The elevator doors opened onto a space that screamed money and taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. Modern furniture arranged in perfect geometric alignment. A reception desk where a woman with a sleek bob and designer glasses looked up with a polished smile that faltered for a microsecond at my appearance.
"You must be Willow. Mr. Hayes is expecting you." She gestured down a hallway lined with architectural renderings. "Third door on the left."
"Thanks."
I followed her directions, my sneakers silent on expensive carpet.
Callum's office was exactly what I'd expected: minimalist, organized to the point of obsession, dominated by a massive desk and drafting table. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view that made my stomach flip.
He stood at those windows now, phone pressed to his ear, looking every bit the intimidating executive that chewed on lesser humans for breakfast.
What have I gotten myself into? Too late for that reality check now.
He turned when I entered, held up one finger. "I understand your concerns, Richard, but the timeline is aggressive regardless of who you choose. My team can deliver quality without compromising the deadline." Pause. "Yes, I realize I’m not the only architect in town. Of course. Looking forward to the gala. Wouldn’t miss it.” He ended the call, set his phone down with precise care. "Willow."
"Callum." I stayed near the door, aware of how out of place I was. "Nice office. Very... you."
"Meaning?"
"Controlled. Organized. Probably color-coded by architectural period or whatever architects obsess over."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Alphabetical."
"Of course they are."
"Says the woman who arranges coffee beans by roast darkness."
"That's just good sense. Your level of organization is pathological, possibly bordering on a disorder."
"And yet you're here, agreeing to a mutually beneficial arrangement that requires exactly that kind of attention to detail." He gestured to a leather chair across from his desk. "Sit. We need to establish specifics."
I dropped into the chair, which was both comfortable and intimidating. "I thought we already did that."
"I prefer to be thorough." He settled into his own chair with ramrod posture that screamed expensive etiquette lessons—which only deepened my reluctant curiosity about Callum the man, not just Callum the guy I was fake dating. "We have three months to convince everyone we're in a committed relationship. That requires consistency, attention to detail, and absolute discretion."
"Yeah, I get it."
"Good. Reminder: romance isn't the goal. Credibility is." He pulled out a legal pad—of course he had a legal pad—and uncapped a fountain pen. "Question one: how long have we been dating?"
I blinked. "Are you quizzing me on our fake relationship?"
"In the story we're selling, Willow. How long?"
I resisted the urge to make a sarcastic face. Right. The story. The lie we'd be feeding everyone including my parents and his business associates and anyone who asked why the coffee shop manager was dating the architect who'd spent a year critiquing her foam art.
"Six weeks," I said. "Long enough to be serious, short enough that people won't question why they haven't heard about it."
He nodded with approval. "How did we start dating?"
"You admitted my coffeeart is brilliant?"
"Be serious."
"I am serious. You've been insulting my foam hearts since the day you walked into my shop."
"I've been offering constructive criticism. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
