Page 27 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"I'll help," I offer, mostly to stop him hyperventilating.

Two identical looks of disbelief fill my screen.

"You?" Connor asks. "Mr. 'I Need an Algorithm to Choose My Breakfast'?"

"I don't—" I start, but my AI chooses that moment to announce:"Sir, based on current metabolic data and weatherpatterns, I recommend the steel-cut oatmeal with precision-measured protein supplementation."

"Thanks, CORA," I mutter.

"You named your AI CORA?" Connor's grin turns wicked. "Let me guess—Compatibility and Optimization Relationship Assistant?"

"Actually, it's Computational Optimization and Research Assistant," I correct, then immediately regret it as both my friends dissolve into laughter.

"I'm sorry," Alex wheezes, "but you really think you can plan a romantic engagement party? You? The guy who needed an app to tell him what flowers to buy his ex?"

"The app was very efficient?—"

"You got her systematically organized spreadsheets of flower varieties!"

"Which were arranged by season and optimal growing conditions?—"

A knock at my door cuts off what I'm sure would have been another round of mockery. Through the glass walls of my home office, I spot a familiar figure in the foyer.

Rosalind.

For our strictly business meeting about managing press coverage of our fake relationship.

Which I definitely haven't been thinking about all day.

"Gotta go," I tell my friends. "Business meeting."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Connor waggles his eyebrows.

"You know," Alex muses, "Mac mentioned that Roz makes amazing tiramisu. Maybe for the engagement party?—"

I end the call before he can finish that particular disaster waiting to happen. "CORA, door."

"Of course, sir. Though may I point out that your heart rate has elevated by?—"

"Door, CORA. Just the door."

The smart locks disengage with a soft click. In an oversized dark coat, Rosalind steps in, and my carefully regulated penthouse suddenly feels different. Warmer, somehow. Less like a tech showcase and more like...

“Sorry to barge in. Your house manager Talia let me in. And then your AI just asked me about my feelings regarding automated climate control," she announces by way of greeting. "Is that normal?"

"She's thorough. And “by ‘she’, I mean the AI.” I gesture to the stack of media reports spread across my desk. "Speaking of thorough, Emily Hanning's been reaching out to everyone from my PR team to my college roommate. We need a strategy."

"What exactly is she after?" Rosalind settles into one of my ergonomic office chairs, though she somehow makes it look graceful instead of efficient.

"Details about our relationship. Timeline inconsistencies. She's particularly interested in how we really met." I don't mention the three other reporters who've started digging. "If we don't get our story straight?—"

"Douglas Franklin finds out it's all fake and pulls his investment," she finishes. "I know. I got cornered by two lifestyle bloggers at my coffee shop this morning. Apparently, our 'meet cute' is trending."

"Hence tonight's meeting." I pull up a presentation on my tablet. "I've prepared a detailed analysis of successful relationship narratives in the tech sector, including key milestone timelines and optimal public appearance schedules—" I motion to the kitchen, and Roz follows. "CORA, privacy mode please."

"Activating privacy mode. Though I feel compelled to note that your body temperature has increased by?—"

"Thank you, CORA."

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