Page 72 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Celeste,” Olivia said patiently, “your initial profile lists conflicting preferences, European diplomacy and Midwestern charm?”

“I want a man who can fence and bake.”

“That’s… very specific.”

Celeste sipped her tea. “I’ve found that vagueness leads to cargo pants. I do not do cargo pants.”

Olivia paused, recalibrating. “Okay. Let’s talk about emotional compatibility. Would you consider a man who isn’t classically wealthy, but is…”

“Spiritually rich?” Celeste interrupted. “No.”

Olivia stared. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

Celeste leaned in with a wink. “It’s okay, darling. I’ve met too many poets. I want someone who owns a vineyard. Or at least a racehorse.”

“I need a drink,” Olivia muttered.

“It’s eleven A.M.”

“Exactly.”

***

Three Days Later, the photo of Celeste on her first Perfectly Matched date is now trending on every gossip site in New York. She’s seated at a restaurant, sipping champagne, one hand in the air mid-toast, while her date, an opera-singing Australian yachtsman named Luca, feeds her oysters. The caption reads:Heiress in Heat? Celeste Diamond Spotted on Mystery Date—Sources Say She Was ‘Auditioning a Husband.

Margot comes into my office holding her phone, face flushed from laughing.

“She said what?”

“That she could smell virility like truffle oil,” I mutter.

Margot wheezes.

“She also asked if our prenups come with footnotes.”

“Grayson. Please. I’m pregnant. I cannot handle this woman.”

“She asked if you were having twins.”

Margot stares at me, horrified. “Why?”

“She said ‘You look like someone who overachieves even in the womb.’”

Margot sinks into the chair and cackles. “If she ever turns out to be a PulseMatch spy, I’ll buy her dinner. And a tiara.”

***

Celeste’s first date doesn’t end with scandal. It ends with a helicopter.

Olivia storms into my office the next morning holding her iPad like it’s radioactive. “She landed a helicopter on the East River pier.”

“She what?”

“She chartered a helicopter, left her date at dessert, and flew to a ‘spiritual advisor’ in Montauk because she said, and I quote, ‘the oysters spoke to her soul, and not in a good way.”

I blink.

Margot walks by the doorway just in time to hear this and backs up with a laugh. “Please tell me we’re not liable.”

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