If Tessa Morales had to describe her job in one word, it would be: *dangerous*.
Not because it was physically risky. The most danger she usually faced was a rogue earring back bouncing under the display case, or a toddler wielding a churro near the engagement rings.
No, the danger lived in the shadows. Or, rather, in a too-tight navy suit that smelled faintly of cheap cologne and entitlement.
“Smile a little more, Tessa,” Mr. Denby said, leaning one elbow on the glass case so he could peer down the front of her blouse. “You’ll scare off the boyfriends.”
His voice was soft enough that the couple by the watches couldn’t hear him, but the edge in it scraped along her spine.
Tessa’s cheeks burned. She adjusted the collar of her light blue button-down, inching the fabric up without making it obvious. She pasted on a bright, practiced smile—the one that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m smiling,” she said. “That’s literally my face right now.”
His gaze dragged from her mouth to her chest, then back up again, slow enough to make her stomach twist.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “I know you can do better. This is a *jewelry* store. Romance, fantasy—people are buying a story. You’re the…ambiance.”
She wanted to tell him where he could shove his ambiance.
The cash register chimed, saving her from having to decide whether to risk her job or her dignity in that particular moment. The boyfriend by the watches—early twenties, nervous sweat, shaking hands—was waving the little velvet box in the air.
“Um, hi?” he said. “I think I’m ready. To, uh. Buy it. The ring. Obviously.”
Tessa slid gracefully away from Denby, feeling his eyes stick to her like gum on a shoe.
“Of course!” she said, the smile on her lips instantly turning real when she saw the boy’s flushed, terrified face. This part of the job she actually liked. “You’re making an excellent choice. She’s going to love it.”
He swallowed. “You think so? She, uh… she wanted something ‘simple but meaningful’ and my sister said this one was basic, and—”
“It’s not basic. It’s classic.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Your sister probably spends too much time on Instagram.”
He let out a startled laugh, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “She kind of does, actually.”
“Trust me.” Tessa held the box out to him like it contained the fate of the world. “This is the one.”
He stared down at it like it might explode. “What if she says no?”
“She won’t.” Tessa softened her tone. “Do you love her?”
His throat worked. “Yeah. A lot.”
“Then you’re good.” She nodded toward the ring. “Loop me in when you’re picking out the wedding band.”
The boy smiled, a little unsteady but full of hope, and Tessa rang up the purchase. The total always made people flinch, but he just winced and tapped his card.
Love on layaway, she thought. Or on twelve months, interest-free, if he qualified.
As she handed him the receipt, Denby reappeared at her elbow, materializing like mildew.
“You see?” he said, clapping a hand on the kid’s shoulder a little too hard. “You want someone like Tessa helping you. She *understands* romance.”
The boy managed an awkward smile. “Yeah. Thanks. For the pep talk.”
“You’re welcome.” Tessa ignored Denby. “Good luck.”
He left with the ring, shoulders square, hope tucked in his pocket.
The bell above the store door jingled as it closed behind him, letting in the faint sounds of Lakeside Galleria’s evening bustle—clattering footsteps, distant music from a clothing store, the shriek of a child discovering the joy of an escalator for the first time.
Then the door clicked shut, and Tessa was alone with Denby again.
Wonderful.
“You really should learn to upsell better,” he said, straightening a row of bracelets that were already perfectly aligned. “You could have pushed the matching necklace, at least. Do you know how small your commission was on that?”
“Small,” she said. “But he was already at his limit. If I’d pushed harder, I might’ve lost the sale completely.”
“Or,” he said, stepping closer, “you don’t care enough about the store’s performance.”
He was crowding her. Not close enough to technically be an HR issue—if their mall even had HR for retail employees—but close enough that she could smell his coffee breath. Close enough that his tie brushed her arm.
A tired anger simmered under her skin. “Our store’s numbers were up last quarter.”
“Because of holiday engagement season.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Now Valentine’s Day is over, we need new strategies. Your smile is one of them.”
He tapped her chin, fingers lingering longer than necessary.
“You’re a pretty girl, Tessa,” he said. “You should use it. Smile at the boyfriends. Laugh at their jokes. Make them want to impress you.”
Her jaw clenched. *Pretty girl.* Like that was her defining skillset.
“I’m here to sell jewelry,” she said. “Not myself.”
His eyelids drooped, and something nasty curled at the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
The bell above the door jingled again, cutting off the argument—and probably saving her from saying something she couldn’t take back. An older woman walked in, pushing a stroller with a chubby sleeping toddler, and Tessa instinctively shifted away from Denby, adopting her professional persona again.
He let her go, but his hand brushed the small of her back as he passed. An *accidental* touch. Sure.
“I’m taking my break,” he announced loudly, as if she’d somehow argue with that. “Tessa, man the floor. I’m locking up at nine sharp, so don’t keep any customers late with your little pep talks.”
“Yes, sir,” she muttered to his retreating back.
The rest of her shift passed in a haze of cleaning smudgy glass and pretending she didn’t feel a stare on her every time he emerged from the back office. Lakeside Galleria, once bustling, slowly emptied until the corridors outside were dotted with only a handful of teenagers and exhausted parents with shopping bags digging grooves into their fingers.
At eight fifty-five, she rang up her last customer. A woman buying herself a pair of diamond studs—“because if I wait for my husband to notice, I’ll be in the ground”—and handed over the small white bag.
“Treat yourself,” Tessa said, genuinely delighted. “You deserve it.”
Denby hovered at the register, glancing meaningfully at the clock. The woman left, the bell chimed, and the store suddenly felt too quiet.
Tessa was counting the bills in the till when Denby locked the door with an unusual flourish, flipping the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and letting the metal security gate rattle down halfway.
Her stomach tightened.
He didn’t usually do that until *after* she left.
“Um,” she said, stacking twenties. “You know my bus is at nine fifteen, right? If we could not miss that, my feet will worship you forever.”
His laugh was oily. “Relax. This won’t take long.”
He leaned his hip against the counter, fingers drumming on the glass, watching her.
She kept counting. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty—
“Do you know why I hired you, Tessa?”
The bills slipped in her hand.
“Because I interviewed and you needed staff?” she tried.
“No.” He tutted. “Well, yes. But I hired *you* because you have a… look.”
She didn’t like where this was going. “I have two arms and two legs and I know the difference between sterling and white gold?”
“You’re approachable,” he said. “Not one of those intimidating model types. Guys feel comfortable with you. Girls see you and think, ‘She’s like me.’ It’s good for business.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Thanks?”
He smiled, and all her internal alarm bells rang at once.
“And because of that,” he continued, “I’m willing to do you a favor.”
Her fingers froze around a stack of tens. “A favor?”
“Yes.” He straightened his tie, as if preparing for a big moment. “The staff appreciation party is next Friday. You know that, obviously.”
She did. He’d mentioned it three times that week alone. “Right.”
“I’ve decided,” he said, puffing out his chest slightly, “to invite you as my special guest.”
The tens slid from her hand and fluttered to the counter.
“I… I’m staff,” she said, brain short-circuiting. “I’m already invited.”
“Yes, but this is different.” He smiled like he’d just announced she’d won the lottery. “We’ll arrive together. Sit together. I’ll introduce you to some people. Could be very… beneficial to your future here.”
She stared at him, the implications hanging in the air like a bad smell.
“Mr. Denby,” she said, choosing her words very carefully, “I don’t think that’s appropriate. You’re my boss.”
His eyes cooled. Just like that, the fake charm evaporated.
“I’m offering you an opportunity,” he said. “You could show a little gratitude.”
“I am grateful,” she lied. “But I don’t think my boyfriend would like it.”
The words were out of her mouth before she fully registered what she’d said.
She froze. So did he.
Slowly, his brows lifted. “Boyfriend?”
Shit.
Her brain spun, searching for a backspace button that didn’t exist.
“Yes,” she said, heart pounding. “My, uh. Boyfriend. He’s… a little old-fashioned about me going places with other men.”
Denby’s jaw ticked. “You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before.”
“I don’t talk about my personal life at work,” she improvised. “Because it’s personal. And life.”
“And what’s his name?”
Double shit.
Her mind blanked for a beat, then latched onto the first thing that came to her—a random movie poster she’d walked past on her way in that morning.
“Eli,” she said. “His name is Eli.”
“Eli *what*?”
She swallowed. “Eli… Sorenson.”
Where had that come from? No idea. It sounded plausible enough, though. She prayed.
“How long have you two been dating?” he pressed, eyes narrowed.
“Um.” She flipped a mental coin between realistic and impressive. “Almost a year.”
“A year.” Disbelief colored his tone. “And I’ve never seen him pick you up? Never heard you answer a call from him?”
“He’s… busy,” she said weakly. “And I usually text on my breaks. You know. Modern relationships.”
He stared at her for a long time, clearly not buying a single syllable.
“Well,” he said finally, voice gone quiet and dangerous, “then he should come to the party. Staff are encouraged to bring partners.”
Panic flashed hot in her chest. “He, uh, doesn’t like crowds.”
“Then he can make an exception. Unless…” Denby’s smile turned sharp. “Unless this boyfriend of yours isn’t real.”
Tessa’s cheeks burned.
“He’s real,” she said, overly emphatic. “Very real.”
“Prove it,” Denby said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming. “Bring him next Friday. Or don’t bother bringing yourself.”
Her heart stuttered. “Are you… are you threatening my job?”
“I’m asking for honesty from an employee I’ve invested time and training in.” He shrugged. “If you lied to me about something this basic, I have to question your integrity. Your… suitability.”
Tears pricked at her eyes, more from fury than fear. “That’s not fair.”
“That’s retail.” He pushed off the counter and moved to the door, unlocking the gate with a rattle. “You have a week to introduce us. I’m sure your *boyfriend* will want to help keep food on your table.”
He held the gate up, mock-gallant. “After you.”
For a moment, she considered telling him the whole truth. That her boyfriend was made of desperation and reflex. That she’d panicked.
But his expression told her exactly how that would go.
So she did the only thing she could: she lifted her chin, walked past him, and pretended her legs weren’t trembling.
***
The mall after closing felt like a movie set after the actors had gone home.
Most of the gates were down. The food court was a graveyard of overturned chairs and glistening mopped tiles. Only a few workers lingered—janitors pushing carts, a security guard checking doors, a barista scrubbing an espresso machine in the dim light of a half-closed coffee shop.
Tessa’s bus wouldn’t be there for another twenty minutes. Normally, she would’ve plopped down on one of the cushioned benches by the big indoor fountain, scrolled mindlessly on her phone, and pretended her life was a romcom instead of whatever this was.
Tonight, the thought of holding still made her want to scream.
“A fiancé,” she muttered angrily, pacing the marble floor between a shuttered shoe store and a kiosk selling phone cases. “Why didn’t I say fiancé? A fiancé sounds more… permanent. Serious. Less like something you could just… produce.”
Also: a fiancé didn’t exist either. So why did it matter what fake label she’d given her imaginary man?
She stopped by the railing overlooking the fountain on the lower level. Without the daytime chaos, the sound of the water was almost soothing. She watched it spill over the edge of the stone tiers in silvery ribbons and tried not to hyperventilate.
“Okay,” she told herself. “Think. Options.”
Option one: Tell Denby the truth, hope he was bluffing, and prepare to job-hunt.
Except her rent was due in two weeks, her mom’s medical bill autopayment would hit in three days, and her savings account contained approximately enough for one extravagant vending machine purchase.
Option two: Ask a friend to pretend to be Eli Sorenson for one night.
Her brain flashed through the list. Her best friend, Lana, would’ve stepped up in a heartbeat, but she was five-foot-two and very much female. Tessa didn’t think Denby was quite oblivious enough not to notice that.
Lana’s boyfriend, Marcus, was sweet, but he was also the human embodiment of a golden retriever—too earnest, too likely to say “This is fun! I’ve never fake-dated anyone before!” in the first five minutes.
Her cousin Nico would enjoy the drama *way* too much and flirt with everyone, including Denby, probably turning the whole thing into a circus.
Option three: Hire someone?
She almost laughed out loud at that. With what money? Her stunning personality and a punch card for bubble tea?
“Congratulations, Eli,” she said, staring at the water. “You’re the best thing I never had.”
“Rough day?”
The male voice came from behind her, accompanied by a little hollow echo off the marble floor. She turned.
A man stood a few feet away, framed by the soft glow of the overhead lights and the faint blue shimmer of the fountain.
If Tessa had to guess his age, she’d put him early thirties. He had light brown hair that looked like he usually kept it tidier but had been running his hand through it all day. A faint scruff darkened his jaw, more end-of-day shadow than intentional style. His build was lean, not bulky—like a runner or a cyclist, long lines and quiet strength under a gray henley and well-worn jeans.
He was carrying a paper shopping bag from an electronics store and wearing battered sneakers that had seen better days. No watch, no flashy jewelry, no obvious brands screaming money.
Just a guy at the mall late at night.
Apparently, she wasn’t the only one with nowhere better to be.
“I talk to fountains,” she said. “What gave it away?”
His mouth tugged at one corner. “The part where you congratulated someone who wasn’t there.”
“You heard that?” Her face heated. “Oh, good. Now I have an audience for my breakdown.”
“You’re doing pretty well, for a breakdown.” He nodded at her posture. “No mascara streaks. No dramatic sliding down walls.”
“I have standards.” She twisted the strap of her purse between her fingers, oddly not immediately on guard. He didn’t have that predatory energy some guys had when they saw a girl alone. If anything, his gaze kept skipping away politely whenever he registered he might be making her uncomfortable.
He stepped closer to the rail, leaving a respectful gap between them. From here, she could see he had light eyes—hazel, maybe. The kind that held more than one color if you looked long enough.
Not that she was looking long enough.
“Seriously, though,” he said. “Are you okay?”
She hesitated. Years of customer service training had programmed her to answer “Fine! Great! Living the dream!” on reflex.
She also had a strict personal policy about not dumping her problems on strangers.
But something about tonight—and about him—made the lie feel too heavy to carry.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “You?”
He huffed a short laugh. “Also been better. Today was… not a gold-star day.”
“We should start a club,” she said. “‘People Who Had Crappy Days But Don’t Have Anywhere Else to Go at Nine-Thirty on a Tuesday.’”
“We’d need jackets,” he mused. “Or at least enamel pins.”
“Obviously.” She glanced at his paper bag. “So what do you do when you have a crappy day? Retail therapy? New headphones?”
He looked momentarily blank, then down at the bag like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. This. No, I was, uh… returning something.”
He was a bad liar. Interesting.
“I work in retail,” she said. “You don’t have to pretend returns are fun for my sake. I respect the hustle.”
His gaze sharpened. “You work here?”
She gestured toward the second floor. “Radiance Jewelers. We sell shiny things to people who are in love and people who are trying to fix not being in love with shiny things.”
He smiled, and the lines around his eyes deepened. “I was up there earlier.”
Her stomach did a weird little flip. “Oh? Were you one of the guys who asked if we sold ‘those necklaces that on TikTok’? Because we do. Unfortunately.”
“No. I was, uh… observing.” His eyes flicked toward one of the closed shops down the hall. “Doing… some research.”
“You a spy?” she asked, only half-joking.
“Yes,” he said gravely. “Corporate espionage. Don’t tell anyone.”
She laughed. It surprised her, how easy it was.
“Your secret’s safe with me, stranger.”
“Good.” He leaned his elbows on the rail, mirroring her stance. “So. On a scale from one to ‘I’ve set something on fire,’ how bad was your day?”
She frowned, considering. “Emotionally or logistically?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
She exhaled. “Emotionally? Eleven. Logistically? Maybe a seven. No actual fires. Yet. Just… future fires. Looming.”
“Ah,” he said. “The dread fires. The worst kind.”
“You’re really getting this.” She tilted her head. “What about you? How bad was yours?”
He paused, like he was weighing how much to say.
“Emotionally… complicated,” he said finally. “Logistically? Definitely an eleven. Maybe a twelve.”
“Wow.” She nodded solemnly. “You win.”
“I don’t know.” His mouth quirked. “You’re the one talking to fountains.”
“Fair point.” She glanced around at the empty mall. “So. What brings you to Lakeside Galleria at this enchanted hour? Aside from corporate espionage.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, “Work, technically. I was checking on something. Then I got… delayed.”
“Ominous.” She squinted at him. “Are you a secret shopper?”
His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “Something like that.”
“And how did we do?” she asked, only half-kidding. “On a scale from one to ‘I’m writing a strongly worded Yelp review.’”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Some of you did great.”
“Some of us?” she echoed.
His gaze held hers. “The girl at Radiance was very kind to a panicking guy buying a ring.”
Her cheeks warmed. “That’s just my thing. Other people use aromatherapy for stress. I hype up strangers making huge emotional decisions after three months of dating.”
He smiled. “He looked… marginally less likely to vomit when he left.”
“I’ll take that as a win.”
He watched her for a moment, expression thoughtful. She realized she liked the way he looked at her—not as a customer, not as a problem, not as something to conquer. Just… *curious*.
“So what happened after that?” he asked softly. “To make the day go from ‘helping puppy-eyed boyfriends’ to ‘threat of future fires’?”
The words were right there on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t know this man. She might never see him again. It should’ve been easy to brush him off, make a joke, move on.
But the pressure in her chest, the tight knot of fear and humiliation and anger, needed somewhere to go.
She inhaled. Exhaled.
“My boss is a creep,” she said.
Something in his eyes sharpened. “Define creep.”
“Thinks he’s Casanova,” she said. “Is actually… not. I’ve been dodging his ‘invitations’ for drinks for months. Today he… escalated.”
His hands curled around the railing. “How?”
She stared down at the fountain, watching the water bubble up.
“He invited me to a staff party,” she said. “As his date. I said I couldn’t because my boyfriend wouldn’t like it.”
There was a beat. Then, carefully, “Do you… have a boyfriend?”
“Nope,” she said brightly. “Sure don’t.”
His brow furrowed. “You lied?”
“Yep.” She grimaced. “Reflex. I panicked. I said I had a boyfriend named Eli Sorenson. We’ve been together almost a year. He’s very supportive of my career, apparently.”
That startled a laugh out of him. “You made up an entire relationship on the spot?”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her forehead. “I even gave him a last name. Why did I give him a last name?”
“It does make him sound more real,” he said. “People with last names are harder to argue with.”
“I hate that you’re kind of right.” She sighed. “Anyway. My boss didn’t believe me—shocking, I know. And now he says if my dearly beloved Eli doesn’t show up at the staff party next Friday, I can kiss my job goodbye.”
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.
“You can’t report him?” the man asked slowly. “What he’s doing… that’s harassment.”
“We don’t have a real HR,” she said. “Just a general hotline that goes… somewhere. When Mariah from Shoes reported him for always ‘accidentally’ touching her waist when he brushed past, guess who suddenly stopped getting her requested shifts?”
His expression went cold. “You’re saying he retaliated.”
“I’m saying she had to get a second job at a nail salon.” Her throat tightened. “I can’t… afford that right now. My mom’s chemo bills are…” She trailed off, embarrassed by how much she was about to overshare.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t pity her. Just listened.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“It’s fine.” She shook her head. “It’s just… a lot right now.”
He was quiet for a moment, jaw working like he was grinding his teeth.
“So you have a week,” he said. “To produce an Eli.”
“Yep.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve considered a blow-up doll and some very aggressive lighting.”
“Creative,” he said. “Probably not HR-approved, though.”
“Nothing about this situation is HR-approved.”
He huffed a laugh, but it died quickly.
“You could ask a friend,” he offered. “A cousin. Someone you trust.”
“I thought about it.” She rubbed her arm. “But Denby’s not stupid. If he ever sees me with that person again outside work, he’ll definitely assume something’s up. And my friends are… not great liars.”
“And you are?” he asked, curious.
She thought of the practiced smile she wore for customers, the way she’d calmly invented a year-long relationship on the fly.
“I’m… adaptable,” she said.
He studied her for a moment, something like respect flickering in his eyes.
The silence stretched out—and shifted. Tessa became suddenly aware that they were alone, that the mall was almost eerily quiet, that this stranger had listened to her whole story without flinching.
She cleared her throat. “So. That was my overshare of the evening. You?”
His lips pressed together, like he was fighting a smile. “My turn for honesty, huh?”
“Club rules.” She shrugged. “Crappy Day Club requires dues.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “My family… would like me to get married.”
She blinked. “That’s… a very polite way to put it.”
“They have… strong feelings about it,” he said. “It’s not enough that I’m successful, apparently. I need to be settled. Respectable. Producing heirs.” He made a face at that word.
“Wow.” She winced. “So subtle. Have they started circling potential candidates in society pages?”
“Yes,” he said, frighteningly serious. “They actually have.”
“Yikes.” She crossed her arms. “You some kind of royalty I don’t know about?”
“Nothing that glamorous.” His mouth twisted. “Just the oldest son.”
“Of…?” she prompted.
He hesitated. “A family who cares too much about what the country club thinks.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “The worst kind.”
“My grandmother believes I’m one bad bachelor headline away from tarnishing the…legacy.” He said the word like it tasted bad. “My aunt keeps trying to set me up with their friends’ daughters—very nice people, I’m sure, but they see me as a… project. Or a prize. Not a person.”
He sounded tired. Not just physically, but in a deeper way.
“So *you* lied too,” she realized. “To get them off your back?”
“Not yet.” He raked a hand through his hair. “But I considered it tonight. Really considered it.”
He glanced over at her, something like mischief and desperation warring in his expression.
“I thought about saying I was engaged,” he admitted. “Just to shut it all down for a while.”
Her breath caught.
Engaged.
“What stopped you?” she asked.
“No one to play the part.” He shrugged one shoulder. “My friends are… known quantities. My family would have Opinions. And I can’t exactly… hire someone.”
“Why not?” She squinted at him. “You have something against actresses?”
“Against lying to my family *that* thoroughly,” he said. “If I did it, it would have to be… convincing. Real enough that they’d back off. And… I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone I’d trust to do that. Until…”
He trailed off, lips pressing together.
Heat prickled down her spine. “Until…?”
“Until now,” he said bluntly.
Her heart stuttered. “Um.”
He held up his hands quickly, as if physically trying to stop her from jumping to the wrong conclusion.
“That came out wrong,” he said. “I’m not— I don’t—”
“Planning to propose to a stranger by the fountain?” she supplied, dry.
“Not tonight,” he said softly, and her stomach did a flip it absolutely should not have done. “I just mean… logically. You and I both have the same problem.”
“Overbearing authority figures with boundary issues?”
“Yes.” His mouth twitched. “And we both seem to be… reasonably competent liars. In a pinch.”
“You say ‘liars’ like it’s a compliment,” she said, amused.
“Sometimes it is.” He held her gaze. “What if we helped each other?”
The air shifted. She straightened. “Helped… how?”
“We could…” He exhaled. “Pretend. To be engaged. Temporarily. To solve our immediate problems.”
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them. The hum of the fountain faded. The distant clatter of a janitor’s cart might as well have been on another planet.
“You’re suggesting,” she said slowly, “that we fake an engagement. You and me. People who met fifteen minutes ago.”
“Technically it’s been twenty,” he said.
She choked on a laugh. “Oh, well. That makes all the difference.”
He didn’t look away. “Hear me out.”
She gestured. “By all means. Pitch me your fake love story.”
“You need someone to show up at this party,” he said. “Someone your creep of a boss will believe is your fiancé. If you show up with a stranger who looks…” His eyes flicked down his own body, like he was doing a quick inventory. “Plausible enough, he’ll back off. Maybe permanently.”
“That is a very gracious way to describe yourself,” she said. “‘Plausible enough.’”
“I’m aiming for forgettable,” he said dryly. “It’s safer.”
Something about that made her wonder what he was hiding. But he went on before she could poke at it.
“And I—” He swallowed, voice tightening slightly. “I need to get my family off my back. If I show up at my grandmother’s birthday brunch on Sunday with a fiancée, the Odds Committee will disperse. They’ll stop emailing me curated lists of eligible women. They’ll… breathe.”
“I’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled,” she said. “And then what? We just… quietly ‘break up’ later?”
“Eventually,” he said. “In a few months. After the pressure abates.”
A few months.
Her brain struggled to wrap around that. A few months of pretending to be engaged to this man. Wearing a ring. Sitting next to him at dinners. Smiling for people who thought she was really his.
“What’s in it for me?” she asked, because *someone* had to be practical here.
“Besides your boss getting off your back?” His lips twitched. “I’ll pay you.”
She blinked. “You’ll— What?”
“I’m not expecting you to do this for free,” he said calmly, as if he hired fake fiancées all the time. “It would be… work. Emotional labor. Time. You’re risking your job if this goes wrong. I can compensate you.”
Her pride bristled. “I’m not a… an escort.”
“I didn’t say you were.” His gaze softened. “But I know what it’s like to feel trapped. And I have… resources. It seems stupid not to offer them if we’re both getting something out of this.”
Resources.
He said it casually, but something about the word felt heavy. Like he had more money than he knew what to do with. Like “pay you” meant more than covering gas and a new dress.
“You’re very comfortable with deceit for someone who didn’t want to lie to his family that thoroughly,” she pointed out.
“I’m reconsidering,” he said. “Desperation will do that.”
She exhaled slowly, trying to steady the whirl in her head.
“This is insane,” she said finally.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“We don’t know each other.”
“True.”
“You could be a serial killer.”
He lifted his brows. “You’re meeting serial killers at malls now?”
“I work at a jewelry store,” she said. “We get all types.”
He gave a reluctant smile. “Fair enough. The same goes for you, though. You could be the serial killer.”
“Trust me,” she said. “I’m too tired for serial killing.”
“Good to know.” He sobered. “We could… take it step by step. Set rules. Boundaries. Make sure we’re both… protected.”
The word sent a little shiver down her spine.
“Rules,” she repeated.
“Yes.” His gaze locked with hers. “If we do this, we do it carefully. No lines crossed we don’t both agree on. No surprises.”
Her brain, apparently on strike, chose that moment to notice his hands. Long fingers, a faint scar across one knuckle. Capable hands.
She forced herself to focus.
“Name one rule,” she said.
He considered. “No… feelings.”
Her heart gave a ridiculous little bump. “You think that’s going to be a problem?”
His smile was small, self-deprecating. “For you? Probably not. For me…” He shrugged. “I like to be thorough.”
Was he flirting with her? Or just being honest?
“Okay, Mr. Thorough,” she said, maybe a little breathless. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I don’t run away right now. What would this actually look like? Practically?”
He straightened, business-like. “First step: we exchange full names and contact information. Second: we meet somewhere neutral to discuss details. Third: we agree on a backstory that’s easy to remember. Fourth: we set ground rules. Fifth: we test-run our performance at your staff party. If that goes well, we escalate to family events.”
The clinical way he outlined it made something stubborn in her relax. This wasn’t a romance. It was a project.
“Okay,” she murmured. “What’s your name, anyway? Or should I keep calling you ‘Stranger’?”
He hesitated. Just for a second. Then:
“Caleb,” he said. “Caleb Ward.”
The name pinged some almost-recognition in the back of her mind, but she was too scrambled to fish it out.
“Tessa,” she said. “Tessa Morales.”
He rolled the name around like he was checking how it fit. “Nice to meet you, Tessa Morales.”
“Nice to meet you, Definitely-Not-A-Serial-Killer Caleb Ward.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and something like irritation flickered over his face.
“I have to go,” he said. “My… associate is probably wondering if I got myself mugged by the smoothie kiosk.”
“You’d be an easy target,” she said solemnly. “All that espionage gear weighing you down.”
He huffed a laugh. Then, more serious, “Will you think about it? The… arrangement.”
Arrangement.
The word felt oddly… intimate.
“Yes,” she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. “I will.”
He pulled something from his back pocket—a simple, slim card—and a pen from his shirt, like he always carried one.
He scribbled on the back and handed it to her. His handwriting was surprisingly neat. Caleb Ward, followed by a phone number.
“You can text me,” he said. “If you’re interested. Or if your boss does anything else out of line and you need a witness.”
“You don’t even work here,” she pointed out. “What would you witness?”
“I was in your store today,” he said. “I saw enough.”
She glanced up sharply. “You what?”
He shrugged, unbothered. “I’ll explain later. If there is a later.”
The mall lights dimmed a notch, signaling the impending closing time. Over the far PA system, someone’s voice crackled: “Lakeside Galleria will be closing in ten minutes. Please make your way to the nearest exit.”
“Drama,” she muttered. “As if we’re not already in a tense third act.”
Caleb smiled faintly. “Text me, Tessa.”
He turned and walked away down the corridor, his figure gradually swallowed by the shadows between shuttered storefronts.
She stared at the card in her hand, the ink still fresh.
Caleb Ward.
Something tickled the back of her brain again. A newspaper article. A billboard. A name dropped on the evening news.
She couldn’t place it.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Lana.
LANA: how’s ur night? u off yet? i have memes and leftover pad thai
Tessa glanced once more at the direction Caleb had gone.
Then she tucked his card into her pocket, shoulders squaring.
“Okay, Eli Sorenson,” she murmured. “Looks like you’re getting a promotion.”
***