Page 62 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"You're doing it again." She glances over her shoulder, and something in her expression makes my carefully regulated pulse skip. "The robot talk."

"Defense mechanism," I admit, moving closer. "Apparently I resort to algorithms when nervous."

"And what do you have to be nervous about?" But she's gripping her mug too tightly, betraying her own tension.

"Currently calculating approximately seventeen different factors contributing to elevated anxiety levels." I reach past her for another mug, deliberately brushing against her in a way that sure as hell isn’t professional. "Including but not limited to the way you're avoiding me right now."

"How am I avoiding you?"

"Like you're also running probability scenarios about maintaining appropriate distance."

Turning to face me this time, she laughs softly, pushing the cider toward me across the counter. "Is it that obvious?"

"Statistically speaking—" I stop at her look. “Fuck. Sorry. Old habits."

"Try again. Without the data analysis."

I take a breath, then her mug, setting both aside. "I can't stop thinking about kissing you."

Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat. "Very unprofessional of you."

"Completely inefficient." I step closer, backing her against the counter. "Though lately I'm starting to question my optimization priorities."

"Are you saying the great Grayson Dixon might be wrong about something?"

"I'm saying some variables can't be computed the old regular way.” My hands find her waist as if they belong there. "Like the way you feel right now."

"How do I feel?" Her fingers trace patterns on my chest that absolutely aren't algorithmic.

“Fantastic.” I lean down, brushing my lips against her temple. "Warm." Her cheek. "Statistically significant."

She laughs against my mouth as my lips wander to hers. "You almost made it."

"Old habits," I murmur, then kiss her properly.

This time there's no hesitation, no careful calculations. She makes that soft sound again – the one that short-circuits all my fucked-up wiring – as I lift her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around my waist like they were designed for it, and suddenly all those compatibility metrics seem very far away.

"Wait," she manages as I trail kisses down her neck. "We should?—"

"Be professional?"

"Talk about this."

I pull back slightly, though it takes considerable effort. Her eyes are wide in the dim light, lips slightly swollen from kissing.

"Okay," I say. "Let's talk."

"You first."

"Very efficient of you." But I keep hold of her waist, needing the contact. "Fine. I'll go first. I think I've been wrong."

"About?"

"Everything." I rest my forehead against hers. "All thosealgorithms, all those carefully calculated compatibility factors... They don't account for this. For the way my pulse races when you laugh, or how I can't focus when you wear those vintage dresses, or?—"

"Or how you kiss me like you're forgetting to calculate optimal pressure ratios?"

"Exactly." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "I built an entire company on the idea that anything, even love, can be quantified, but being with you... It's changing everything I thought I knew about predictions and patterns and?—"

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