Page 28 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

Blessed silence falls. Well, relative silence. Seattle's evening traffic creates a soft backdrop thirty-eight floors below, and thepredicted snow has turned to the city's signature drizzle, tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"So," Rosalind says, shrugging off her coat to reveal an A-lined, 50’s-inspired dress that definitely isn't corporate-approved. "This is where Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor lives?"

"According to this morning's blog posts, I'm no longer eligible."

"Right. Because you're dating the crazy woman who crashed Joel Franklin's party and ruined your shirt." She runs a finger along my Italian marble breakfast bar. "Very... minimalist."

"Efficient," I correct, trying not to track the way she moves through my space like she's cataloging every detail. "The kitchen is fully automated?—"

"Of course it is."

"—and dinner should be here any minute."

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s Talia.

“Sorry, Mr. Dixon,” the message reads. “The delivery service was apologetic, at least. They say due to unexpected weather conditions and traffic patterns, your order has been canceled.”

I show Roz the message. "I suppose we could order something else?—"

"Or," she says, already opening my refrigerator, "we could actually cook something. You do know how to cook, right?"

"I have an app for that."

She turns to stare at me, one hand still on the refrigerator door. "Please tell me you're joking."

I'm not, but something about her expression makes me want to defend myself. "I have a chef. Had. She's off tonight because I thought we'd be having a business dinner."

"Right. Business." She surveys my kitchen's pristine surfaces. "Well, Mr. Efficiency, let's see what we can do with... exactly three eggs, some sad-looking vegetables, and..." She peers into the fridge. "Is this kimchi?"

“Your new hire, uh, Dani?” She nods, and I shrug. “She gave that to me on my way out of your office the other day. Says it’s a gift from her pickle-making friend. Apparently, he's branching out."

"Of course he is." She starts gathering ingredients with the same confidence she showed at the museum. "Okay, Chef Dixon, time to learn how to make a proper frittata."

"I don't?—"

"First rule of cooking: no algorithms allowed."

I watch her move around my kitchen like she owns it, pulling out pans and utensils I forgot I had. "You seem... comfortable with this."

"Nonna Flora taught me the basics after my divorce," she says, expertly chopping vegetables. "Said a woman can't survive on takeout and spite alone."

"Spite seems to be working fine for you so far."

She points a knife at me, but there's a smile playing at her lips. "Dice these onions, smart guy. And try not to create a spreadsheet about optimal cutting angles."

“I’ll have you know that was one time, and Connor promised never to tell that story."

Her laugh, full and raspy, does something to our chest that my lawyer sure didn’t cover in the contract. For a few minutes, we work in comfortable silence—her chopping with practiced ease, me trying not to calculate the most efficient vegetable-to-egg ratio.

"So," she says finally, "how does a tech genius end up with no food in his house?"

"I have food. It's just... precisely portioned."

"By your AI?"

"CORA helps optimize my nutrition intake based on—" I catch her expression. "Right. No algorithms in the kitchen."

"You know, some people actually enjoy a little spontaneity in their lives." She adds the vegetables to a pan with a sizzle. "Like Sunday dinner at La Famiglia. No planning, no schedules. Just good food and better company."

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