The question had been gnawing at me since the moment we'd left my apartment. Every gesture, every loaded silence, every flush of color—was this the arrangement, or had she dropped the pretense the way I had?
I couldn't tell. That was the problem. Willow Monroe was charming and quick and devastatingly good at reading rooms. If she'd decided to perform "woman falling for her fake boyfriend," she'd be convincing. Probably more convincing than the real thing.
I needed it to be real. The desperation of that want would've alarmed me if I'd had the bandwidth to examine it.
The gallery was crowded with the usual suspects.
Architects I knew from industry events, developers I'd pitched projects to, art patrons whose net worth exceeded the GDP of small nations. People whodiscussed acquisition prices and summer homes in the Hamptons while holding thousand-dollar champagne flutes with casual indifference.
Willow stayed close to my side, her hand occasionally brushing mine, her body angling toward me when conversations grew tedious. We'd quickly developed a rhythm —a shorthand that seemed intuitive when we needed to communicate without words.
I introduced her. Again and again, to people whose names she'd forget and whose opinions didn't matter.This is Willow. My girlfriend.Each time I said it, something tightened in my throat. The lie that wasn't a lie anymore. The arrangement that had transformed into a thing I didn't have a name for.
Richard Ashford found us near a sculpture that looked—to my eye—structurally implausible.
"Callum! And the lovely Willow." He clasped my hand, then turned to her with the warmth he reserved for people who'd passed his authenticity tests. "You look radiant, my dear. That color is extraordinary on you."
"Thank you, Mr. Ashford. Callum tried to convince me to wear beige. I told him I'd rather commit a felony."
Richard laughed—that genuine, delighted sound I'd heard at his gala. "I knew I approved of you. She keeps you humble, doesn't she, Callum?"
"She keeps me on my toes."
"That's what the good ones do." Richard's gaze moved between us with the shrewd assessment I'd come to expect from him. “It’s wonderful to see this ol’ stick-in-the-mud hasn’t chased you off yet.”
“I don’t scare easily,” Willow responded with an engaging smile that Ashford ate up with a spoon.
“Excellent, excellent.” He paused to glance around, searching. "Eleanor's around here somewhere," he said. "She'll want to say hello. Enjoy the evening, you two."
He moved on, absorbed into the crowd. I took a long sip of champagne.
“Old stick-in-the-mud,” she teased with a smile over her glass. “He seems to know you well.”
I rolled my eyes but a smile threatened. “Don’t take anything Richard says to heart. He's spent sixty-two years chasing a fairy tale. Seeing people who look happy gives him misguided hope and a false sense of confidence.”
"Do we look happy?"
The question landed in my gut.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Do we?"
She held my gaze. Didn't answer. Didn't need to.
It happened near the bar.
A man I vaguely recognized—Philip Reeves, developer, known for luxury condos with questionable plumbing and a reputation for being handsy at industry events—cornered Willow while I was getting refills.
I returned to find him standing closer than social norms permitted, his body angled to block her exit, his smile carrying an oil slick of condescension.
"...must be nice, being on the arm of someone so successful. I'm sure it opens a lot of doors." His gaze traveled down her body with a leisurely assessment that made my jaw clench. Then he had the audacity to try and brush her hair from her shoulder but Willow moved out of reach. His expression didn’t falter, if anything he seemed to enjoy her reaction. “Tell me, sweetheart, what is it you do? Aside from looking beautiful, obviously."
Willow's spine straightened. I recognized that posture—the one she adopted when customers talked down to her, when her parents questioned her choices, when anyone implied she was less than what she was.
"I manage a coffee shop," she said, voice cool. "I also have opinions on architecture, politics, and people who stand too close and try to touch without consent. Would you prefer to hear about any of those?"
Reeves laughed, undeterred. "Feisty. I can see why Callum keeps you around.”
I stepped in beside her, close enough that my shoulder brushed hers. "Philip."
