Page 35 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

A pause. "Everything okay?"

"Probably just wants to critique my love life like everyone else in Seattle." I aim for light, but even I can hear the worry in my voice. Meet Cute has been my second home since that fateful speed-dating night where I met Olivia fifteen years ago. "I'll call you after?"

"I could meet you there," he offers. "Keep up appearances."

Right. Appearances. Because that's all this is.

"Sure," I answer. “That would be professionally beneficial."

Through the glass walls of my office, I spot what appears to be a man in full chainmail approaching our building.

"Gotta go," I tell Grayson. "I think Sir Galahad has arrived to defend Dani's honor again."

"Sir who?—"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

I end the call just as our newest knight errant burststhrough the doors, brandishing what I really hope is a foam sword.

"Fair maiden!" he announces to a startled Dani. "I come bearing news of great import!"

"Inside voice, Chad," she reminds him. "Remember what we discussed about modern courtship protocols?"

"But hark! A rival approaches!" He points his sword at a very confused DoorDash delivery guy. "Dost thou dare challenge my claim to the lady's affections?"

"Uh..." The delivery guy holds up a paper bag. "I just have a lunch order for William?"

"A likely story, varlet!"

I leave Dani mediating between her medieval suitor and our potentially sword-threatened lunch delivery, heading out into Seattle's perpetual January drizzle. The weather forecast keeps threatening snow, but so far we've just gotten increasingly dramatic rain.

Meet Cute Coffee Co. looks exactly like it has for the past decade and a half—warm lights glowing against exposed brick, mismatched armchairs arranged for optimal conversation, and the kind of atmosphere that makes even Seattle's tech elite put down their phones occasionally.

Mrs. Rodriguez is behind the counter, gray hair escaping her bun as she argues with her ancient espresso machine.

"Rosalind!" She brightens when she spots me. "Good, you're here. This machine your tech boyfriend gave me is too smart for its own good. Keeps trying to tell me how to make cortados. I've been making cortados since before it was born!"

"He's not my—wait, Grayson gave you an espresso machine?"

"Said something about 'optimizing beverage preparation protocols.'" She wipes her hands on her apron. "But that's not why I called you here."

My stomach drops. "Mrs. R, if this is about the rent?—"

"It's about all of it." She sighs, looking around her beloved cafe. "Times are changing, mijita. People don't meet in coffee shops anymore. They swipe right, let algorithms tell them who to love."

"That's not true," I protest, but even I can hear the uncertainty. "Just last week we had three successful first dates here!"

"And how many of those came from your matchmaking service versus dating apps?"

I busy myself with a napkin dispenser.

"Exactly." She pats my hand. "Don't worry about me. My nephew's been trying to get me to retire to Florida for years."

"Florida? But you hate Florida!"

"I hate going out of business more." She straightens as the bell above the door chimes. "Speaking of business..."

Grayson walks in, looking like he was photoshopped from a men’s catalogue in what has to be a custom suit. The elderly ladies who perpetually occupy the corner table immediately start whispering behind their biscotti.

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