Page 21 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Ms. Carpenter." His voice carries that same whiskey warmth from this morning. “You know, I really wish you had a let me pick you up. This is supposed to be a date.”

“And miss the look on your face when it’s already too late to make me go in the house and change?”

“I would have done no such thing.” He gives me a once-over. “You look..."

"Like a sexy Excel spreadsheet?"

His lips twitch. "I was going to say 'different.'"

"Different good or different 'what happened to the vintage-loving matchmaker I fake-kissed last ‘night?”

"Different interesting." He offers his arm. "Ready to convince Seattle's tech elite we're madly in love?"

"Professionally, mutually beneficial-ly in love," I correct, taking his arm. His body heat seeps through the expensive fabric, and I try not to lean in like a house-cat cozying up in the sun.

We're halfway up the steps when my phone buzzes. Dani again:EMERGENCY. Duncan's kimchi exploded. Angus claims bagpipe music accelerated fermentation. William crying about sourdough contamination. I think I swallowed more than I can chew.

I show Grayson the text. "Still think algorithms are more complicated than human relationships?"

For a moment, something that might be actual amusement crosses his face. Then the museum doors open, spilling out light and music and Seattle's wealthiest tech pioneers, and his CEO mask slides back into place.

Game time.

The Museum of Innovation's main hall has been transformed into what I can only describe as Silicon Valley's version of Versailles. Interactive displays showcase the latest tech while waiters circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres that would make Marie Antoinette feel impoverished.

"Remember," Grayson murmurs as we enter, "according to the contract, section twelve, paragraph?—"

"No public displays of affection beyond hand-holding unless cameras are present," I finish. "I read the manual."

"It's not a manual, it's a?—"

"Legally binding agreement quantifying every aspect of our fake relationship, including but not limited to approved conversation topics and coordinated workout schedules?"

The corner of his mouth twitches again. "You really did read it."

"Unlike some people, I don't need an algorithm to do my homework."

Before he can respond, Douglas Franklin materializes like a venture capital ghost, his Brooks Brothers suit practically radiating money.

"Grayson! And... Rosalind." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I didn't expect... that is, I assumed after last night’s party…”

"That I'd keep our star CEO away from public events?" I screw on my best society smile. "Now what kind of girlfriend would that make me?"

"Speaking of girlfriends," a familiar voice cuts in, "or should I say ex-girlfriends?"

A woman nearby takes a step forward. With hair the color of a brawny sunset and a silky violet dress on, the woman I now recognize from the internet as Emily Hanning, TechCast's most relentless reporter, appears with the kind of timing that makes me suspect she's been lurking behind anearby AI display. Her press badge gleams like a warning sign.

"Emily." Grayson's hand tightens on my waist. "I wasn't aware TechCast covered charity events."

"Oh, we cover all kinds of things." Her smile would make sharks nervous. "Like how Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor found love the old-fashioned way—with the city's premier traditional matchmaker. Though that does raise some interesting questions about SecureMatch's effectiveness..."

"Actually," I cut in, "Grayson and I met at?—"

"The gym's coffee shop," he says.

"At six AM," we finish in unison.

Emily's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Really? Because I could have sworn?—"

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