Page 37 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Handle that before someone challenges someone else to a duel at dawn?" His mouth twitches. “How valiant of you."

"More valiant than letting my employee's medieval suitor terrorize Seattle's tech community with a foam sword."

"Point taken." He rises too, and suddenly we're standing very close. "Though you should know..."

"What?"

"I'm excellent at strategic dancing."

With a final grin, Grayson takes off, the exit door’s bell chiming overhead as he heads out. I try not to watch him the entire way.

The grand ballroomof the Seattle Children's Hospital is a spectacle of elegance and opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the polished marble floors, reflecting off the shimmering gowns and tailored tuxedos of Seattle's elite. The air is filled with the soft melodies of a live orchestra, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the murmur of polite conversation.

At the entrance, a red carpet stretches out, flanked by photographers and reporters eager to capture the arrivals. The atmosphere is electric, a blend of anticipation and excitement that seems to hum through the air.

I step out of the sleek black limousine, my heart pounding in my chest. The cool January air nips at my exposed shoulders, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins keeps me warm. I smooth the silk of my gown, a deep gold 40s number that shimmers under the lights. The dress is a masterpiece of elegance, with a sweetheart neckline and a flowing skirt that whispers against the ground as I walk.

My hair—a coppery dark brown—is swept up in an updo, adorned with delicate pearl pins that catch the light.

As I turn to wait for Grayson, a flutter flapping in my lower belly. This is more than just a charity gala.

It's a statement, a performance for the press and the public. Our "relationship" is the talk of the town, and tonight, we have to sell it.

Grayson emerges from the limousine, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. He's dressed in a tuxedo that looks like it's been melted over his muscles, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to his waist. The crisp white shirt contrasts sharply with his tanned skin, and his bow tie is perfectly knotted. His honeyed-brown eyes meet mine, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

"You look stunning," he murmurs, offering his arm.

I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, feeling thesolid warmth of his body next to mine. “Right back at you, Mr. Dixon.”

Together, we walk down the red carpet, the flash of cameras and the murmur of the crowd fading into the background. Grayson's hand rests lightly on the small of my back, a possessive touch that sends a shiver down my spine. We pause for photographs, smiling and posing like the perfect couple we're supposed to be.

Inside the ballroom, the atmosphere is even more enchanting. Tables draped in white linen are adorned with centerpieces of fresh flowers and candles, casting a soft, romantic glow. The orchestra plays a waltz, and couples sway gracefully on the dance floor.

Grayson leads me to our table, where we're greeted by familiar faces—investors, philanthropists, and socialites. Conversation flows easily, but I can't shake the feeling of being on display. Every glance, every smile, every touch is scrutinized, analyzed, and reported.

As the evening wears on, Grayson leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Dance with me?"

I nod, feeling a tingle of anticipation. He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor, his fingers intertwining with mine. The orchestra strikes up a slow, romantic melody, and Grayson pulls me close, one hand resting on my waist, the other holding mine.

"Everyone's watching," I murmur, trying to ignore how perfectly we fit together.

"Let them," he replies, his thumb tracing small circles on my spine. "It's good for our story."

Right. Our story. The carefully crafted narrative we're selling to the press, to his investors, to everyone who's watching Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor fall for the old-fashioned matchmaker.

Except...

Except something about the way he's looking at me doesn't feel like a performance.

“I can hear your thoughts from here,” he says softly.

"Just calculating optimal dance trajectories," I counter. "Isn't that how you do everything?"

"Not everything." His hand tightens slightly on my waist. "Some things can't be calculated."

"Like what?"

"Like—"

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