Page 26 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Noted. I'll have dinner delivered." Another pause. "And Rosalind?"

"Yes?"

"The green cardigan looks nice on you."

I glance up sharply, but he's already hung up. Through my office windows, I spot a sleek black Aston Martin pulling away from the curb.

Has he been watching my office?

Before I can process that, my door bursts open again. This time it's Dani, looking slightly singed around the edges.

"So," she announces, "good news and bad news. Good news: the pickle-bagpipe situation is resolved. Bad news: we may need to repaint the lobby. Also, William's now writing a K-pop opera about fermentation. Apparently, my nieces were very inspiring."

I drop my head to my desk, narrowly missing my spilled coffee.

Five and a half weeks until Valentine's Day. Five and a half more weeks of fake-dating my ex-father-in-law’s biggest investment—a man whose love life I’m responsible for ruining.

What could possibly go wrong?

8

SHEET-SPREADING, ANYONE?

Downtown Seattle,WA

GRAYSON

"Statistically speaking," I tell my best friends' faces on my tablet screen, "there's a seventy-eight percent chance of snow tonight."

"If you say 'statistically speaking' one more time," Connor threatens from his video window, "I'm telling your AI to play 'All By Myself' every time you enter your penthouse."

"You don't have that authority." I pause. "Do you?"

“God, you know so little about my skills, robot boy."

In his own video panel, Alex looks like he's either having a stroke or trying not to laugh. "Can we focus? My engagement party is falling apart and all you two can talk about is weather algorithms?"

"To be fair," Connor points out, "Gray's weather algorithms are probably more stable than your party plans."

He's not wrong. In the interminable days since his surprisingly successful proposal at La Famiglia, Alex has changed the engagement party venue six times, menu concepts twelve times, and theme approximately every four hours.

"The aquarium said no to the synchronized swimming proposal reenactment," Alex reports. "Apparently, live fish and underwater choreography don't mix."

"Shocking." I minimize a notification from my AI about the latest social media metrics regarding my "relationship" with Rosalind. "What about the original plan? The Four Seasons penthouse is classic, elegant?—"

"And where every media hound will be circling like piranhas waiting to get pictures and scoop," Connor cuts in. "Maybe read the room, Mr. Algorithm."

Right. Sometimes I forget how under a microscope my social circles can be. Especially since a certain auburn-haired matchmaker crashed my investor's son's party and turned my life into a reporter-salivating spectacle.

"The Space Needle's booked through March," Alex continues, passing fingers through his already messy dark hair. "The Chihuly Garden wants a million-dollar deposit in case the flash mob breaks anything?—"

"Flash mob?" Connor and I echo.

"Mac likes dancing!"

"Mac," I remind him, "is also part-owner of an Italian restaurant, who once threatened to ban TikTok dances from her family’s establishment."

"That was one time. And only because someone tried to film a pasta challenge during dinner rush." Alex's face takes on that particular panic I've come to associate with engagement-related spirals. "But now the venue's falling through, and the caterer quit because I kept changing the menu concept, and?—"

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