Page 12 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"The numbers, Grayson!" Douglas calls after us.

"The photos!" Samantha shouts.

"The bracelet!" Beatrice's voice carries with surprising force for someone so Botoxed.

Through my earpiece, I hear Olivia say, "Dani, cut them off at the west entrance. I'll create a distraction in the lobby."

"Way ahead of you," Dani replies, and suddenly there's a crash from the direction of the bar, followed by Samantha's distinctive squeal.

Grayson uses the moment of chaos to guide me through a set of French doors onto a deserted balcony. The January air hits like a splash of reality, and as his hand drops from my waist, the full weight of what just happened crashes over me.

I, Rosalind Carpenter, professional matchmaker and supposed expert in relationships, just:

1. Crashed my ex-husband's engagement party to my cousin

2. Spilled wine on Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor

3. Pretended to be said bachelor's secret girlfriend

4. In front of my ex’s father (who seems to be working with said bachelor), and at least three photographers

And not just any tech bachelor.

Grayson Dixon.

CEO of SecureMatch. The man whose dating app is systematically destroying my business with its promise of matchmaking perfection.

The same man who's now leaning against the balcony railing, looking disturbingly attractive as the Seattle skyline glitters behind him through the misty rain.

So much for networking at this party.

4

TUX & SPILLS: A LOVE STORY

GRAYSON

Note to self: when your primary investor demands you explain why you're still single the same week your dating app launches and your ex announces her engagement, don't improvise. Especially not with a woman who just ruined your favorite shirt.

I lean against the balcony railing, watching the woman who may have just saved – or completely destroyed – my evening.

The slushy rain is picking up, turning Seattle's skyline into a soft blur of lights behind her. In the dim glow from the ballroom, her auburn hair catches the light like copper wire, and the vintage dress she's wearing...

Focus, Dixon. Analyze the variables.

"So," I say, studying her with the same attention I usually reserve for complex algorithms. "Heart & Soul matchmaking.”

"So," Rosalind Carpenter counters, crossing her arms in what I calculate is defensive posture #3. "SecureMatch."

I nod, feeling myself shrug. "You know, when I woke up this morning, I didn't expect to be fake-dating my biggest competitor by evening."

"When I woke up this morning, I didn't expect to be ruining a tech billionaire's shirt while crashing my ex-husband's engagement party to my cousin, yet here we are."

Her voice carries a hint of something I can't quite quantify – maybe amusement, maybe panic. Either way, it’s the kind of emotional variable my algorithms still struggle to parse. But there's something compelling about the way she's holding herself, like she's one wrong move away from either fleeing or fighting.

"Interesting choice of event to crash," I say, running probability scenarios in my head.

The statistical likelihood of this particular collision of circumstances has to be astronomically low.

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