Page 58 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"I have so many questions."

"None of which I'm answering." He starts checking systems with the kind of focused competence I’ve come to expect from him. "The snow’s getting worse. We should make sure everything's..." He trails off, distracted by my attempt to unknot my scarf.

"Everything's what?"

"Functioning properly," he finishes, but his eyes linger on where my hair has escaped its careful twist, falling around my shoulders in what the snow has turned into auburn waves.

The cabin's warmth means I can shrug off my coat, revealing the 70’s-inspired sweater dress that may have been chosen to make certain tech CEOs forget about algorithms.

Grayson swallows visibly. "I should check the generators."

“That would be a good idea.”

“Glad you think so,” he agrees, but he doesn't move.

We might have stayed there, caught in whatever this is becoming, if Grayson phone hadn't buzzed again.

His handsome face furrows as I watch him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He shrugs, and looks up at me. I don’t move. “Well…it’s Douglas. He’s sent me a last-minute invitation to Joel and Samantha’s joint wedding shower. Actually, the invitation is for the both of us. You and me.”

Neither of us move a muscle for several seconds.

Until I break the spell.

I step away, adjusting my dress. "We should probably..."

“Take care of the cabin prep?" He runs a hand through his dark, snow-dampened hair, which only makes it more annoyingly perfect. “That is what we came to do.”

The next few hours pass in a blur of actual work punctuated by moments of whatever this thing between us is becoming. Every time Grayson reaches past me to check something, every accidental brush of contact as we de-bachelor the cabin (goodbye, Captain Kirk), sends little sparks through my vintage wool dress.

"So," he says eventually, as we're sorting through what appears to be the aftermath of several epic gaming tournaments, "about the wedding shower..."

"Ah yes, nothing says 'I'm totally fine with my ex marrying my cousin' like watching them open monogrammed towels."

"We don't have to go."

"Pretty sure your investor would disagree." I hold up what appears to be a lightsaber. "Do I want to know?"

"Alex went through a phase." He takes it, hand brushing mine longer than necessary. "And Douglas doesn't control everything."

"Says the man whose AI coordinates his coffee intake."

"CORA is very concerned about my caffeine levels," he deadpans, and suddenly we're both laughing.

I glance up, realizing that the sun has set. Evening has snuck on us like a thief in the night, and the cabin's massivewindows frame the intensifying snowfall, creating a cozy backdrop that makes everything feel intimate. Warm. Real.

"You know," I say, watching snowflakes spiral past, "I thought by our forties we'd be past all this. The showers, the parties, the whole... production."

"The statistical probability of escaping social obligations apparently doesn't improve with age." He moves closer, ostensibly to check the fireplace. "Though some things do get better."

"Like what?"

"Like knowing what you want." His voice drops to that register that makes thinking difficult. "Even if it doesn't fit into any algorithm."

Before I can process that, the lights flicker. Once, twice, then darkness.

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