Page 22 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Emily!" Douglas Franklin booms. "Have you seen the new quantum computing display? Fascinating stuff. Very... quantum." He practically drags her away, leaving Grayson and me in a bubble of awkward silence.

"That was close," I mutter.

"Too close." He guides me toward a less crowded corner, his hand still warm against my back. "We need to coordinate our story better."

"What's wrong with the coffee shop?"

"Nothing, except you flinch every time we mention it. And you're still wearing vintage earrings with your new dress."

I touch the pearl drops self-consciously. "They were my grandmother's."

"They don't match the image?—"

"The image of the perfect tech girlfriend? Sorry, I left my robot costume at home."

His whiskey-brown eyes narrow. "That's not?—"

My phone buzzes again. Dani:Update: Pickle juice corroded through lobby floor. Angus trying to bagpipe away toxic fumes. May need new office space.

"Problems?" Grayson asks.

"Nothing compared to convincing your investors we're compatible." I gesture at the room full of Seattle's elite. "Look at them. They probably summer in Silicon Valley and winter in tax shelters."

"Most actually summer in the San Juan Islands," he corrects. At my look, he adds, "What? It's a statistically significant trend."

"Of course it is." I accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, wondering if there's an approved drinking protocol in our contract. "Just like there's probably a statistically significant correlation between venture capital funding and golf handicaps."

"Actually, it's tennis rankings." His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. "Though there is an interesting pattern involving yacht ownership and?—"

"Grayson!" A woman who looks like she stepped out of a Tech Wives of Seattle casting call approaches. "Darling, you must introduce me to your... friend."

Friend. The way she says it makes it clear she's read every tabloid speculation about our relationship.

"Vivian." Grayson's CEO voice is back. "This is Rosalind Carpenter, my?—"

"Girlfriend," I finish, sliding closer to him. Two can play this game. "Though really, labels are so... algorithmic, don't you think?"

Vivian blinks, clearly thrown. "I... suppose? Though speaking of algorithms, I was just telling Harrison—you remember my husband, the one developing that blockchain solution for pet food distribution?—about SecureMatch's latest user retention statistics..."

My phone vibrates again. Without looking, I know it's either Dani updating me on the pickle apocalypse or Emily Hanning demanding answers about Jessica's match. Instead of checking,I lean into Grayson's side, playing the role of supportive girlfriend while he explains something about engagement metrics that probably makes sense to people who summer in the San Juans.

The party swirls around us, a tech-meets-Gatsby blur of designer labels and startup pitches. I catch fragments of conversations about Series A funding and NFT marketplaces, watch Seattle's elite navigate social algorithms more complex than anything SecureMatch could code.

And through it all, Grayson's hand stays warm against my back, his presence simultaneously grounding and unsettling.

Every time he shifts, every accidental brush of contact sends little sparks through my designer dress. Sparks that don’t compute coming from a man who’s a control freak wrapped in good fabric.

Definitely not my type. I don’t think…

"Rosalind?" His voice breaks through my thoughts. "Vivian was asking about your approach to matching clients..."

Of course. Because I'm not just arm candy—I'm supposedly the woman who cracked the code of love better than his precious algorithms.

I open my mouth to deliver my practiced speech about intuition versus data, but before I can start, a commotion erupts near the quantum computing display.

"Is that... bagpipe music?" Grayson asks.

Horror dawns as I recognize the opening notes of "Scotland the Brave" floating over the crowd.

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