"Of course." I agreed, relieved. Rules were guardrails.
"No public displays of affection beyond hand-holding. I'm not making out with you to convince people we're legitimate."
I countered. “Tasteful kisses would be appropriate if we’re going to sell the narrative.”
“Tasteful…okay, but I don’t need you sticking your tongue down my throat to prove a point.”
I chuckled. “Fair enough.”
She lowered her voice even further. "We tell no one the truth. The moment a single person knows it's fake, the whole thing falls apart."
"That seems only logical."
“Except Mika. She's going to lose her mind over this, but I can’t help what she’s already seen.”
“You think you can trust her with our secret?”
“Yeah, I’ll handle Mika. We can trust her.”
I nodded, choosing to trust Willow’s judgment.
Willow continued. "And when this is over—when you get your contract or we hit three months, whichever comes earlier—we end it cleanly. No drama, no hard feelings, no awkward coffee shop encounters where we can't look at each other."
I agreed, pulling out my phone. "Give me your number. We'll need to coordinate."
She rattled off the digits, and I saved thecontact. Willow Monroe. My fake girlfriend. It was a dangerous game but what was life without a little thrill to spice things up?
"When do we start?" she asked.
"This Friday. Ashford's hosting a cocktail party for potential contractors. Partners are expected."
"This Friday?" Her voice pitched up. "Callum, that's four days away. I'm not sure I'm ready?—"
"We'll prep. Come by my office tonight at six." I headed back toward the main shop, then paused. "And Willow? Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You might regret this arrangement."
"Too late for regrets."
I pushed open the door, February air hitting my face. Behind me, I heard Mika's voice rise in a barely contained screech: "Willow Monroe, you have exactly thirty seconds to explain—" before the door swung shut and cut off the rest.
I chuckled and went on my way.
three
WILLOW
The architectural firm of Hayes & Thornton occupied the entire fifteenth floor of a glass tower that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood. I stood in the lobby, staring at the brushed steel elevator doors and questioning every decision that had led me here.
My phone buzzed.
15th floor. Reception will direct you to my office.
No greeting. No pleasantries. Just instructions delivered in the same clipped tone he used to order his boring coffee.
Get over it, Willow. This isn't real. It's a business transaction that will be mostly mutually beneficial.
I stepped into the elevator and watched the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from polished surfaces. Target dress, thrifted cardigan, sneakers I'd tried to clean but still bore coffee stains.I looked exactly as I was: a coffee shop manager who didn't belong in buildings with marble lobbies and abstract art worth more than my parents' retirement accounts.
