Page 21 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

She squints at me, pretending to scowl. "It’s a valid craving. Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me."

I cross my arms and grin. "I’m not psychoanalyzing. I’m just saying that if you suddenly start asking for peanut butter on scrambled eggs, I might call for backup."

She groans and turns away, but I don’t miss the faint blush creeping up her neck or the way her hand instinctively moves over her stomach before dropping back to her side, and just like that, something shifts in my chest. There’s something she’s not saying, and now, I think I might know what.

The fire crackles behind us, the only warmth in a cabin that still smells like fresh pine and cold air. Outside, the fading light slants across the trees, catching on the edge of the single-pane windows and throwing soft golden reflections into the cabin. Inside, it’s just us—Margot barefoot in leggings and a worn NYU hoodie, her hair pulled up in a messy bun that’s slowly falling apart, cheeks still flushed from stress and cold. I’m still half-dressed from the calls, dark jeans, white oxford shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, like I was trying to look professional for people who only care if we survive the next seventy-two hours.

She’s standing in the middle of the room, her arms now loosely crossed, watching the fire like it might tell her something useful. Her expression is calm, but I’ve known her long enough to spot the tension in her jaw, the restless twitch of her fingers.

I walk toward her slowly, then brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "You’re beautiful when you’re plotting vengeance," I murmur, just to see that little spark in her eyes return.

She rolls her eyes. "I’m not plotting vengeance. I’m strategizing for survival."

"Same thing, Evans."

She exhales a soft laugh, the sound filling the small space like a reprieve. I lean in and press a light kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a second.

"Now let’s make damn sure we’re worth betting on."

15

MARGOT

Istare at the screen, barely blinking, heart hammering in my chest.

"I think I fixed it," I whisper.

Grayson, sitting on the worn leather couch with a mug of coffee balanced precariously on his knee, doesn’t even look up. "You’ve said that four times this week."

"Yes, but this time, I actually think I fixed it." I spin my laptop around so he can see the updated backend dashboard. "The pattern errors from the last wave are gone. The weight distribution tags are rebalancing, and I reran the compatibility matrix, look. No anomalies."

Grayson leans forward, squinting at the screen. "That’s a lot of numbers."

"It’s a lot of accuracy," I say, a little too triumphantly.

He raises a brow. "You’re that confident it’s working now?"

"Confident enough to test it, on us."

His head jerks back. "Wait, what?"

"Think about it. We input our data, our profiles, everything we’ve ever entered, and see who the algorithm matches us with. If it’s accurate, we’ll get... well, each other."

He grins. "Or someone even worse."

"Impossible."

We run the test. Five minutes later, I get a ping. The app has matched me. I click. My match's profile picture is a man with an actual falcon perched on his leather-gloved arm. He’s wearing camo pants, a tie-dye shirt, and the kind of grin that suggests he hasn’t heard the word 'normal' in a decade.

Name: Blaze. Occupation: Hot yoga instructor and amateur falconer. Fun Fact: Believes socks are a government conspiracy to weaken our ankles. A message pops up.

Blaze: “Hey girl. Ever done a sunrise scream into the void with a bird of prey on your arm? You haven’t lived until you do.”

I blink. "Well," I mutter. "That’s... a result."

Grayson chokes on his coffee. "You got Blaze the Bird Whisperer?" "You got the falconer?"

"Don’t act so smug. Who’d you get?"

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