Page 80 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

That somewhere between spilled wine and stolen kisses, I've fallen completely, terrifyingly in love with him?

"Just work," I lie, smoothing my eighties-inspired dress – dark green wool that I definitely didn't choose because he once said it brought out my eyes. "Very prof?—"

I stop myself from saying "professional," but his slight smile suggests he heard it anyway.

"Speaking of work," he says, moving closer, "I need you to come with me."

"Now? But William's bread knots say?—"

"The bread knots can wait." He offers his hand, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious effort. "Trust me?"

Trust is the one thing I’m short on supply of right now, especially when it comes to myself. But I take Grayson’s hand anyway.

Throwing on my coat, I follow the tailored-to-a-T CEO outside.

The snow falls thicker now, transforming Seattle's evening streets into something from a vintage postcard. The city sounds grow muffled, creating a private world where each streetlamp casts a soft halo through the swirling white. Against the grey-white backdrop, Grayson's dark coat and silver-threaded hair stand out like an illustration from the kind of romance novel I pretend not to read.

Another gust of wind sends me stumbling slightly. His arm slides around my waist automatically, the gesture so natural now it makes my chest ache. The wool of his coat is soft under my fingers as I steady myself, and I find myself leaning into his warmth without conscious thought.

Jessica's words echo in my head:"Emily says you're hesitant to discuss how you matched me with James..."

The irony twists in my stomach – here I am, falling for a man whose ex-fiancée found her soulmate through my intuition rather than his algorithms. The same intuition now telling me this thing between us is becoming dangerously real.

The familiar bells chime as we enter Meet Cute, the sound mixing with the soft whisper of snow against windows. For a moment I can't process what I'm seeing.

The mismatched furniture has been subtly restored, the exposed brick carefully repointed. The ancient espresso machine gleams like new while still maintaining its characteristic personality. String lights create pools of warm light that reflect off the windows, turning the café into a glowing sanctuary from the snow-muffled world outside.

But it's the tables that catch my breath.

Each one has been set up differently, with small touches that feel hauntingly familiar. At one, a scattered chess set and two coffee cups – just like Oliver and James, the professors I introduced who fell in love over weekly chess matches. At another, medical textbooks and sheet music, like Sarah and Michael, the surgeon and the concert pianist who met during my first year here.

"How did you..." I move closer to another table, this one featuring engineering journals and poetry books. Grayson's hand slides from my waist, and I immediately miss his warmth. "Emma and David. They met here six years ago. I told you about them at dinner last week, but?—"

"I remember all of them." His voice is soft as he follows me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Every story you've told me about the couples you've matched. The chess players who took three months to finish one game because they were too busy talking. The surgeon who kept pretending to study just to hear the pianist practice next door."

He reaches past me to touch the poetry book, his chest brushing my back in a way that makes my pulse race. "The engineer who fell in love with a poet's metaphors before he even knew her name."

I turn to find him watching me with an intensity that makes breathing difficult. We're standing so close now that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. Snowflakes are melting in his dark hair, and my fingers itch to brush them away.

"I don't understand." But I'm starting to, looking around at the carefully preserved charm mixed with subtle upgrades. "Did you?—"

"Arrange to help save the shop? Yes." He runs a hand through his snow-dampened hair. "The 'rental fee' for tonight will cover the café's expenses for... quite a while. It was the only way I could think to help without?—"

"Without hurting Mrs. R’s pride." Understanding dawns. "Like someone else I know."

"I'm learning from the best." His smile holds a touch of uncertainty. "Though I have to admit, this is the first time I've attempted a grand gesture without consulting my AI."

"No optimization protocols?"

"Not one." He steps closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. "Though I did spend approximately six hours analyzing the statistical probability of you punching me for interfering."

"Only six?" But I'm smiling as I reach up to brush themelting snow from his hair. His eyes darken at my touch. "You're slipping, Mr. Dixon."

"I've been slipping since the moment you spilled wine on my shirt." His hand catches mine, pressing it against his chest where I can feel his heart racing. "Everything I thought I knew about compatibility metrics and optimization protocols... none of it matters when you're around."

The guilt about Jessica twists in my stomach. "Grayson?—"

“Just…let me get this out, Rosalind.” He grins. “Before this comes out as clunky as the human Dell computer I’m accused of being.” His other hand comes up to cup my face. "I built an entire company on the idea that the world itself can be quantified. That if you have enough data, enough variables, you can predict even the perfect love match." He laughs softly. "And then you crashed into my life with your old-school dresses and intuitive matching and completely pulled the plug on every system I'd created."

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