Page 82 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

My phone buzzes again. Olivia:Well??? Did he finally admit his algorithms are malfunctioning because he's in love with you?

I glance at Grayson, who's watching me with that soft expression that makes my heart melt. My fingers hover over the keys before I type:

Maybe. Not sure how long it will last, though.

Going to tell him about the Emily thing tonight. About Jessica. All of it.

Three dots appear immediately. Then:Finally. Though if he hurts you, I'm reprogramming that nosy AI assistant of his to speak only in boy band lyrics.

"Everything okay?" Grayson asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes my decision stronger.

"It will be." I set my phone aside, reaching for my glass of wine and nearly throwing it down my throat. Through the windows, the snow keeps falling harder and harder, but in here it's warm and safe and maybe, just maybe, strong enough to survive whatever truths are coming.

23

THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH

Downtown Seattle,WA

GRAYSON

The night before Valentine's Day, and I'm watching Rosalind Carpenter try very hard to look like she isn't nervous about something.

Meet Cute's warm lighting softens her features as she twirls pasta around her fork for the third time without actually eating it. The snow continues to fall outside, creating the kind of cozy atmosphere that should feel perfect but somehow feels like the calm before a storm.

"You're drifting,” I observe, watching her fidget with her wine glass.

“Drifting? What’s that?”

"That thing I’ve seen you do—mostly at parties you’ve crashed.” I snort as Roz frowns. I lift my chin. “That thing where you pretend everything's fine while mentally calculating escape routes. By the look on your face, I’d say you’re on…route number nine now?”

Her laugh carries an edge. "Says the man who actually does calculate escape routes."

"Only for board meetings." I reach across the table, catching her restless hand. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

She takes a rather large sip of wine instead of answering. I've noticed she's been doing that a lot in the past hour – each time she seems about to say something important, she reaches for her glass instead.

"Nothing's wrong," she says finally. "Everything's perfect. The café, the tables, the way you remembered every couple I told you about..."

"But?"

"But nothing." Another sip. "Pass the wine?"

I do, though something about her tone makes me uneasy. "You know, for someone who specializes in human connection, you're not great at maintaining eye contact right now."

"And for someone who specializes in algorithms, you're surprisingly observant of human behavior." She pours more wine, her vintage-inspired dress catching the string lights in a way that makes her look almost ethereal. "Must be my influence."

"Must be." I watch her take another generous sip. "Though I'm also observing that's your third glass in an hour."

"Fourth. But who's counting?"

"Apparently both of us." I trap her hand again as she reaches for the bottle. "Roz?—"

"Did you know," she interrupts, words already carrying a slight blur, "that successful matches have a seventy-eight percent chance of working out if both parties are slightly buzzed when they meet?"

"I did not know that. Probably because you just made it up."

"Probably." She giggles, the sound so unlike her usual careful control that I'm torn between amusement and concern. "But it sounds good, right? Very... statistical."

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