"And you don't have that image."
“Not in his eyes. I’m forty. Divorced. Known for being..."
“A player?”
“Selective.”
She cocked her head at me. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I’m probably the opposite of what you would consider a player. I’m prohibitively selective in who I choose to spend my time with.”
“Which probably makes it hard to find a date,” she surmised.
“You could say that.” I left out the part where my last three dates had ended unceremoniously with zero prospects of a second date —by my choice. Small talk was tedious, the women in my circles tended to be shallow, and I had very little tolerance for people who were cruel to animals. That’s a story I won’t even get into.
“Hmm, so you think having a girlfriend will help you get the job?”
"I think Ashford responds to narrative. The workaholic who's found someone worth making space for—it's compelling. Humanizing." I met her stare directly. "And before you ask, yes, I'm aware how calculating that sounds."
"It sounds exactly as I'd expect you to sound." Willow studied me with those sharp hazel eyes that missed nothing.
I didn’t know if I should be impressed or insulted.
"And then we have a dramatic breakup at the end of the three months and go back to normal?,” she said, considering the wild idea.
I shrugged. “Pretty much. That's the idea.”
She was quiet for a long moment, and I could practically see her mind working through implications and possibilities. "What's in it for me?"
Fair question. I respected her clear-eyed pragmatism.
“Three months with me, and everyone in your life sees you differently. Not the girl who dropped out of physical therapy school. Not the barista with no ambition. The woman who caught the attention of an established architect. A person who sees your worth."
She made a face. "You sure think a lot of yourself."
I held her gaze. "You want people to stop questioning your choices? Date a person who makes those questions irrelevant."
"You know it's 2026, right? Women don't need a man to validate their existence."
"No, but social conditioning runs deep. People judge. This gives you breathing room—a temporary buffer. Plus, you'll get entertainment out of the deal. Five-star restaurants and such."
"What makes you think I care about that kind of stuff?"
"Who doesn't enjoy a good time on another person's dime?"
"Fair point." She paused, brow furrowing. "What about your daughter? Won't she have questions about her dad's new girlfriend?"
The question caught me off guard. "You know about Elena?"
"You mentioned her once. A few months ago. You were on the phone when you came in—sounded stressed—and after you hung up, you said you needed your coffee extra strong to deal with a stubborn twenty-year-old." She shrugged. "I assumed it was your kid."
I'd forgotten that. Forgotten that Willow paid attention to things beyond coffee orders. "Elena lives in California with her mother. She won't be a factor."
"If you say so." Her tone suggested she didn't believe me, but she let it drop.
Willow chewed her lip, and I forced myself not to track the movement. Not to notice how the afternoon sun from the shop's front windows caught in her hair or how small she looked standing in this cramped hallway. Seventeen years. The age gap I'd used as a shield for a year of pretending I didn't see her romantically. I was too old for her. At least that's what I kept telling myself when my thoughts wandered where they shouldn't.
"Ground rules," she said at last.
