Page 46 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

GRAYSON

"CORA," I announce to my AI at precisely 5:47 AM, "we need to create a new algorithm."

"Of course, sir. Though I feel compelled to note that this is your fourth attempt to quantify your feelings for Ms. Carpenter since returning home last night."

"I don't have feelings to quantify. I'm creating a systematic analysis of anomalous behavioral patterns in professional relationships."

"Is that what you're calling your activities on her desk?"

I nearly choke on my temperature-optimized coffee. "Have you been talking to Connor?"

"I merely observe that your vital signs during last night's encounter suggest?—"

"New algorithm parameters," I cut in. "Focus on statistical variables affecting temporary physical attraction in fake relationship scenarios."

"Calculating." A pause. "Though the data suggests this attraction is neither temporary nor?—"

"Just run the numbers, CORA."

Seattle's record-breaking snow creates an oddly fitting backdrop for my crisis of logic. It’s 17 days until Valentine’s Day and the weather seems to know it. Through my penthouse windows, the city looks like someone dropped a blank spreadsheet over it—clean, organized, completely unlike the chaos currently occupying my mind.

My phone buzzes. Connor, because of course it is.

"Please tell me you're not actually at the office," he says as soon as I pick up.

"I'm not at the office."

"Your AI totally ratted you out, didn't she?"

I glare at my ceiling speakers. "CORA, we talked about this."

"Actually, sir, you talked about maintaining appropriate boundaries. I simply provided Mr. Walsh with factual data regarding your location and elevated stress levels following last night's encounter with?—"

"Mute, CORA."

Connor's laugh carries through the phone. "Man, you've got it bad."

"I don't 'got' anything. I'm simply analyzing?—"

"Let me guess: creating new algorithms to explain why you can't stop thinking about Little Miss Matchmaker?"

I minimize the screen showing exactly that. "I'm preparing for this morning's vendor meeting. For Alex's engagement party. Which you're late for."

"It's not even 6 AM!"

"The meeting's at seven."

"Normal people don't schedule meetings at seven AM!"

"Normal people don't hold engagement parties at mountain cabins in February," I counter. "Yet here we are."

"Ah yes, the sacred ground of our infamous bachelor pact." I can hear him grinning. "Speaking of which..."

“Here we go.”

"I'm just saying, when three Stanford Business School grads make a drunk promise to stay single forever?—"

"We were twenty-five."

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