16. Control-Z My Heart
16
CONTROL-Z MY HEART
Mountain Cabin, Outside Seattle, WA
ROSALIND
Nine days until Valentine's Day, and I'm trapped in a Range Rover with a man who looks like a wet dream come true in a cashmere sweater while Seattle's worst snowstorm in decades tries to bury us alive.
"You look tense,” Grayson observes as we navigate the winding mountain road. "Nervous about the cabin?"
"Nervous about your driving," I counter, though really I'm more distracted by the way his sweater hangs on his broad shoulders. "Though your AI probably has contingency plans for everything from avalanches to zombie apocalypses."
"CORA's protocols are very thorough," he agrees, then grins at my expression. "That was a joke, Rosalind."
"Did you just... attempt humor? Quick, someone check the statistical probability of that happening."
My phone buzzes. Olivia: Twin yogis still doing synchronized sun salutations in lobby. Dani fascinated. William baking granola. I’m starting to lose my patience with this crap
“Everything good?” Grayson asks as I type a response .
“Depends on your definition of good, since Dani's latest matches are currently showing off their... flexibility." I show him the photo Olivia just sent of two identical men performing what appears to be an advanced partner pose in our waiting room. "Apparently they're very into... alignment."
His laugh—deep and rumbling—fills the car's warm interior. "Your HR situations are definitely more interesting than mine."
"Says the man whose AI tried to assess the proper first date conversation topics."
“Only twice.” But he's still smiling as he navigates another snow-covered turn. "And it was very efficient."
"Of course it was." I definitely don't watch the way his forearms flex as he shifts gears. "Everything about you is efficient."
"Not everything," he murmurs, and suddenly the car feels very small.
Another text from Olivia distracts me: Good news - new client surge means we can cover everyone’s health insurance this month! Can cover Mia’s insulin for another six months. Bad news - yogis now teaching William chakra-aligned baking techniques.
The reminder of why we're doing this – fake dating, publicity, saving both our businesses – sobers me slightly. But then Grayson's hand brushes mine as he reaches for his coffee in the middle console, and my body forgets all about professional distance.
The cabin appears through the swirling snow like something from a holiday movie – all warm wood and stone, with huge windows and a wraparound porch currently decorated with icicles.
"Home sweet home," Grayson says as we park. "At least for the weekend."
"This is where you made that famous bachelor pact?" I ask, remembering Connor's stories .
"We were young and stupid." He grabs our bags from the trunk. "And possibly drunk on very expensive scotch."
"Ah yes, the natural habitat of the wild tech bro in his twenties."
"Says the woman who literally locked her best friends in a supply closet together."
"That was matchmaking! And it was all very professional."
"Of course it was."
The cabin's interior is exactly what you'd expect from three tech billionaires' weekend retreat – all clean lines and modern amenities barely disguised as rustic charm. Though someone (probably Connor) has added what appears to be a life-sized cardboard cutout of Captain Kirk to the living room.
"Don't ask," Grayson says, following my gaze. "Alex lost a bet."
"I have so many questions."
"None of which I'm answering." He starts checking systems with the kind of focused competence I’ve come to expect from him. "The snow’s getting worse. We should make sure everything's..." He trails off, distracted by my attempt to unknot my scarf.
"Everything's what?"
"Functioning properly," he finishes, but his eyes linger on where my hair has escaped its careful twist, falling around my shoulders in what the snow has turned into auburn waves.
The cabin's warmth means I can shrug off my coat, revealing the 70’s-inspired sweater dress that may have been chosen to make certain tech CEOs forget about algorithms.
Grayson swallows visibly. "I should check the generators."
“That would be a good idea.”
“Glad you think so,” he agrees, but he doesn't move.
We might have stayed there, caught in whatever this is becoming, if Grayson phone hadn't buzzed again.
His handsome face furrows as I watch him .
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He shrugs, and looks up at me. I don’t move. “Well…it’s Douglas. He’s sent me a last-minute invitation to Joel and Samantha’s joint wedding shower. Actually, the invitation is for the both of us. You and me.”
Neither of us move a muscle for several seconds.
Until I break the spell.
I step away, adjusting my dress. "We should probably..."
“Take care of the cabin prep?" He runs a hand through his dark, snow-dampened hair, which only makes it more annoyingly perfect. “That is what we came to do.”
The next few hours pass in a blur of actual work punctuated by moments of whatever this thing between us is becoming. Every time Grayson reaches past me to check something, every accidental brush of contact as we de-bachelor the cabin (goodbye, Captain Kirk), sends little sparks through my vintage wool dress.
"So," he says eventually, as we're sorting through what appears to be the aftermath of several epic gaming tournaments, "about the wedding shower..."
"Ah yes, nothing says 'I'm totally fine with my ex marrying my cousin' like watching them open monogrammed towels."
"We don't have to go."
"Pretty sure your investor would disagree." I hold up what appears to be a lightsaber. "Do I want to know?"
"Alex went through a phase." He takes it, hand brushing mine longer than necessary. "And Douglas doesn't control everything."
"Says the man whose AI coordinates his coffee intake."
"CORA is very concerned about my caffeine levels," he deadpans, and suddenly we're both laughing.
I glance up, realizing that the sun has set. Evening has snuck on us like a thief in the night, and the cabin's massive windows frame the intensifying snowfall, creating a cozy backdrop that makes everything feel intimate. Warm. Real.
"You know," I say, watching snowflakes spiral past, "I thought by our forties we'd be past all this. The showers, the parties, the whole... production."
"The statistical probability of escaping social obligations apparently doesn't improve with age." He moves closer, ostensibly to check the fireplace. "Though some things do get better."
"Like what?"
"Like knowing what you want." His voice drops to that register that makes thinking difficult. "Even if it doesn't fit into any algorithm."
Before I can process that, the lights flicker. Once, twice, then darkness.
"Backup generators should—" Grayson starts, just as emergency power kicks in, bathing everything in soft light.
"Very efficient," I tease.
"I try." But he's already building a fire, the kind of practical competence that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is.
Warm light fills the space as flames catch, creating shadows that dance across Grayson's aristocratic features. He's rolled up his sweater sleeves, revealing forearms that could have been designed by a committee of efficiency experts.
"So," he says once the fire's crackling steadily, "since we're stuck here..."
"Very professionally," I add, sitting on the great room’s oversized couch.
"Of course." But his smile suggests otherwise as he settles beside me on the obscenely comfortable sofa. "Want to tell me the real story about Joel?"
I blink. "What makes you think there's more story?"
"The way you flinch every time someone mentions the Four Seasons ballroom." His thigh presses against mine, warm through layers of wool and cashmere. "The same way I probably flinch when people bring up Jessica."
Maybe it's the fire's warmth, or the snow creating the illusion of privacy, or just the way he's looking at me – like he actually wants to know, not just gather data.
"He proposed there," I hear myself say. "Big romantic gesture, exactly like I'd helped plan for dozens of clients. I actually thought it meant he finally understood what I was trying to build with Heart & Soul – this idea that real connection matters more than surface compatibility."
"What happened?" Grayson's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining naturally.
"I gave Samantha a job. My own cousin, fresh off her divorce, needed help getting back on her feet. So I brought her into Heart & Soul, taught her everything I knew about connecting people." I laugh, but the sound comes out choked. "Turns out she was more interested in connecting with my husband."
"The probability of that level of betrayal..."
"Can't be calculated? The worst part wasn't even the affair. It was watching her become exactly what Joel wanted – this perfect, agreeable venture capital wife with no opinions of her own. Everything I wasn't."
"Everything you wouldn't lower yourself to become," he corrects softly.
"Maybe." I stare into the fire. "You know what Joel said when I found out? That Samantha 'fit better into his world.' Like love is just another merger and acquisition deal."
"Sounds familiar." His thumb traces patterns on my palm. “Like father, like son.”
“Pretty much.” I squeeze his hand. "Your turn. Jessica?"
He's quiet for a moment, his thumb still absentmindedly moving.
"We were the perfect match on paper," he says finally. "Same background, same goals, complementary skill sets... I actually created an algorithm to prove it."
"Of course you did."
“It’s my thing.” But he's smiling slightly. "Anyway, turns out some variables can't be measured. Like the fact that she fell in love with her startup co-founder while we were still engaged."
I swallow hard. “Is that why you created SecureMatch? To make love logical?"
"To make it make sense," he corrects softly. "Though lately I'm starting to think some things aren't meant to be systematic."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney as snow continues to fall outside. Between the storm and the generators, we're in our own little world – one where professional distance and careful calculations seem less important than the way Grayson's watching me.
"We should probably get some sleep," I say eventually, though I don't move. “Probably a good idea to be well-rested for tomorrow's prep work."
“It would be a great idea,” he agrees, but his voice has that rough edge that makes my pulse jump.
He walks me to my room because of course he does – all that programming apparently included gentleman subroutines. We pause at the threshold, and suddenly all those romance novel clichés about charged moments and crackling tension make perfect sense.
"Well," I start. "This was very..."
I don't finish because suddenly his mouth is on mine, and it's nothing like our previous kisses.
Those were performances, calculated for maximum impact. This is... something else. Something real.
His hands frame my face as I grip his sweater, pulling him closer. He tastes like coffee and snow and possibilities that definitely can't be coded into any spreadsheet.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard .
"That was..." I manage.
"Statistically improbable," he finishes, but he's smiling – the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Very unprofessional."
"Completely inefficient."
Neither of us moves away.
Through the window, snow continues to spiral into unpredictable paths. Kind of like...
My phone buzzes one final time.
Olivia: Update: William now baking chakra-aligned sourdough while yogis demonstrate headstands. Dani considering joint Instagram account
He steps back, carding a few fingers through his already disheveled hair. "We should probably..."
"Be professional?" My voice sounds unsteady even to me.
"Right. Professional." But he's still watching my mouth, and suddenly all those careful algorithms seem very far away.
"Grayson..."
The rest of my sentence disappears as he closes the distance between us, one hand cupping my jaw while the other slides into my hair. This kiss is different – deeper, hungrier, like he's finally stopped calculating and started feeling.
As Grayson's hand cups my jaw, his thumb gently tracing my cheekbone, I can feel the roughness of his skin, a contrast to the softness of his sweater. His other hand is tangled in my hair, the slight tug sending shivers down my spine. The heat of his body presses against mine, pinning me to the doorframe, and I can feel the steady rhythm of his heart against my chest.
His lips move against mine, no longer hesitant but urgent—hungry. I can taste the remnants of his coffee, bitter and rich, and something else entirely his own. His tongue explores my mouth, not invading but inviting, and I respond in kind, my hands tightening in his sweater, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens, and I can feel the heat of his body intensifying, or maybe it's mine. His hand leaves my jaw, tracing a path down my neck, his fingers lingering on my pulse point before continuing downwards. Barely skimming the surface of my skin, his touch is light, yet it leaves a trail of fire in its wake.
His hand reaches the small of my back, pressing gently, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel the hard planes of Grayson’s body, the lean muscle hidden beneath his clothes. His thigh slips between mine, and I can feel the roughness of his jeans against my inner thigh. I gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further.
His hand moves from my back, tracing the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist, the swell of my breast. Instinctively, my body bends towards his touch, a soft sound escaping my throat before he breaks the kiss.
I whimper, instantly missing his mouth, shocked when I realize…
His lips are trailing down my jaw, his stubble scraping against my skin. He presses a kiss to that same pulse point in my neck, his tongue darting out to taste my skin.
Tracing the collar of my dress, Gray’s ravenous mouth moves lower, while his hand moves to the zipper at the back of my dress, slowly pulling it down. The cool air of the cabin hits my skin as his hand slips inside, tracing the line of my spine.
If he wanted, I would let him undress me right where I stand. That’s how much I need him.
For a man who needs probabilities and statistics and numbers before his every move, he’s doing just fine without them.
In fact, it’s the spontaneity in Grayson Dixon that shows where his magic lies.
When he’s unburdened by that big brain of his, his body can do amazing things.
Right now, they’re doing a thousand amazing things—all at once. To me .
I can feel the the hardness of his muscles, the evidence of his desire pressing against me. I can feel the heat of his touch, the roughness of his skin, the gentle pressure of his fingers.
And each of them turns me into mush.
With Grayson, I am no longer a functional human being.
Just a body—pulsing. Hot. And wet, beyond belief.
Suddenly, he steps back. I can see the desire in his gaze, the hunger, the need. But I can also see the conflict, the hesitation, the question.
"Rosalind," he starts, his voice rough, unsteady. "We should... We should stop."
I nod.
Because he's right. We should stop. This is unprofessional. This is inefficient. This is...
Complicated.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
And as if on cue, the real world comes buzzing in with the force of a statistical anomaly. My phone vibrates in my dress’s hip pocket.
Probably Olivia with more updates about chakra-aligned baking techniques, or Douglas Franklin with publicity requirements, or any number of reminders that this isn't real.
Can't be real.
"I should..." I back towards the bedroom door, stepping away. Away from the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the way he's looking at me like I'm a variable he can't quite solve.
"Goodnight, Grayson," I manage.
I slip into my room, closing the door behind me. I lean against it, one long breath releasing from my lungs, my skin still tingling from my fake boyfriend’s touch.