She hangs up before I can respond.
Baxter headbutts the cabinet below the counter. It is his standard protest against any pause in the feeding process. "I've made a significant error in judgment," I inform him. He stares at the bowl. I set it down, and he collapses into his dinner with the single-minded focus I typically reserve for depositions.
I lean against the counter and pull up Tessa's contact in my phone.Tessa Bloom, Client Liaison.She'd been unexpectedly easy to coordinate with about this whole thing, almost breezy, which I find either reassuring or faintly destabilizing depending on the hour.
I put my phone face-down on the counter.
Baxter finishes his bowl and looks up at me with the profound, liquid patience of someone prepared to wait forever.
"Walk first," I say, retrieving his leash from the hook. "Then I need to work."
Immediately, he sits perfectly and I clip the leash to his collar, which is more cooperation than I receive from most people in a given week.
Outside, the neighborhood has settled into its quiet evening version of itself, porch lights warming the oak-lined street. Baxter sets a brisk pace and I let him, my mind already sorting the problem into manageable components.
I should prepare a brief. Something structured, specific, and professionally delivered would neutralize the variables before they could compound.
My match would need names, histories, behavioral expectations, the precise social geography of a Maddox family event.
I pause while Baxter investigates a particularly absorbing patch of grass with forensic dedication. I wonder briefly whether Tessa keeps candidate wardrobes on file, then recognize thethought as irrelevant and discard it. Baxter looks back at me over his shoulder as if he's heard something I haven't said aloud.
"Don't," I tell him.
He trots on, tail arcing in a slow, unbothered sweep.
By the time we round back onto my block, I have a working outline in my head.
Back inside, I change into the particular worn oxford shirt that constitutes my version of casual, which Baxter acknowledges with a single thump of his tail.
I open my laptop at the desk, and he performs his nightly ritual of turning twice before flopping at my feet with a sigh of theatrical finality.
The document opens clean and white. I typeMaddox Wedding Brief asthe title and feel the particular satisfaction of a problem becoming a project.
I pause, fingers over the keys, because the title is just not quite right.
I change it toGirlfriend Briefand move on, even though it looks absurdly direct in twelve-point font.
Before I reach the first header, I frown. Matches at ERS usually involve paperwork, and a great deal of it. NDAs. Contracts. Layered agreements with enough legal cushioning to survive minor warfare.
But when I spoke with Tessa today, she'd implied it was already handled, that my fake girlfriend was waiting and ready for the first event.
I text her:Do I need to fill out or sign more paperwork?
She responds with a winky emoji:No additional paperwork required on your end.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. The emoji feels unserious. Possibly mocking. Possibly playful.
I purse my lips and text back:I'll provide a briefing document shortly.
Her reply arrives in under a minute:lol ok sure.
I read it twice, uncertain whether it constitutes professional confirmation or something else entirely.
Eventually, I classify it as confirmation and return to the document.
Section one: Principal Background (George Maddox).
I feel faintly strange typing out things like my favorite color, my favorite food, and other details I haven't organized for anyone's benefit since early childhood.
