Page 13 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

Joel Franklin's ex-wife happens to be my biggest competitor? And she happens to crash his engagement party the exact night I need a date?

"Though I have to admit, your timing is... convenient."

"Convenient?" She arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and I find myself cataloging the exact shade of amber in her eyes. For data purposes, obviously.

"Douglas Franklin was about to demand I explain why Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor is still single the same week his dating app launches and his ex announces her engagement."

"And I conveniently provided you with a girlfriend."

"While inconveniently destroying a thousand-dollar shirt."

"A thousand—Who pays a thousand dollars for a shirt?"

"Someone who's expected to look like he has all the answers." I run a hand through my hair, a tell I thought I'd eliminated years ago. My sister Natasha would be laughing if she could see me now. "Even when his dating app's numbers are falling short of projections and the press is having a field day with his ex's engagement."

She tilts her head, studying me. The rain has startedmaking her dress cling in ways that are definitely interfering with my ability to maintain logical thought patterns.

"So what now?" she asks. "We just pretend we've been secretly dating?"

I calculate rapidly: investor confidence vs. press coverage, market perception vs. actual metrics, the probability of pulling off this particular deception in Seattle's incestuous tech circle. "Unless you'd prefer I let Beatrice Franklin announce to everyone that you crashed the party?"

"You wouldn't."

I let my smile sharpen into what Connor calls my 'board meeting smirk.' "Try me."

Inside, the party continues its elegant swirl of Seattle's tech elite, but out here, with the rain creating a natural sound barrier, I can actually think. Process. Analyze. Even if every algorithm in my head is struggling to categorize the woman in front of me.

She shivers slightly – temperature approximately 48 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity 82%, her dress definitely not designed for January in Seattle. But she doesn't move closer to the warmth of the ballroom. Interesting.

"You realize this is insane," she says, attempting to cross her arms but wobbling slightly on her heels. I reach out to steady her automatically, my hand finding her elbow. Her skin is cool from the rain but she radiates a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.

"Completely illogical," I agree, noting how she doesn't immediately pull away. "Which is exactly why it might work."

"Work? For who?" She tries to step back but those heels – approximately four inches, Louboutin by the red sole, probably borrowed given how she's handling them – betray her again. "You realize I represent everything your soulless algorithm is trying to replace?"

"And you realize my 'soulless algorithm' is currently eatinginto your client base?" I can smell her perfume now, something warm and spicy. "We could help each other."

“’Help each other’? The storytelling billionaire who thinks love can be reduced to data points and the matchmaker who?—"

"Who just crashed her ex's engagement party wearing what I'm guessing is a very expensive revenge dress?"

"It's vintage Valentino," she says with the kind of defensiveness that tells me there's a story there.

"Of course it is." I find myself fighting another smile. When was the last time I smiled this much during a business negotiation? "Look, we both have something to prove. I need to show investors that SecureMatch works—that I understand relationships beyond algorithms. You need to prove Heart & Soul Connections can compete in today's market."

She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like "not helping" – though I'm not sure who she's talking to. Another variable that doesn't quite compute.

"What's not helping?" I ask.

"Nothing. Just... thinking out loud." She steps back, this time managing to keep her balance. The movement shouldn't feel like a loss. "So what exactly are you proposing?"

"A merger of sorts."

"Excuse me?"

"Not our companies," I clarify, though my business mind is already running the numbers on that particular possibility. "Just our public images. Six weeks of carefully crafted dating. We both get what we need, then an amicable parting of ways after Valentine's Day."

"Valentine's Day?"

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