Page 36 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I pause, then shift my tone just slightly. "My assistant will follow up shortly to schedule your onboarding, unless you’re planning to jet off to Barcelona or buy a racehorse in the next forty-eight hours."

"I’ve already done both this quarter," he replies. "I’m all yours."

"We’ll see how long that lasts."

He laughs, then adds, "Tell your assistant I take my espresso black and my women clever."

"Duly noted, Mr. Wolfe."

By the time I hang up, I lean back in the chair, one arm slung across the backrest, and glance at Olivia. She’s already typing out follow-up notes, her brows furrowed in that exact way that means we’re about to solve ten problems before lunch.

“Think they’ll commit?” I ask.

She nods once. “If we do this right? They’ll be our biggest success stories. Maybe even our next case study.”

I smile, slow and sure. The kind of smile that doesn’t come from surviving, but from building. This isn’t just cleanup. It’s a comeback, and damn, it feels good to win again.

I stand and stretch, the weight of the day tugging at my shoulders. I roll them back once, then gather the folders and my tablet into a clean stack. The espresso tray is mostly empty, a few cups clinking quietly as I carry it to the credenza.

Olivia glances up. "Heading back to your office?"

"Yeah," I say. "Want to get the client files started before the wedding planner breaks into the office demanding Margot approve napkin fonts."

She snorts. "Fair warning, she left a voice message using the phrase 'champagne tones with emotional undertones.'"

I wince. "Terrifying."

I swipe my badge and step into my office, the quiet a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Sunlight pours in across the glass desk, catching on the engraved frame that holds a photo of Margot and me, laughing, mid-moment, in blurry, perfect imperfection.

I sit, crack my knuckles once, and begin pulling up the intake forms. Alexandra Devaux. Mason Wolfe. High-stakes clients with impossible standards and zero patience for mediocrity. My kind of challenge. I begin drafting notes, mapping compatibility tiers, cross-referencing soft data from our intake algorithms with Olivia’s real-world insights. My fingers fly across the keyboard.

Matchmaking, when done right, is more art than science. But I’ve always believed the best art has structure. Precision. And just a touch of instinct. I pause only once, to glance back at the photo of Margot, and smile. Let the matchmaking begin.

23

MARGOT

Grayson finds me in the middle of a floral mood board crisis. I’m standing in our living room, surrounded by swatches, digital renderings, and a wedding planner who looks like she’s three hours away from starting a turf war with a linen supplier.

He walks in holding two coffees and an amused grin. "Tell me this is the color-coded battlefield I was promised."

I grab one of the cups. "Madeline says eucalyptus reads as ‘too funeral’ next to ivory roses. I told her that’s the mood I’m going for."

He kisses the top of my head. "Well, while you two debate which shade of cream is the least depressing, I thought I’d tell you we’ve just onboarded two new VIPs."

I perk up. "Anyone we know?"

"Alexandra Devaux. Fashion mogul, sharp as hell. Her previous dates have included a watch collector, a Hemingway-quoting surgeon, and a guy who asked her how much she benches."

I blink. "Yikes."

"Oh, and Mason Wolfe. Former Formula One driver, current media investor. Wants someone who can outdrink him and win at chess."

"Sounds like he needs a therapist, not a match."

"We get that a lot," he says, sipping his coffee. "But trust me, they’re both interesting."

We don’t have much time to talk further, because it’s ultrasound day. We take the elevator down to the parking garage, Grayson carrying my tote bag like it’s made of glass. He keeps sneaking glances at me, like he’s trying not to say something outrageous and failing miserably.

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