Page 56 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"And you smile more." She says this softly, like it's important. “Not that intellectually superior half-smirk you use on your own employees…but your real smile.” She blinks, her smile faltering. “We’ve all missed that smile.”

Before I can respond, my mother starts passing around dessert – her famous apple pie, the one recipe I've never been able to optimize despite years of trying.

"The secret ingredient is love," she always says, which is exactly the kind of unquantifiable variable that drives me crazy.

"This is incredible," Rosalind says after her first bite. "Though I bet someone tried to calculate the perfect ratio of cinnamon to apples..."

"Three attempts," Natasha confirms. "The last one ended with the fire department's first visit."

"Minor technical difficulties," I mutter.

"You set off the sprinkler system!"

"A statistical anomaly."

"The pie was blue!"

"I was testing a theory about oxidation rates."

Rosalind's laugh carries no judgment, just warmth. Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches for her water, and I find myself cataloging the point of contact like data I want to remember.

"Speaking of theories," my mother says with deceptive casualness, "any thoughts about the mountain cabin this weekend? I heard that of all the people he could have hired or brought in, Alex tapped you to head to the cabin for his engagement party prep?"

I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. "How did you?—"

"Connor's grandmother might have mentioned it at bridge club."

"Of course she did." I glance at Rosalind, who's suddenly very interested in her pie. “I’m helping Alex out, of course. But, uh, we haven't really discussed?—"

"I'd love to help," she says, surprising me. "Very... professional of me."

"Extremely logical," I agree, but something in her smile makes me think we're both remembering coat closets and office furniture and other distinctly unprofessional moments.

My phone lights up again. This time it's Connor:Also, Grams says to remind you the cabin has excellent acoustics for romantic declarations. Also, pack snow chains.

I silence it just as Anna asks, "Can you optimize love, Uncle Gray?"

The table goes quiet except for the soft tick of my mother's antique clock and the steady fall of snow outside.

"That's what SecureMatch does, right?" she continues. "Makes love logical?"

I open my mouth to explain algorithms and compatibility metrics, but Rosalind beats me to it.

"I think," she says carefully, "some things can't be optimized. Like your grandmother's pie recipe."

"Or Gray's attempts at normal human interaction," Natasha adds.

"Or Marvin the Magnificent's dove manifestations," Rosalind continues, and suddenly we're both laughing at the absurdity of everything – fake relationships and real feelings, algorithms and intuition, professional distance and the way her hand feels on my knee.

"You two are weird," Anna declares, but she's smiling.

My phone buzzes one final time. Emily Hanning:It would be best to get your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Dixon. Don’t you want to clear the air about the real story behind Seattle's most logical romance?

I turn it off completely, choosing instead to watch Rosalind charm my family with stories about Sir Galahad's latest dueling challenges and William's several baking experiments.

She fits here, I realize with a jolt. Not just as part of our carefully crafted narrative, but really fits. Like my mother's pie recipe – perfect without refining, precisely because it can't be measured.

"Statistically speaking," Natasha whispers, catching my expression, "you're in trouble, big brother."

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