Grabbing the phone, I hit the answer button. “Speak, human,” I say in a robot voice.
“Freya, I need your help.”
His tone, strained and panicked, instantly puts me on high alert. I sit up straighter, my heart rate picking up speed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Okay, uh, you’ll think this is crazy…” He breathes heavily, like he’s about to have a panic attack, and I hear a loud hum in the background. “I’m in the jet on my way back from Texas.”
“You met with that guy about his wind turbines. How did it go?”
There’s a pause. “Depends on how you look at it.”
My eyes narrow. What’s going on here? “Ben, are you okay? You mentioned you need help.”
“And I do. So, uh, this Texas rancher. He’s pretty old-fashioned, and apparently, his wife read all about me. She thinks I’m relationship-averse?—”
“You are relationship-averse.”
“And he clearly doesn’t like that,” he continues, conveniently ignoring my calling him out. “So when I could feel the negotiation going south, I… I may have told him I was engaged.”
I blink. Then blink again. “You what?”
“I told him I was engaged.”
“To who?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “To you.”
The paint brush slips from between my teeth and clatters to the floor. “Ben… What the hell did you do?”
“I panicked, okay? And you’re the only woman I have a picture of in my phone that isn’t related to me or work. So when he was asking about my fiancée, I showed him your picture.” He states it like this was the obvious choice, or maybe the only choice.
I’m quiet for a moment, trying to process this. Ben, my methodical, calculated best friend, told a complete stranger we were engaged. Without asking me. Without eventhinkingto ask me first.
“Freya? Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I respond slowly. “I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that you fake-engaged us without my consent.”
“I know, I know. It sounds terrible when you put it like that.”
“Because itisterrible when you put it like that.”
“But here’s the thing,” he rushes on, and I can practically hear him pacing now. “He wants to meet you. He and his wife are going to be in Chicago next week, and they want to have dinner with us. If I can get through one dinner, I think the deal is mine.”
I lean back on my stool, staring at the ceiling. Of course. Of course Ben would manage to get himself into a situation like this. The guy who plans everything down to the minute somehow forgot to plan for the possibility that his lie might have consequences.
“One dinner,” I repeat.
“One dinner. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And what happens after that? Do we have a fake breakup? A fake divorce?”
“We’ll figure it out. Please, Freya. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m desperate here. This agreement could change everything for my company.”
And there it is. The thing that always gets me with Ben—the way his voice gets when he’s talking about his work, his dreams. I’ve known him since we were kids, and I’ve watched him build his enterprise from nothing. I understand how much this means to him.
Which is exactly why I should refuse. Because I know myself, and I recognize that when it comes to him, I have exactly zero willpower.
“Freya?”
