22. Love Bytes
22
LOVE BYTES
Heart & Soul Connections, Seattle, WA
ROSALIND
One day until Valentine's Day, and I'm trying very hard not to think about how I've inadvertently created the perfect romantic disaster.
Seattle's eternal grey has deepened into evening, but I'm still at my desk, surrounded by client files and the comforting smell of whatever William's panic-baking in the office kitchen. Our newest hire – recruited last week after Dani discovered his sourdough had "emotional healing properties" – has turned out to be surprisingly good for business.
Nothing puts nervous clients at ease quite like warm bread and someone more anxious than they are.
"Another batch of comfort challah?" I call out, now able to recognize the distinct aroma of his signature recipe.
"The knots told me to!" William's voice carries from the kitchen. "They say there's emotional turbulence in everyone’s auras.”
"The bread knots told you that? "
"No, um, Frank the friendship bracelet guy Dani’s dating did. But the bread agrees!"
I'm saved from responding to that particular piece of logic by my phone buzzing. Emily Hanning's name flashes across the screen for approximately the fortieth time this week.
Except when I answer, it's not Emily.
"Rosalind?" The raspy feminine voice on the other end carries that particular tone of someone used to getting what they want. “Rosalind Carpenter?”
“Uh, yes. Who is this?”
There’s hesitation. Then: “This is Jessica Gordon, Miss Carpenter. It’s nice to speak to you again after all this time.” A beat of silence passes then disappears. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
Talk? I can barely breathe, let alone form words. "I?—"
"I've been trying to reach you about the TechCast feature. Emily says you're hesitant to discuss how you matched me with James, but surely you understand?—"
The rest of her sentence disappears as Grayson walks through my office door.
He looks devastatingly handsome in his perfect suit, silver threading his temples like a sexy tinsel.
For a moment, all I can focus on is how much I want this to be real. Him coming to see me after work, bringing that slight smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners...
Then I remember I'm still on the phone with his ex-fiancée.
"I have to go," I manage, ending the call before Jessica can finish whatever she was saying. I put the office phone back on the receiver just as Grayson takes a step inside my personal office.
"Everything okay?" he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes my chest tight.
Dammit. This is not how this was supposed to go .
I was supposed to figure out my crap with Emily Hanning way before she could call in reinforcements.
And now it all feels too late.
Too late to back up. Too late to kill the story.
Too damn late to confess.
Because how the hell do you tell the man that you’re seeing-slash-not-seeing that you’re the reason his ex-fiancée found her "perfect match"? That Emily Hanning wants to write about how Seattle's most traditional matchmaker succeeded where his algorithms failed?
That you’re the reason his ex found the love of her life…one who happened to not be him?
That somewhere between spilled wine and stolen kisses, I've fallen completely, terrifyingly in love with him?
"Just work," I lie, smoothing my eighties-inspired dress – dark green wool that I definitely didn't choose because he once said it brought out my eyes. "Very prof?—"
I stop myself from saying "professional," but his slight smile suggests he heard it anyway.
"Speaking of work," he says, moving closer, "I need you to come with me."
"Now? But William's bread knots say?—"
"The bread knots can wait." He offers his hand, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious effort. "Trust me?"
Trust is the one thing I’m short on supply of right now, especially when it comes to myself. But I take Grayson’s hand anyway.
Throwing on my coat, I follow the tailored-to-a-T CEO outside.
The snow falls thicker now, transforming Seattle's evening streets into something from a vintage postcard. The city sounds grow muffled, creating a private world where each streetlamp casts a soft halo through the swirling white. Against the grey- white backdrop, Grayson's dark coat and silver-threaded hair stand out like an illustration from the kind of romance novel I pretend not to read.
Another gust of wind sends me stumbling slightly. His arm slides around my waist automatically, the gesture so natural now it makes my chest ache. The wool of his coat is soft under my fingers as I steady myself, and I find myself leaning into his warmth without conscious thought.
Jessica's words echo in my head: "Emily says you're hesitant to discuss how you matched me with James..."
The irony twists in my stomach – here I am, falling for a man whose ex-fiancée found her soulmate through my intuition rather than his algorithms. The same intuition now telling me this thing between us is becoming dangerously real.
The familiar bells chime as we enter Meet Cute, the sound mixing with the soft whisper of snow against windows. For a moment I can't process what I'm seeing.
The mismatched furniture has been subtly restored, the exposed brick carefully repointed. The ancient espresso machine gleams like new while still maintaining its characteristic personality. String lights create pools of warm light that reflect off the windows, turning the café into a glowing sanctuary from the snow-muffled world outside.
But it's the tables that catch my breath.
Each one has been set up differently, with small touches that feel hauntingly familiar. At one, a scattered chess set and two coffee cups – just like Oliver and James, the professors I introduced who fell in love over weekly chess matches. At another, medical textbooks and sheet music, like Sarah and Michael, the surgeon and the concert pianist who met during my first year here.
"How did you..." I move closer to another table, this one featuring engineering journals and poetry books. Grayson's hand slides from my waist, and I immediately miss his warmth. " Emma and David. They met here six years ago. I told you about them at dinner last week, but?—"
"I remember all of them." His voice is soft as he follows me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Every story you've told me about the couples you've matched. The chess players who took three months to finish one game because they were too busy talking. The surgeon who kept pretending to study just to hear the pianist practice next door."
He reaches past me to touch the poetry book, his chest brushing my back in a way that makes my pulse race. "The engineer who fell in love with a poet's metaphors before he even knew her name."
I turn to find him watching me with an intensity that makes breathing difficult. We're standing so close now that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. Snowflakes are melting in his dark hair, and my fingers itch to brush them away.
"I don't understand." But I'm starting to, looking around at the carefully preserved charm mixed with subtle upgrades. "Did you?—"
"Arrange to help save the shop? Yes." He runs a hand through his snow-dampened hair. "The 'rental fee' for tonight will cover the café's expenses for... quite a while. It was the only way I could think to help without?—"
"Without hurting Mrs. R’s pride." Understanding dawns. "Like someone else I know."
"I'm learning from the best." His smile holds a touch of uncertainty. "Though I have to admit, this is the first time I've attempted a grand gesture without consulting my AI."
"No optimization protocols?"
"Not one." He steps closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. "Though I did spend approximately six hours analyzing the statistical probability of you punching me for interfering."
"Only six?" But I'm smiling as I reach up to brush the melting snow from his hair. His eyes darken at my touch. "You're slipping, Mr. Dixon."
"I've been slipping since the moment you spilled wine on my shirt." His hand catches mine, pressing it against his chest where I can feel his heart racing. "Everything I thought I knew about compatibility metrics and optimization protocols... none of it matters when you're around."
The guilt about Jessica twists in my stomach. "Grayson?—"
“Just…let me get this out, Rosalind.” He grins. “Before this comes out as clunky as the human Dell computer I’m accused of being.” His other hand comes up to cup my face. "I built an entire company on the idea that the world itself can be quantified. That if you have enough data, enough variables, you can predict even the perfect love match." He laughs softly. "And then you crashed into my life with your old-school dresses and intuitive matching and completely pulled the plug on every system I'd created."
"I did ruin your shirt," I manage, though my voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.
"You ruined everything." His thumb traces my lower lip. "My algorithms don't work anymore. I can't calculate anything when you're around. Can't focus on data or protocols or—" He stops, visibly collecting himself. "The point is, I think I might be falling in love with you. The real kind, not the carefully cultivated version."
The café goes quiet except for the soft hum of the restored espresso machine and the muffled sound of snow against windows.
"If this is some kind of publicity stunt," I whisper.
"It's not." He lowers his forehead to mine. "I haven't been faking anything since that night you came into my life.”
Here it is.
The moment of truth. The moment I should tell him about Jessica. About Emily's feature and accidental matchmaking and all the ways this could fall apart.
Instead, I kiss him.
He makes a surprised sound against my mouth before pulling me closer, one hand tangling in my hair while the other splays across my back. I lean into his tall broad body as the kiss deepens, becoming something sexier—something sweeter.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"You know what this means," I prompt.
"That I'll have to reprogram my AI's communication protocols? Because Connor's grandmother has been very invested in our relationship status."
"That we’re going to have to tell everyone the truth." I pull back slightly, gathering courage. "About everything."
“I’m ready to tell people whatever you want. Just... tell me one thing first?"
"What?"
"Am I the only one feeling this? Because if I am, I'll go back to my statistics and probabilities and?—"
I cut him off with another kiss, pouring everything I can't say yet into it. About Jessica and articles and how terrified I am of losing this now that it's real.
"Just so you know," I murmur against his mouth, "I might be falling for you too. The real you, not the digitized, data-tested version."
His laugh rumbles through both our bodies. "Even my robot tendencies?"
"Especially those." I pull him closer.
This time when he kisses me, there's no pretense of professional distance. No careful calculations or strategic timing. Just Grayson.
His oversized body bowed into mine. My hands threading through the hair at his nape .
The way our bodies and mouth mold together as if finally finding the perfect fit.
Later, over pasta and wine that appears magically from somewhere (because of course Grayson thought of everything), my phone buzzes with Olivia's distinctive tone.
Did Dixon really just sweep you away from the office? Apparently, William's challah is predicting MAJOR romantic developments.
Grayson catches my smile across the small table we've claimed – the one where that shy librarian finally asked out the tattooed barista last spring. "Let me guess – William's bread is being prophetic again?"
"Olivia." I show him the text. "Apparently our exit caused quite a stir."
"Good thing Mia's insulin is covered now." His casual mention of my goddaughter's medical needs – remembering not just the fact but why it matters – makes my heart twist. "Though Derek says the new treatment is helping."
"You talk to Derek about the girls?"
He shrugs, but I catch the slight flush at his temples. "They're important to you."
My phone buzzes again. Olivia: Well??? Did he finally admit his algorithms are malfunctioning because he's in love with you?
I glance at Grayson, who's watching me with that soft expression that makes my heart melt. My fingers hover over the keys before I type:
Maybe. Not sure how long it will last, though.
Going to tell him about the Emily thing tonight. About Jessica. All of it.
Three dots appear immediately. Then: Finally. Though if he hurts you, I'm reprogramming that nosy AI assistant of his to speak only in boy band lyrics.
"Everything okay?" Grayson asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes my decision stronger .
"It will be." I set my phone aside, reaching for my glass of wine and nearly throwing it down my throat. Through the windows, the snow keeps falling harder and harder, but in here it's warm and safe and maybe, just maybe, strong enough to survive whatever truths are coming.