Page 77 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"You need to admit you're in love with Roz."

The sudden statement makes me blink. “That's not?—"

"What this is?" Alex finishes. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've spent more time thinking about Valentine's Day than my actual engagement party."

I glance guiltily at the minimized browser showing local florists.

"Oh God." Connor leans forward. "You're actually planning something, aren't you?"

"It's just research. For business purposes."

"Using CORA?"

"I..." I stop, realizing I haven't consulted my AI once. Haven't created a single algorithm or optimization protocol.

"Holy shit." Alex's grin could power Seattle. "You're going analog, dude?”

"I am not?—"

"You totally goddamned are." Connor pulls up more screenshots. "CORA's been complaining to my grandmother about your 'concerning lack of data requests' regarding romantic planning."

"Your grandmother needs a hobby."

"She has one. Everything grandmother does. It's called meddling in your love life." He studies me. "What did you usually do for Valentine's Day? With Jessica?"

The question catches me off guard. "I... had CORA analyze previous successful celebrations and create an maximum experience matrix."

"In English?"

"The AI planned everything." I clear my throat. "Calculated the perfect restaurant based on ambient noise levels and menu options. Ordered flowers according to color psychology studies. Once it even composed a statistically romantic poem..."

"Please tell me you didn't actually use AI-generated poetry," Alex groans.

"It was very efficient."

"It was very robot," Connor corrects. "But that's not who you are anymore, is it?"

I think about rooftops and string lights, about messy kisses and soft laugher and the scent of vanilla.

"No," I admit finally. "It's not."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't?—"

My phone buzzes. A message from Douglas:The board members at the shower were thoroughly impressed with you and Roz. Though maybe keep rooftop activities more discrete next time.

"You know what your problem is?" Alex asks, reading over my shoulder.

"Besides having friends who don't give a damn about privacy settings?"

"You're still trying to organize something that's meant to be messy." He grabs his phone, typing rapidly. "Mac says Roz loves this little speakeasy place in her neighborhood. They do this thing on Valentine's Day where?—"

"No." I stand, suddenly certain. "I mean, thank you, but... no."

"No?"

"I need to figure this out myself. Without codes or AI or well-meaning friends with questionable boundaries."

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