Page 5 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

Grayson:You’re not the only one with tricks up your sleeve. Hope you’re ready to lose.

I roll my eyes, tossing my phone onto the desk. He’s cocky, but he has no idea what’s coming. Grayson may know how to charm his way out of a bad date, but Elliot Pierce is immune to charm. The man has probably never laughed at a joke in his life. Feeling smug, I sit back in my chair, satisfied. By the time this is over, Grayson will be questioning everything he thinks he knows about matchmaking. And me? I’ll be one step closer to winningPerfectly Matched. Because losing isn’t an option. Not for me. If I lose, I don’t just walk away from a company, I walk away from years of proving myself, of fighting to be taken seriously in an industry where charm and personality often outweigh skill. If I lose, it confirms every doubt, every whispered comment that I was only given this opportunity because Arthur King took me under his wing. It would mean that Grayson was right, that instinct and luck matter more than strategy and expertise. No. I won’t let that happen. I won’t lethimwin. I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much, to letPerfectly Matchedslip through my fingers now.

The fluorescent lightsof the grocery store hum overhead as I steer my cart into the produce section, barely registering the splash of color from the rows of peaches and heirloom tomatoes. I grab a bundle of kale without looking, my thoughts still buzzing from my call with Jenna.

This is it. My opening. If I get this right, Grayson won’t even see it coming.

I pause at the avocados, give them a professional squeeze, and toss two into the cart. Elliot Pierce is the ultimate challenge.Unmatchable. Untouchable. And now, Grayson’s problem, it’s almost poetic. Some people unwind with yoga or binge-watching murder documentaries. I strategize while picking out cilantro. The average person might not see the battlefield here, but for me, this is war, and every lemon, every box of pasta, every smug man in a tailored suit is a piece in the larger game.

Just as I’m reaching for a head of garlic, a high-pitched wail erupts from the next aisle over.

"Iwantthe dinosaur gummies!" a little boy shrieks at the top of his lungs. His mother, clearly two seconds away from a full mental collapse, gives him the classic death glare, but he doubles down, kicking the front wheel of their cart for dramatic effect. "Youpromised!"

I glance over, catching a glimpse of her juggling a half-squashed loaf of bread, a toddler trying to wriggle out of the seat, and what I assume is a rapidly disintegrating will to live.

Despite myself, I smile. Not the smug kind, but the warm, unexpected kind that sneaks up on you when life feels a little too real. It’s cute. Loud. Chaotic. A tiny disaster in lightning-fast sneakers, and thank God it’s not mine.

I maneuver toward the dairy aisle, dodging a teenager arguing with his mom about oat milk. Grayson thinks he can just waltz in with his easy smile and magazine-cover face, impress everyone with his so-calledgut instinctsandnatural connection to people.Please. I’ve spent the last eight years building this company, watching it grow from a tiny app to the most trusted name in modern matchmaking. I did the research. I ran the tests. I’ve earned every inch of this success and now I have to fight to keep it.

I toss a tub of Greek yogurt into the cart with unnecessary force, earning a curious look from an old woman reaching for cottage cheese. I offer a polite smile, but inside, I’m reviewing battle strategy. Elliot is the first step. Grayson will crash andburn trying to navigate that man’s emotional minefield. After that, I just need to keep applying pressure and keep him off-balance. Keep proving that I know this business better than anyone, because if I lose? It won’t just be my company. It’ll be my legacy, my name, everything I’ve worked for reduced to a footnote in someone else’s success story and the worst part? Grayson wouldn’t even gloat.

He’d just flash that maddeningly sincere smile, say something annoyingly respectful like“It was never about beating you, Margot”…as if that would make it better. Spoiler alert: it wouldn’t.

I’m halfway through self-checkout when my phone buzzes again. A calendar notification:Consultation Confirmed – Elliot Pierce.

I stare at the screen for a moment, pulse steady, lips curving into a grin. Showtime. I scan the last item, a pint of rocky road I absolutely didn’t need, and head for the door, cart squeaking behind me.

4

GRAYSON

Ishould’ve known Margot was up to something the moment I got her text message in response to my playful accusation that she was already scheming to sabotage me.

Wouldn’t you like to know? Translation:Yes, I am plotting your demise, and no, you won’t see it coming. I lean back in my chair, feet propped up on my desk, phone still in my hand as I stare at her message. The thing about Margot? She never does anything halfway. If she’s already setting a trap, it means she’s planned three steps ahead, and I probably won’t realize what hit me until it’s too late. I should be worried.Instead, I’m excited.Ilovea challenge, and Margot? She’s the best one I’ve ever had. Still, I need to figure out what she’s up to before she pulls the rug out from under me. I glance at my schedule for the day, skimming past the usual meetings and consultation requests. And then I see it, a last-minute appointment, added byher.

Elliot Pierce. My feet hit the floor with a thud.No. Freaking. Way. I bark out a laugh, running a hand through my hair. I knew Margot would throw a curveball, butElliot Pierce?The most impossible matchmaking case in the history ofPerfectlyMatched? The man who once told his date that relationships are "an outdated social construct designed to promote inefficient emotional dependencies"?ThatElliot Pierce?

Oh, she’s good.

I shoot her a text:Nice try, Evans.

Seconds later, my phone buzzes:Don’t be late, King. Wouldn’t want to disappoint our client.

I shake my head, chuckling. Alright, fine. She wants to play dirty? Game on. I grab my suit jacket and head out the door, already crafting my plan of attack. Elliot Pierce may be the toughest client we’ve ever had, but he hasn’t metmeyet. And if Margot thinks this is the move that’s going to take me down, she’s about to be sorely disappointed. Because I don’t lose. Especially not to her.

By the timeI pull intoPerfectly Matched’ssleek downtown office, my mind is already racing through strategies. Elliot is a lost cause if you try to sell him on romance. Margot knows that. Hell, everyone knows that. Which means she’s betting on me hitting a dead end before I even start. But the thing about people like Elliot? They think they’re too smart for love. They think they can logic their way out of human connection. And that’s where they’re wrong.

I stride into the office and spot Margot in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe of the conference room like she’s already won. She’s dressed in her signature power move, form-fitting blazer, perfect heels, hair sleek and shiny like she stepped out of a magazine cover. Her arms are crossed, and there’s a victorious gleam in her eyes that makes me want to wipe it right off her face.

"You look smug," I tell her, stopping a foot away. "You sure you want to celebrate this early?"

She tilts her head, all fake innocence. "Oh, I’m just excited to see how you work your magic, King. Let’s see if that legendary charm of yours can outwit a man who once compared dating to ‘unnecessary software updates.’"

I smirk. "You really think this is going to throw me?"

She shrugs, stepping aside and motioning toward the door. "Go on in. Don’t keep him waiting."

With one last glance at her, memorizing that little smirk, because I fully intend to wipe it away soon, I push open the door. Elliot Pierce is already seated, his posture perfectly straight, his expression bored as he glances at his watch. He’s dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and a deep navy tie that looks like it was chosen more for efficiency than style. His dark hair is neatly combed back, not a strand out of place, and his watch, an expensive but understated piece, gleams under the conference room lights. Everything about him screams precision, from the way his hands rest symmetrically on the table to the way his icy blue eyes assess me like I’m an algorithm he’s already decided is flawed. "You’re late."

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