Page 89 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

When we finally arrive, she's already waiting outside her building, looking devastatingly beautiful in a deep blue gown that definitely isn't corporate-approved.

Her auburn hair catches the winter sunset, and I have to remind myself how to goddamned breathe.

"Mr. Dixon," she says as I help her into the car, her voice carrying that particular tone that suggests she's aiming for professional but missing by approximately 3.7 degrees.

"Ms. Carpenter." I settle beside her, maintaining careful distance. "Very prompt of you."

"Very efficient," she agrees, but there's an edge to her voice that makes my fingers twitch.

The drive starts in silence, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional buzz of our phones. Through the windows, Seattle's usual grey has deepened into early evening, the lingering snow creating strange patterns against darkening skies.

"About yesterday—" she starts.

“I’d say it was unexpected and very unprofessional,” I cut in, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Though I suppose that's becoming a pattern."

She flinches slightly, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. "That's not fair."

"Neither is finding out about Jessica through TechCast."

"I tried to tell you. Last night, at dinner?—"

"After four glasses of wine and months of weeks of keeping it quiet?" The laugh I give sounds bitter even to me. "Very strategic of you, Ms. Carpenter. Really.”

"You want to talk strategy?" She turns to face me fully, and suddenly the backseat seems to shrink. "How about building an entire company on the idea that love can be reduced to data points? That relationships are just algorithms waiting to be iterated?”

"At least I'm honest about my methods."

"Are you?" Her amber eyes flash. "Because lately it seems like you've been forgetting your own rules. Or was that just another optimization protocol? Get close enough to study the competition?"

I flinch. "You really think that's what this was?"

"I don't know what this was," she says softly. "But I do know you're a lot better at calculating variables than feeling them."

The car falls into tense silence as we wind our way up to the mountain cabin. Fresh snow blankets everything, transforming the familiar road into something almost unrecognizable. Kind of like us.

My phone buzzes. Connor again:Your AI just asked my grandmother for breakup playlist recommendations. Intervention definitely needed.

Then Alex:Mac says the snow's perfect for tonight. Like a fairy tale. Please don't turn it into a Greek tragedy

I silence them both just as we pull up to the cabin. Through the massive windows, warm light spills onto the snow, and I can already hear music and laughter floating out into the evening air.

"Ready?" I ask, though I'm not sure which of us I'm really asking.

“As I’ll ever be,” Rosalind mutters, but she takes my offered arm as we navigate the slippery path to the door.

The party is, objectively speaking, perfect. Exactly as planned, every variable accounted for except the way Rosalind feels pressed against my side as we make our entrance.

"There you are!" Dark-haired and gorgeous, Mac appears like a particularly festive ghost, beaming in white and gold. "The snow's like magic, isn't it? Like the universe knew exactly what we needed!"

"Very optimal of it," I manage, earning a small snort from Rosalind.

Before either of us can say more, Connor materializes with suspicious speed. "Gray! Need your help with something. Something urgent. Something… technical."

"Should I be concerned that your tie matches your grandmother's curtains?" I ask as he drags me toward what appears to be an impromptu bar setup.

"Should I be concerned that CORA's been cyber-stalking sad playlist compilations?" He hands me something that definitely isn't just club soda. "Alex!"

Our friend appears with the kind of timing that suggests this is a coordinated attack. "Everything okay? You look likeyou're about to ‘optimize’ someone's existence right out of reality."

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