FIRST CONTACT
Maya's POV
The smell hits me before I see him—bergamot and cedar wood, the exact cologne Dad wore to every important meeting, the scent that used to cling to his shirts when he'd come home late from Cross Technologies negotiations. My feet stop moving in the middle of Pike Place Market's chaos, tourists and vendors swirling around me like I'm a rock in a river, while my brain tries to process why a stranger would be wearing my dead father's signature fragrance.
Ethan Cross stands near the flower stalls with two coffee cups in his hands, looking like he stepped out of a magazine shoot for "Seattle's Most Eligible Tech Entrepreneurs." Dark hair catching the filtered morning light, blue eyes that seem to find mine across the crowd with unsettling precision, a smile that makes my chest tight in ways I'm not ready to examine. But it's the way he holds himself—confident without arrogance, patient like he's been waiting for me his entire life rather than fifteen minutes—that makes me want to turn around and run back to my penthouse.
"Maya." His voice carries just the right amount of warmth, like we're old friends instead of strangers meeting through a desperate matchmaking service. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of getting your coffee. Ethiopian single-origin, light roast, no sugar, splash of oat milk."
My hand shakes as I accept the cup, the paper sleeve warm against my palm. "How did you—Victoria didn't mention my coffee preferences in your file."
"Lucky guess." His laugh sounds genuine, but there's something underneath it that tastes like metal. "You look like someone with sophisticated taste."
The coffee is perfect, exactly how I've been ordering it for the past three years from the shop near my office. Not close enough to be a lucky guess, too specific to be coincidence. I catalog this information the same way I'd note inconsistencies in a deposition, my legal training kicking in even as my pulse does things that have nothing to do with professional skepticism.
"Tell me about your company," I say, steering us toward safer ground as we walk past vendors hawking salmon and handmade jewelry. "Cross Technologies—that's an interesting name."
"Family business. My father started it before I was born, building solutions for problems other people didn't know they had yet." Ethan's voice carries pride mixed with something darker when he mentions his father. "We specialize in intellectual property development, taking concepts from brilliant minds and turning them into technologies that change the world."
The way he says "taking concepts from brilliant minds" makes my coffee taste bitter. Dad used to complain about companies that built empires on other people's innovations, called them corporate vultures who fed on smaller firms' creativity. But Ethan's talking about his family legacy, and I'm probably reading too much into word choice because my nerves are stretched thin as piano wire.
"That must be rewarding," I say, testing the waters. "Building something lasting from your father's vision."
"It is." His smile shifts, becoming something sharper. "Though sometimes the most rewarding projects take years of careful planning. Patience is everything in technology development."
We stop at a vendor selling fresh flowers, the riot of color and scent creating a backdrop that should feel romantic but instead makes me hyper-aware of how Ethan seems to know exactly where to pause, which angle gives us the best view of Elliott Bay, how to position himself so the morning light catches his profile perfectly. Either he's naturally gifted at creating magazine-worthy moments, or someone coached him on how to be irresistible to a specific type of woman.
"Your parents were in tech too, weren't they?" Ethan asks, his voice casual as he examines a bouquet of white roses. "I seem to remember reading something about the Reeves family being pioneers in cloud security."
Ice water floods my veins. "I never mentioned my parents' work."
"Didn't you?" His brow furrows with what looks like genuine confusion. "I could have sworn... maybe Victoria mentioned it during our consultation. She's very thorough with background information."
But Victoria hadn't known the specifics of my parents' innovations, just that they died in an accident. I remember her probing questions about my family history, how she'd seemed frustrated when I kept details vague. Either Ethan is lying about his source, or someone else provided him with information about Robert and Susan Reeves' professional legacy.
"They were working on revolutionary encryption protocols," I say, watching his face carefully. "Dad used to joke that they were building digital locks for treasures that didn't exist yet."
Ethan's pupils dilate slightly—not with romantic interest, but with recognition. "Encryption protocols. That's fascinating work. Dangerous too, depending on what kind of treasures need protection."
The way he says "dangerous" makes my skin crawl. Dad had worried about corporate espionage in his final months, complained about competitors who seemed to know too much about their research. He'd been paranoid about phone calls being monitored, emails being intercepted, business meetings being compromised by people who wanted to steal innovations rather than develop their own.
"You know," I say, deciding to test something, "Dad used to tell this story about teaching me to drive when I was fifteen. We'd practice in the Walmart parking lot every Sunday after church, and he'd always buy me a chocolate milkshake from McDonald's afterward. It was our special tradition."
Ethan's expression softens with what looks like genuine warmth. "That sounds like a wonderful memory. Though I think you mean the Safeway parking lot, and it was strawberry milkshakes from Dairy Queen."
The world tilts sideways. I never learned to drive until college—my parents died when I was fourteen, and my grandparents lived in a small town where everything was walking distance. There was no Walmart, no McDonald's, no Sunday driving lessons. I'd just told him a completely fabricated story, and he'd corrected it with details that sound like real memories.
"How do you know that?" My voice comes out steady despite the way my heart is trying to escape through my throat.
Color drains from Ethan's face as he realizes his mistake. "I... you just told me..."
"No, I didn't. I said Walmart and McDonald's. You corrected me with Safeway and Dairy Queen." I step closer, invading his personal space the way I do with hostile witnesses. "How do you know details about my childhood that I've never shared with anyone?"
Before he can answer, his phone buzzes. He glances at it automatically, and I catch a glimpse of the screen over his shoulder. The contact name reads "Mother," and the message preview shows just enough to make my blood freeze: "Phase One complete. Proceed to Phase Two."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment I see past his carefully constructed charm to something calculating underneath. The morning light suddenly feels harsh, the flower vendor's roses smell cloying rather than sweet, and the bergamot cologne that reminded me of my father now seems like evidence of premeditation rather than coincidence.
"I should go," I say, backing away from him like he's something dangerous disguised as salvation.
"Maya, wait." He reaches for my arm, his touch burning through the wool of my coat. "Let me explain."
"Explain what? That you've been studying my life? That this is some kind of phase-based operation?" My coffee cup slips from my numb fingers, dark liquid spreading across the market's concrete like spilled secrets. "That you know more about my dead parents than their own daughter remembers?"
Ethan's phone buzzes again, and this time he turns it face down without looking. But the damage is done. Whatever game he's playing, whatever phases his mother is orchestrating, I've just discovered that my perfect match isn't coincidence or fate or Victoria Sterling's professional expertise.
It's a trap, and I've been walking into it since the moment I signed Elite Connections' contract.