Page 98 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

Dani:Then she threw her perfectly-dry-cleaned blue blazer at him and stormed out!

Olivia:I heard it was better than reality TV

Me:Oh my God.

Dani:KARMA IS A BEAUTIFUL THING

Dani:Also my new normal finance boyfriend is looking really good right now

Dani:Even if he does alphabetize his sock drawer

With a snort, I silence the chat, adjusting my 20’s-style dress. Minutes later, I’m pretty sure I’m still in shock about Joel and Samantha. Because it isn’t until I hear the word “Cara!” before I realize I haven’t moved a muscle.

Forty feet away, Nonna Flora appears in the doorway to La Famiglia like a flour-dusted guardian angel. "Why you standing in snow like sad statue? Come inside before you freeze important parts!"

"I'm fine.” I follow her into the restaurant's warmth. "Just... collecting myself."

She studies me with the kind of focus that lets me know I'm about to be emotionally ambushed with carbohydrates. "Your heart look like my first attempts at wedding cake. Little bit messy. Little bit broken, but still good ingredients."

"That's very... metaphorical of you."

"Is truth." She starts gathering what appears to be industrial quantities of tiramisu. "Like love – sometimes need to make mess before you get recipe right."

"I don't need recipes," I protest, though I accept the dessert she shoves at me. "I need to get through tonight's meeting without having an emotional breakdown in front of my clients."

"Ah." She wipes her hands on her apron. "About that. Maybe is good you sit down first."

"Why?" I narrow my eyes. "What did you do, Flora?”

"Me? Nothing!" But her innocent expression wouldn't fool arookie pasta maker. "Just... maybe tonight's meeting little bit different."

“Flora—”

"Go!" She practically pushes me toward the back room. "Group is waiting.”

I take a deep breath, straightening my dress and trying to remember how to be Seattle's premier matchmaker instead of just another heartbroken idiot who fell for the wrong person.

The wrong person who somehow felt perfectly right.

The back room glows with La Famiglia's signature warmth, but something's off. The usually crowded space echoes with emptiness – chairs arranged in their familiar circle but conspicuously vacant.

Except for one.

My heart stops, then restarts with the kind of irregular rhythm that would definitely concern CORA's monitoring systems.

Because there, in what has to be a perfectly tailored suit that makes my knees weak, sits Grayson Dixon. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running nervous hands through it, and the silver at his temples catches the warm light, looking soft enough to run my fingers through.

"You're late," he says softly, shaking his head. "Very unprofessional."

"I—" I grip my folder like a shield. "What are you doing here?"

"Attending singles group." He motions to the empty chairs. "Though turnout seems a bit low."

"Because you apparently scared everyone away?"

"Actually," he adjusts his tie, "I might have requested a private session."

"Requested? From who?"

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