Page 48 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Mac said no," he adds. "But theoretically..."

"No."

"But—"

"The cabin's power grid can barely handle basic utilities," I remind him. "Adding a frozen carbohydrate water feature would?—"

"Speaking of the cabin," Connor interrupts, "remember the last time we were all up there? When we made that pact?"

I do remember. Vividly. Three newly-minted MBAs, convinced we had life figured out. Love was inefficient, relationships were distracting, and success required singular focus.

"Stanford's most eligible bachelors," Alex muses. "Now look at us. I'm engaged, Connor's practically married to his grandmother's hospital board?—"

"Hey!"

"—and you..." He trails off.

"Am running a successful dating app," I finish. "Which, according to this morning's numbers, is showing remarkable growth in user retention."

"Really?" Connor perks up. "Nothing to do with viral photos of you and Miss Carpenter?”

I minimize those metrics quickly, but not before they spot the trending headlines:

"Tech's Most Eligible Bachelor No More? SecureMatch CEO Shows Old-School Matchmaker New Tricks"

"Love vs Logic: Seattle's Most Unexpected Power Couple"

"From Algorithms to Romance: Dixon's Real-Life Love Story Boosts App Downloads"

"The press has been... favorable," I admit.

"Favorable?" Alex scrolls through the coverage. "They're calling you 'Silicon Valley's Mr. Darcy' now. Though personally, I think you're more of a Mr. Data-Processing..."

"Market perception is important for?—"

"For what?" Connor challenges. "Your fake relationship? The one that had you creating algorithms about desk stability at 3 AM?"

"I was merely?—"

"Sir," CORA interrupts, "your heart rate is elevating again. Shall I display the correlation between these physiological responses and your interactions with Ms. Carpenter?"

"No, CORA."

"Yes, CORA!" my friends chorus.

A series of graphs appears on my office windows, showing what appears to be a detailed analysis of my vital signs over the past few weeks.

"Is that..." Alex squints. "Did your AI create a histogram of your pulse rate during office furniture encounters?"

"CORA," I growl, "privacy mode."

"Of course, sir. Though I feel compelled to note that your attempts to maintain professional distance are showing a statistically significant negative correlation with?—"

“For fuck’s sake…Mute!"

But it's too late. My friends are already dissecting CORA's data with far too much enthusiasm.

"Look at this spike from last night," Connor points out. "Right around the time of the desk incident..."

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