Page 80 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"I love you too," I whisper against his mouth, and the words shatter something in my chest. Because he doesn't know everything I am. Everything I'm planning.

The disaster isn't just his concern about the blog.

It's that I'm going to prove him right to worry.

And I still don't know how to stop.

24

THE GIFT OF DOUBT

ALEX

"No." Connor snatches my phone away, interrupting what was definitely a crucial email about quarterly projections and not at all my fifteenth check of Mac's blog since she left my place at dawn. "You are not buying your girlfriend a corporate merger for Christmas."

"I wasn't—" I start, but Grayson cuts me off.

"He's right. Also, you can't give her stock options either." He guides me through Bellevue Square's designer shops, the upscale mall decked in holiday splendor that somehow makes me feel more inadequate about gift-giving. "Though according to SecureMatch's compatibility algorithms, successful professional women in their forties tend to appreciate?—"

"If you say 'practical assets with growth potential,' I'm deleting your dating app," Connor threatens. "Besides, after last night's dinner disaster, he needs something more personal than corporate assets."

"Last night wasn't a disaster," I mutter, though Mac's evasiveness about the blog still stings twelve hours later. "It was just..."

"A disaster," Grayson confirms. "Your midnight texts about 'trust metrics' and 'information security protocols' were very convincing. Especially the one at 2 AM asking if my AI could analyze writing patterns."

The Saturday afternoon crowd parts around us like we're carrying plague instead of American Express Black cards. Possibly because three tech CEOs trying to Christmas shop looks a lot like a hostage situation.

"I don't need help shopping," I protest as they steer me toward Cartier. "I have people for that."

"Yes, and Emma specifically called us because you tried to have her schedule a 'gift acquisition strategy meeting' this morning." Connor checks his watch – a much less expensive model than mine, chosen for function over status. "Face it, Alex. You're emotionally constipated and we're your romantic Metamucil."

"That's..." Grayson winces, "a terrible analogy."

"But accurate." Connor stops us in front of the jewelry display. "Now, what does Mac like? Besides exposing corporate inequality and making you question your life choices?"

"Real helpful," I mutter, but my mind flashes to last night – Mac perched on my kitchen counter, tension under her smile as I asked about the blog's increasingly detailed posts.

The way she'd redirected every question about information sources. The too-early exit this morning, leaving only a note and the ghost of her perfume on my pillows.

"Earth to Alex." Grayson waves a hand in front of my face. "You've been staring at that sapphire like it holds the secrets to corporate trust issues."

"I'm fine."

"Sure." Connor leans against the display case. "That's why you've checked your phone six times in ten minutes, and you're straightening your tie like you did before that hostile takeover in '19."

"Remember when our biggest problem was convincing Alex to ask Jessica Martin to the Stanford Spring Formal?" Grayson muses. "Now we're shopping for the woman who threw champagne at him then stole his corporate-issue heart."

"Jessica didn't stand me up," I say automatically. "She had mono."

"For six weeks after mysteriously transferring schools?" Grayson raises an eyebrow. "Sure. And Mac didn't leave your place at dawn because something's wrong."

I turn sharply. "How did you?—"

"Your texts, remember? 'Gray, you up? Need to talk about information security.' Then at 3 AM: 'Your AI any good at analyzing trust variables?'" He scrolls through his phone. "Followed by what I assume was drunk coding because none of those algorithms would actually work."

"I wasn't drunk."

"No, just spiraling about corporate leaks and relationship trust issues." Connor drags us to Tiffany's, where a holiday display of diamonds catches the winter sunlight streaming through skylights. Seattle's latest snowfall has turned the world outside into a blanket of white, making everything feel magical and somehow more complicated.

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