine. "Timing. The way two people just... fit."
For a moment, a vision pops into my head—sudden and warm. I can picture it. My hand on Rosalind’s waist. Her fingers curling into my shirt, and…
" Sir ," CORA announces, " based on current proximity and elevated vital signs, I calculate a ninety-seven percent probability of imminent physical contact. Would you like me to run a relationship compatibility analysis ?"
We break eye contact, and I clear my throat, turning away.
"CORA," I start, but Rosalind's phone chooses that moment to blast what sounds like bagpipes playing... is that "My Heart Will Go On"?
"Oh God." She checks the screen. "It's Dani. Apparently, Duncan and Angus know each other from the International Scottish Pickling Championships?" She accepts the call. "Dani, slow down. What do you mean they're having a fermentation duel?"
I step back, trying to regulate my breathing while my traitorous AI helpfully displays my current heart rate on the kitchen window.
"Sir, would you like me to calculate the statistical probability of successful relationship outcomes based on shared cooking experiences?"
"CORA, mute."
The frittata, somehow, survives our moment of... whatever that was. We eat at my breakfast bar, talking about safer topics like Connor's latest startup idea (AI-powered dog walking) and Alex's engagement party crisis.
"No synchronized swimming?" she asks, hiding a smile.
"Apparently, fish have opinions about underwater choreography."
"You know..." She takes a sip of wine, and I definitely don't track the movement of her throat. "Mac would probably love something simple. Good food, family, maybe some actual dancing instead of flash mobs..."
"Is that another invitation?"
This time when she meets my eyes, there's no AI to interrupt. "Maybe it is."
My phone buzzes again. Another message from Emily Hanning.
"I should go," Rosalind says, standing. "Early client meeting tomorrow."
“Sure. Business is important. I know that better than most.”
I walk her to the door, hyperaware of every step between us. She pauses in the foyer, and for a moment I think...
"You know," she interrupt the flow of my thoughts, her voice low, "for someone who lives by algorithms, you're surprisingly good at making a moment feel... real."
I take a step closer, the space between us shrinking. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, see the slight flush in her cheeks. Her eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze. The scent of her perfume—something vanilla and spiced—fills the air.
“Just trying to keep up with you, Ms. Carpenter,” I reply.
I reach up, slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't. My fingers brush a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, then linger, tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, nearly hot to the touch.
From this distance, I can feel her pulse quicken under my fingertips, matching the rhythm of my own heart.
Her eyes flutter closed, and she leans into my touch, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my shirt.
The slight pressure as she pulls me closer makes my stomach tighten, makes everything below my belt come alive and stir.
Our breaths mingle, and up this close, I can almost taste her, the sweetness of the wine we shared still lingering there .
A shiver runs down my spine, every nerve ending alive and aware. Every inch of my body dying to bury itself into the one woman I know I shouldn’t?—
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
She startles, taking a step back.
It’s her phone. Ringing. Again.
This time with more bagpipes, playing what sounds like a pickle-themed remix of "Sweet Caroline."
She checks it.
"Dani," she sighs. "Apparently, the duel has evolved into some kind of fermented food fusion experiment."
"Sounds... innovative."
"Sounds like I need to go rescue my lobby. Again." She reaches for the door, then stops. "Thanks for dinner, Mr. Dixon. Even if you did try to calculate the perfect herb-to-egg ratio."
"I did not—" At her look, I admit, "Okay, maybe a little."
She smiles, tucking her phone away. "I really should go," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
"I know," I reply, but neither of us moves. We stand there, the air between us still charged, still filled with the ghost of our almost-kiss.
Finally, she turns, opening the door. She pauses on the threshold, looking back at me. "Goodnight, Grayson," she says softly.
"Goodnight, Rosalind.”
The scent of her vanilla-scented skin lingers in my automated climate-controlled air long after she's gone.
" Sir ?" CORA pipes up. " Would you like me to add 'cooking lessons' to your optimization schedule? I've analyzed several YouTube channels that ? — "
"Mute, CORA. Just... mute."
I turn back to my too-empty penthouse, the silence suddenly deafening as I try not to mentally calculate the hours until Sunday dinner at La Famiglia.