Page 56 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“You said it into a microphone.”

“I was talking about other people’s marriages.”

She smirks, scrolling through her tablet. “And now here you are. Besotted. Wearing linen. Picking flatware.”

I groan. “I swear, if I hear the word ‘tablescape’ one more time…”

“Oh, you mean the one Madeline used 43 times yesterday?”

I point at her. “Don’t. Start.”

She doesn’t. But her eyes sparkle. I lean back in my chair, shaking my head. “It’s wild, right? This time last year, I thought love was a distraction. I thought this company, Perfectly Matched, was everything.”

“And now?” Olivia asks, her voice gentler.

“Now,” I say, glancing toward the hallway where Grayson usually appears right around tea or crisis time, “I think I built it so I could find him.”

Olivia doesn’t respond right away. Just smiles that rare, real smile of hers. “You still terrify me sometimes.”

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

As if on cue, Grayson walks in with two mugs and his usual soft smirk. “What are we terrifying Olivia about today?”

“Our wedding,” I say, taking my mug.

He sips his tea, eyes dancing. “Tell her about the thing Madeline said about centerpieces.”

I cover my face. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “It involved taxidermy and a French vineyard.”

Olivia blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

Grayson grins. “You had to be there.”

Before I can get teary, a ping from my inbox announces our elite client updates.

“Perfect,” I say, sitting straighter. “Let’s check in on our most dangerous pairs.”

***

The restaurant is tucked behind a discreet bronze door on a quiet Tribeca block, hidden between a vintage bookshop and a speakeasy with no sign. Inside, it’s all soft amber lighting and rich textures, mahogany walls, velvet banquettes, the low hum of jazz filtering through a vintage speaker in the corner.

Alexandra sits at a small table in the back, facing the room. She’s in a midnight-blue dress with a plunging back and sharp gold earrings that glint like tiny weapons. Her hair’s in a soft twist, one strand deliberately out of place. Her wine glass is untouched, her gaze cool.

Mason arrives five minutes late in a fitted charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable but undeniably focused, on her. Always on her.

“You’re late,” she says as he slides into the booth.

“I had to talk myself out of bailing,” he says. “Figured you might ghost me.”

“I don’t ghost,” she replies, sipping her wine. “I disappoint slowly.”

The air between them is taut, electric. They order shared plates: lamb lollipops, burrata, something with truffle oil. The conversation crackles, veering from literature to ethics to bad exes. Mason surprises her by quoting a poem. She surprises herself by laughing, actually laughing. After dessert, they linger. Neither moves to check their phone. When they step out into the street, the cold night air wraps around them, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a nearby cart.

He brushes his hand against hers. She doesn’t pull away.

He says, “Do this again with me?”

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