Page 39 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Grayson’s jaw tenses. “I was not emotionally prepared for the mulch-eating phase.”

“You were barely prepared for the jelly-on-my-belly phase.”

A nanny in heels runs by, shouting into a Bluetooth headset while trying to wrangle two screaming twins. One throws a juice box at her. She doesn’t flinch.

“That woman is a warrior,” I say reverently.

“Do you think it’s too late to enroll our unborn daughter in silent meditation school?”

“She hasn’t even been born yet, and you’re already negotiating with fate.”

We finally pull away from the scene, quiet for a moment before we both burst out laughing.

“She’s going to be wild,” Grayson says.

“She’s going to run this city,” I reply.

“She’s going to run us.”

“Already is.”

He squeezes my hand. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Neither would I.

24

GRAYSON

There’s something about hearing the word "daughter" out loud that resets everything. It’s not fear, it’s clarity. The kind of weight that anchors you. Every time I say it in my head, I see her. Her tiny hands. Margot’s eyes. The little girl who’s going to turn my life inside out and make it better for it.

So, I wake up early. No snooze button, no hesitation. I show up to the office early, suit pressed, tie sharp, sleeves rolled. If I’m building the future, for her, for Margot, I want it steady and clean.

Perfectly MatchedHQis humming already when I step into the tenth-floor executive lounge. Olivia is in place, tablet in hand, heels like weapons. She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re early,” she says. “Is this a ‘new man, new mission’ kind of thing?”

“Something like that,” I reply.

Our clients arrive together, an unusual arrangement, but one they both insisted on. Alexandra Devaux, sleek and polished in a tailored navy suit, walks in like the building owes her rent. Her platinum hair is twisted into a knot that would terrify most interns. Mason Wolfe follows behind her in a black Henley and a blazer that probably cost more than my first car. He’s grinning like he just got away with something.

“Ms. Devaux. Mr. Wolfe,” I greet them, motioning to the private conference room. “Come in. Sit wherever you won’t judge each other.”

Alexandra chooses the chair with her back to the window. “I always prefer facing the exits.”

Mason tosses his jacket over a second chair and leans back like we’re in a cigar lounge. “I like this one. Best angle if she throws her coffee.”

Olivia hides a smile as she closes the door. We sit. The room itself reflects the tone we’ve tried to strike at Perfectly Matched, sleek but not sterile, refined but still comfortable. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft light that warms the dark wood conference table. A glass bowl of fresh orchids sits in the center, flanked by artisan bottled water and Olivia’s impeccably organized stack of tablet stands and color-coded client folders.

Alexandra sits poised, her navy suit so perfectly tailored it might as well have been sewn onto her. Her heels are pointed, Italian, and lethal, and when she crosses her legs, it’s with the kind of precision that makes interns panic. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes take in everything. Calculating. Sharp.

Mason, on the other hand, looks like the human embodiment of a charming complication. His black Henley hugs him in all the calculated ways, like everything he wears is meant to be effortless, just enough to disarm without trying too hard. He lounges in his seat like the table owes him rent, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, his fingers drumming against the armrest as if he’s resisting the urge to flirt with the air.

“I thought we’d make this a little different today,” I begin. “Since you’re both confident, articulate, and frightening in wildly different ways, we’re going to do a side-by-side onboarding. A little matchmaking double-feature.”

Alexandra arches a brow. “And here I thought you’d be soft-spoken. You look soft-spoken.”

“I’m disarming,” I say. “It’s an underrated survival tactic.”

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