Page 71 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Uh-huh." She studies me with that particular expression that means I'm about to be emotionally eviscerated. "This has nothing to do with avoiding your office while a beautiful Ms. Carpenter isn't speaking to you?"

"I don't avoid things. I strategically reallocate attention."

"Right." She steps aside to let me in. "That's why you've created seventeen new algorithms since the cabin weekend. Connor told me," she adds at my look. "Something about CORA tattling to his grandmother about your 'emotional optimization attempts.'"

"I need to reprogram my AI's communication protocols," I mutter.

"You need to talk to Roz."

"She's busy. Running a business. Being professional.”

"Oh God." Natasha drops onto her couch. "You're both idiots."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She pats the space beside her. "Sit. We're having a conversation about emotions."

"I have meetings?—"

"Sit."

I sit. "This is very inefficient use of?—"

"How did you know?" she interrupts. "With Jessica. How did you know it wasn't right?"

"I created an algorithm to?—"

"Gray."

I'm quiet for a moment, remembering. "She made sense on paper. Perfect background, compatible goals, top-tier social metrics... But it never felt..."

"Real?"

"Statistically significant."

"Try again. Without the computerized speak."

I think about Jessica's carefully calculated responses, about compatibility metrics and success probability factors. Then about Rosalind's soft smiles and retro dresses and the way she feels in my arms.

"She never surprised me," I say finally. "Everything was exactly as predicted. Exactly as planned."

"And Roz?"

“She fucks up every system I create." I swipe a hand through my hair. "Changes variables I didn't know existed. Makes me forget about algorithms entirely when she?—"

"If you finish that sentence about your sex life," Natasha interrupts, "I'm sending Anna's entire coding club to your office for a week."

"I was going to say 'when she laughs.'"

"Sure you were." But she's smiling. "You know how I knew Mark was different?"

“Compatibility metrics?"

"He brought me soup." At my blank look, she continues: "After my marriage to Anna’s dad imploded. Everyone else had opinions, advice, statistical analyses of what went wrong... Mark just showed up with soup. Didn't try to fix anything. Just sat with me while I cried and made terrible jokes about wedding cake disasters."

"That's... not very efficient."

"That's the point." She squeezes my hand. "Some things can't be forecasted. Or designed. They can't be calculated or predicted or controlled. They just... happen."

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