Tessa’s bus ride home was a blur of flickering streetlights and intrusive thoughts.
By the time she climbed the three flights to her apartment, her feet throbbed, her stomach ached from stress, and she was approximately seventy percent sure she’d hallucinated the entire fountain conversation.
Her apartment was small—one bedroom, an L-shaped living room with a kitchenette—but it was clean and hers. Mostly because she’d learned how to stretch a Swiffer and a scented candle like her life depended on it.
Lana was lying scandalously horizontal on the couch, one leg draped over the back, watching a baking show with the intensity of a sports fanatic.
“There she is!” Lana sat up, dark curls piled messily on top of her head, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “How was capitalist hell?”
Tessa dropped her bag by the door and collapsed into the armchair opposite. “Capitalist hell is upgrading to a hotter circle just for me.”
“Yikes.” Lana muted the TV. “Okay. Spill.”
Tessa did. The words poured out in a ragged stream—Denby’s proposition, her panicked boyfriend lie, the ultimatum, the terrifyingly empty mall, the stranger by the fountain.
Lana’s eyes grew wider with each sentence. When Tessa finally got to the part with Caleb’s suggestion, she flopped backward dramatically.
“No.” Lana pointed at the ceiling as if it were personally responsible. “Absolutely not. This is not a K-drama. You are not entering into a fake engagement with a man you met at a mall fountain.”
“It’s *Caleb*,” Tessa said weakly. “And it’s temporary.”
“That’s how it starts!” Lana sat up again. “Then cut to you at the altar realizing you’re in love with him, but he overhears you saying something and thinks you’re using him for his money, and then we have to wait three episodes for you to make up.”
Tessa pressed her fingertips to her temples. “We’re not in a drama. We’re in Detroit.”
“Exactly,” Lana said. “In Detroit, strange men who offer you money for pretending to be their fiancée are either catfishers or cult leaders.”
“He’s not a cult leader,” Tessa said automatically. “He’s… too awkward for that.”
Lana narrowed her eyes. “You *like* him.”
“I just met him,” Tessa protested. “I like that he listened. And that he looked like he might punch Denby on sight, which—admittedly—was very attractive.”
“And he wants to give you money,” Lana said. “Also attractive. But people who offer you money come with strings. Golden strings. That turn into handcuffs.”
Tessa stared at the card she’d set on the coffee table. It glowed innocently under the lamplight. C. Ward, and a number.
“I know it’s insane,” she said softly. “But, Lan, I’m cornered. If I don’t do something, I lose my job. I can’t cover rent on your couch and my mom’s bills at the same time. You’re already helping so much—”
“Hey.” Lana slid off the couch and knee-walked over, taking Tessa’s hands. “You are not a burden. Repeat after me: I am not a burden.”
Tessa’s throat tightened. “I am not a burden.”
“Good.” Lana squeezed. “Now say, ‘I deserve a job where my boss doesn’t use my schedule as a weapon.’”
Tessa smiled weakly. “I deserve a job where my boss doesn’t use my schedule as a weapon.”
“Exactly.” Lana sat back on her heels. “What I *don’t* love is you jumping from ‘my boss is trash’ to ‘time to enter into a contractual fake engagement with a random possibly-creepy man.’”
“He’s not creepy,” Tessa said. “If anything, he was… too careful. Like he was more worried about *my* comfort than his.”
Lana gnawed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “That’s… not the worst sign.”
“And he suggested rules,” Tessa added. “Boundaries. We’d… write them down. Treat it like a job. No sex, no feelings, no… whatever.”
Lana cocked her head. “He suggested no sex?”
“Well, he said ‘no feelings,’” Tessa said. “But I’m adding ‘no sex’ preemptively. For safety.”
“And… how does that make you feel?” Lana’s eyes were sharp now, the therapist she would’ve been in another life.
“Relieved,” Tessa said honestly. “It would be… simpler that way.”
“Mmm.” Lana rocked back onto the couch again. “Okay. Devil’s advocate. He said he’d pay you. Is that what you want? To be paid to pretend to love someone?”
“When you put it like that, I sound like a very underqualified actress,” Tessa said. “But… I mean… It *is* work. Emotional work. Time off my actual job work. If there’s a way to get something out of this besides just… potential unemployment…”
Lana’s jaw worked. “What if he’s lying? What if he’s married and this is his way of cheating? ‘Oh, my darling, this is my fiancée Tessa, pay no attention to my second family in Ohio.’”
“I thought of that,” Tessa admitted. “He didn’t have a ring. And he… didn’t give me those vibes.”
“Cheaters never give ‘those vibes’ at first,” Lana said darkly, then sighed. “But your intuition is usually pretty good. Better than mine, anyway. Remember Danny?”
Tessa winced. “Don’t say his name. You’ll summon him.”
“I’m just saying, *I* thought Danny was nice, and you were like ‘He gives me door-to-door-warranty-salesman energy,’ and then boom, he tried to get me to join an MLM.”
“That was a very persuasive PowerPoint, to be fair,” Tessa said.
Lana muffled a laugh. “Okay. I’ll admit it. Your red flag radar is reliable.”
“So far it’s not blinking,” Tessa said. “It’s just… humming softly.”
“That’s because he’s handsome,” Lana said. “Humming is the sound your hormones make when they’re short-circuiting your brain.”
“He’s not—” Tessa stopped. Took a breath. “He’s… fine. Nice enough face. Symmetrical.”
“Ha,” Lana said. “You do *like* him.”
“He wore beat-up sneakers,” Tessa said. “Billionaires don’t wear sneakers like that.”
“Who said anything about billionaires?” Lana’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say what he does?”
“No,” Tessa said. “He said ‘work.’ And ‘family business.’”
Lana’s nose wrinkled. “Family business plus deep pockets usually equals scary money. Like, ‘we own half the city and three politicians’ money.”
“Or it equals a chain of funeral homes,” Tessa said. “Can we not catastrophize?”
“I’ll catastrophize if I want to,” Lana said. “I’m catastrophizing out of love.”
Tessa reached for the card again, tracing the letters. Something tickled at the back of her mind. Ward. Where had she seen that name?
A memory flashed: a glossy photo spreading across a news site on her lunch break last year. A man in a sharp suit cutting a ribbon in front of a new skyscraper. Headline: WARDSTONE PROPERTIES OPENS LAKESIDE GALLERIA, BRINGING JOBS AND REVENUE TO METRO AREA.
She hadn’t paid much attention. Just another rich guy in a suit.
What had his name been?
“Lana,” she said slowly. “What’s the name of the company that owns the mall?”
Lana blinked. “The mall? Um. Wardstone? Ward-something.”
“Wardstone,” Tessa repeated, heart thumping. “And what’s the CEO’s name? The guy with the ribbon-cutting when it opened?”
“I don’t know.” Lana pulled out her phone and tapped. “Let me Google. ‘Wardstone Properties CEO.’”
Tessa leaned forward, the room narrowing.
A picture popped up. A man in a charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted, light brown hair slicked neatly back. Jaw clean-shaven, expression polished and remote. He was shaking hands with some politician, a confident smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Beneath the photo: *Wardstone Properties CEO Caleb Ward announces expansion…*
“Oh,” Tessa said faintly.
Lana’s head snapped up. “Oh?”
“That’s… him,” Tessa said. “The guy from the mall.”
Lana stared from the screen to her, then back again. “No. No way.”
“I mean, his hair was messier,” Tessa babbled. “And he had scruff. And he was wearing a henley, not a suit. But… that’s his face.”
Lana’s mouth fell open. “You met a billionaire by the fountain.”
“He might not be a *billionaire*,” Tessa said weakly. “He could just be, like… aggressively rich.”
“He owns the mall you work in.” Lana jabbed the screen. “That’s Aggressively Rich plus Extra.”
Tessa’s heart raced. *Mall owner.* All those signs she’d missed—his weird comment about observing, the way he talked about work, his casual mention of “resources.”
He’d been undercover. Checking on something at his own mall.
“And you,” Lana said slowly, as if narrating a nature documentary gone wrong, “told the billionaire mall owner about your creepy boss, and he responded by offering to pay you to be his fake fiancée.”
“Oh my God,” Tessa whispered. “Oh my God. I told my landlord’s landlord’s landlord he might be a serial killer.”
Lana dissolved into helpless laughter. “This is the most on-brand thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Tessa pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “What do I do? Do I text him? I can’t text him. He’s a billionaire.”
“Money doesn’t change the fact that he’s a man doing something wildly unhinged,” Lana said. “He still put his pants on one leg at a time before deciding to fake-engage a stranger.”
“That’s not helping,” Tessa groaned.
“Okay, okay.” Lana took a breath. “Let’s take the money part out for a second. Does knowing he’s rich change how you feel about the *idea*?”
“Yes,” Tessa said immediately.
Lana waited.
“It means…” Tessa swallowed. “If I get in too deep, it’s not just a messy breakup. It’s… lawyers. NDAs. A family who has real power.”
“And,” Lana said quietly, “if you get hurt, they can make it like you never existed.”
Tessa’s stomach flipped. “Wow, Lana, go off.”
“I’m just saying,” Lana said. “The stakes are higher. But also… the leverage is different. He has something to lose, too. Reputation. Company image. He’s not going to do anything truly stupid, not in public. He has to protect the brand.”
“Spoken like a true marketing assistant,” Tessa muttered.
“Thank you.” Lana drummed her fingers on her knee. “Also, if he really *is* the CEO, and he heard what you said about Denby…”
She trailed off, eyes gleaming.
“What?” Tessa asked warily.
“Best case scenario? Your creepy boss is toast.”
Tessa pictured Denby’s smug face paling as he realized the “mystery shopper” he’d casually disrespected—or worse—was actually his boss’s boss’s boss.
A small, vicious part of her glowed.
“That’s not why I’d do it,” she said slowly. “But…”
“But it’s not a deal-breaker,” Lana finished.
Tessa flopped back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
“Rules,” she said.
“Rules,” Lana agreed. “Non-negotiables. You’re not walking into this without armor.”
“And I’m not saying yes without a way out,” Tessa added. “A… kill switch.”
Lana’s brows rose. “A kill switch?”
“If it gets too weird,” Tessa said. “Or if he… crosses a line. Something we agree on now that lets either of us call it off without… nuking each other’s lives.”
“Smart,” Lana said approvingly. “You sure you don’t want to come work in marketing with me?”
“I prefer my existential dread with diamonds,” Tessa said.
Lana slid her phone over. “Text him. You don’t have to commit tonight. Just… ask to meet. Somewhere public. Daytime. We’re not doing any secret midnight mansion visits.”
Tessa stared at the number on the card.
“He’s going to expect me to know who he is,” she realized. “He probably assumed I recognized him.”
“Use that,” Lana said. “If he wanted to slum it as a commoner, that’s on him.”
“That’s not what ‘slum it’ means,” Tessa said automatically.
“You know what I mean.” Lana nudged her foot. “Text him. You’ll sleep better if you at least have a plan brewing.”
Tessa’s fingers shook as she picked up her phone. She entered the number and watched the little blinking cursor, taunting her.
“What do I say?” she whispered.
Lana peered over. “Say… ‘Hey, it’s Tessa from the mall. I thought about your insane proposal. We should talk.’”
“Too blunt,” Tessa said.
“He already knows he was insane,” Lana countered. “He’ll appreciate the honesty.”
Tessa exhaled. Typed.
> Hey, it’s Tessa. From Radiance. And the fountain. I thought about what you said. If your offer is still on the table, we should talk. In public. With coffee.
She hesitated only a second before hitting send.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
> Caleb: Hi, Tessa-from-Radiance-and-the-fountain. The offer is still on the table. I’m glad you texted.
Her pulse quickened.
> Caleb: Coffee sounds good. Tomorrow? There’s a place on Jefferson, near the lake. Morning Tide Café.
> Caleb: 10am?
Lana mouthed, *make him come to our turf.*
> Tessa: I work at 12. 10am is fine.
> Caleb: I’ll be there. I’ll get us a table by the window so you can see the exits.
A laugh burst out of her. Lana frowned; Tessa showed her.
“Okay,” Lana said grudgingly. “That’s funny.”
> Caleb: And for the record, I’m not a serial killer.
> Tessa: That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.
> Caleb: Touché.
A beat.
> Caleb: Get some sleep, Tessa. We’ll discuss terms tomorrow.
She dropped the phone into her lap, suddenly exhausted.
“Terms,” she murmured.
“Terms,” Lana repeated, grabbing the remote. “We’ll draft a preliminary list in the morning. Over waffles. Lawyer-approved-aka-me-approved.”
Tessa smiled weakly. “Deal.”
As the baking show resumed its gentle chaos in the background, she let her eyes drift closed, Caleb’s last message echoing in her mind.
We’ll discuss terms tomorrow.
The future felt vast and shaky and dangerous.
It also, for the first time in a long time, felt like it might actually… change.
***
Morning Tide Café was the kind of place that made you want to burn whatever candle you currently owned and replace it with something that smelled like “roasted fig and generational wealth.”
Exposed brick walls, plants in ceramic pots, baristas with tattoos and infinitely patient smiles. It sat right across from the river, big windows framing the slow glint of water and the scraggly line of trees on the opposite bank.
Tessa arrived at 9:55 because she refused to be the girl who came early to her fake-fiancé negotiation.
Caleb was already there. Of course.
He stood when she walked in—just a half-rise from his chair, an old-fashioned gesture that made something jump in her chest. He wore a navy sweater over a collared shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with light hair. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d showered and run out the door, and the scruff on his jaw was more intentional today.
The table he’d snagged was, as promised, by the window. Two mugs sat between them, steam curling lazily.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she echoed, acutely aware of how her thrift-store cardigan probably looked in this curated space.
“I got you a latte,” he said, gesturing to the mug closest to her. “Oat milk, one sugar.”
She blinked. “How did you—?”
“You told the boy from last night to ‘treat himself,’” he said. “And then you recommended the matcha to the woman with the stroller.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t equal ‘oat milk, one sugar.’”
“I made an educated guess,” he said. “You can, of course, reject my attempt at coffee mind-reading.”
She took a cautious sip. It was perfect.
“Annoying,” she muttered. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?” he asked.
“Reading people,” she said. “Manipulation. Social chess.”
He winced slightly. “I’d like to think I use my powers for good.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
He smiled a little, then sobered.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“Thank you for not picking a secret underground lair for our first meeting,” she replied.
“I considered it,” he said. “But the latte art here is better.”
She snorted. The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
He slid a folder across the table. “I, uh. Prepared some notes.”
“Of course you did,” she said.
Inside was a printed sheet, bullet points neat and color-coded. *Proposed Terms – Engagement Arrangement.*
“You made a contract for our fake relationship,” she said. “Of course you did.”
“Not a contract,” he said quickly. “Guidelines. Talking points. A starting place.”
She scanned the headings: Scope, Duration, Financial Terms, Boundaries, Exit Strategy.
“You weren’t kidding about being thorough,” she murmured.
“I run a company that owns forty-eight commercial properties across three states,” he said dryly. “If I’m going to fake an engagement, I’m going to project-manage the hell out of it.”
“Forty-eight properties,” she repeated faintly. “That’s… a lot of Hot Topics.”
His mouth twitched. “Exactly. A staggering responsibility.”
He watched her as she took it in, like he was gauging whether she’d bolt.
“You googled me,” he said quietly.
She met his eyes. “You own the mall.”
“Yes.”
“You went undercover in your own mall and let my boss treat you like any other random guy,” she said slowly. “Why?”
His jaw flexed. “There were complaints. About staff at certain stores mistreating customers. Cutting corners. Ignoring policies. I wanted to see it myself.”
“And you went alone,” she said. “No entourage. No ‘I’m important’ energy.”
He shrugged. “People act differently when they know you sign their paychecks. I didn’t want a production. I wanted… honesty. You gave me that.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I just told you my boss is a creep.”
“You didn’t have to,” Caleb said. “You could’ve pretended everything was fine. You could’ve smiled and let them kick me out. You put yourself at risk to intervene.”
She shifted in her chair. “I just… hate bullies.”
“So do I,” he said quietly.
For a moment, their gazes held, heavy with something that had nothing to do with contracts.
She looked away first, exhaling. “Okay, CEO-man. Let’s talk business.”
He nodded, all professionalism again. “Ask me anything.”
“Are you married?” she blurted.
He didn’t even flinch. “No. Never have been.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she pressed.
“No.”
“Secret family in Ohio?” she pushed.
A startled laugh escaped him. “No.”
“Any…recent exes who would be furious if you showed up with a new fiancée?” she asked.
His expression shuttered, then softened. “None who would be surprised.”
She marked that for later.
“Criminal record?” she asked.
“Speeding tickets,” he said. “And one fishing license mishap.”
“Fishing license—?”
“It’s a long story,” he said. “No felonies. I can get you a background check, if you want.”
“I mean, if you have one lying around,” she said dryly.
His lips twitched. “I’ll email you my last security clearance report.”
“You have security clearance?” she asked, suspicious.
“For some of our government-leased properties,” he said quickly. “Not… Black Ops.”
“Shame,” she muttered. “That would’ve been a cooler backstory.”
He smiled briefly, then cleared his throat. “My turn?”
She raised a brow. “We’re doing this interview-style?”
“Fair is fair,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-five,” she said. “You?”
“Thirty-two.”
She nodded. “Any kids?”
He blinked. “No.”
“Just checking,” she said. “Secret Ohio family, remember.”
He shook his head, amused. “Any… commitments I should know about? School? Second job?”
“Just Radiance,” she said. “I did one semester of community college… and then life happened.”
“Life financially, or life medically?” he asked gently.
She stiffened, then relaxed at his tone. “Both. My mom’s diagnosis… hit at the same time the tuition bills did. Radiance was supposed to be… temporary. Very temporary. Three years later…”
He frowned. “Is your mom…?”
“In remission,” she said quickly. “For now. But the bills don’t go into remission, you know?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She lifted a shoulder. “It is what it is.”
They sat in silence for a beat, the weight of that shared truth hanging between them.
“Okay,” she said briskly, tapping the paper. “Terms. Scope.”
He straightened. “Scope. Right. So… we define what this engagement covers. Which events. Which audiences. Your boss’s party. My grandmother’s birthday. Maybe some follow-up family dinners if they insist.”
“They’ll insist,” she guessed.
“They will,” he agreed. “We can limit it. Say we’re planning a long engagement because we’re both busy. That buys us time without raising suspicion.”
“Right,” she said. “So… a performance at select events only. No… day-to-day living together.”
“Exactly,” he said. “We don’t tell your coworkers we moved in together. We don’t tell my family you’ve taken my last name. We keep it… event-based.”
“Do we… post about it?” she asked. “On social media?”
“Do you use social media a lot?” he asked.
“Instagram,” she said. “Occasional TikTok. No Twitter. I value my sanity.”
“I have corporate accounts,” he said. “My personal presence is… limited.” He grimaced. “My aunt runs our family’s Christmas card Instagram.”
She smiled despite herself. “Of course she does.”
“I’d prefer to keep this off the internet as much as possible,” he said. “For both our sakes. But… we can discuss a few carefully curated posts if needed. A ring picture. A dinner. Nothing that can’t be walked back as ‘we decided to keep things private’ later.”
“Got it,” she said. “Events, not everyday. Minimal internet.”
“Duration,” he went on. “I propose… three months. Long enough to satisfy my family’s curiosity. Short enough that we don’t have to make long-term plans.”
“Three months,” she repeated. “That’s… a season.”
“If, at the end of three months,” he said, “we haven’t spontaneously fallen in love and decided to actually get married…”
Her stomach did a strange swoop at the casual way he said it.
“…we’ll stage a breakup,” he finished. “On mutual, amicable terms. You’ll keep whatever compensation we’ve agreed on. No… clawbacks.”
“Clawbacks?” she echoed. “You talk like a man who’s drafted a lot of contracts.”
“I have,” he said. “Usually not this kind.”
She took a breath. “Financial terms.”
His expression shifted—more careful. She appreciated that.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m… buying you,” he said. “But I also don’t want to take advantage of how desperate you might feel right now. So I’m open to your input.”
She chewed her lip. “What were you thinking?”
He hesitated, then quoted a number that made her head spin.
She coughed. “That’s… for three months?”
“Yes,” he said. “Paid in monthly installments. Plus all related expenses—clothing for events, transportation, time off work if needed. And…” He hesitated. “I’d pay your current medical debt. In full.”
Her hands went numb.
“I can’t let you do that,” she whispered, horrified.
“You wouldn’t be ‘letting’ me,” he said silently. “You’d be providing a service. I’m compensating you.”
“That’s not compensation,” she said, voice tight. “That’s charity.”
“I have more money than I can reasonably spend in a lifetime,” he said bluntly. “You have a debt that’s chaining you to a job with a predator. It’s not charity. It’s… redistribution.”
She let out a strangled laugh. “You sound like a Bernie Sanders tweet.”
His lips twitched, but his gaze stayed steady. “One of the reasons my family is pressuring me to marry is… optics. They want a ‘respectable’ wife. Someone from the ‘right’ kind of family. Old money. Clean lines. Perfect background checks.”
Heat rose in her chest. “And I’m… not that.”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” he said quietly. “But I care about using the advantages I’ve been handed to… help. Not just hoard. If I can get my family off my back *and* help you break free of yours, that’s a better use of my ridiculous salary than a fifth house in Aspen.”
She stared at him, anger and gratitude and panic warring inside her.
“I can’t… take all of that,” she said. “It would… change everything. It’s too much.”
“We can adjust the number,” he said. “We don’t have to settle it right now. But I want you to know what I’m willing to do.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Lana’s voice echoed in her head: *Golden strings that turn into handcuffs.*
“Okay,” she said finally. “We’ll come back to money. After we’ve decided if we can even stand to be in the same room for more than an hour.”
His shoulders loosened slightly. “Fair.”
“Boundaries,” she said. “Physical. Emotional.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth for just a second before he dragged it back up.
A pulse beat low in her throat.
“You mentioned last night,” he said carefully, “that you wanted a ‘no sex’ rule.”
She swallowed. “Yes. Absolutely. No sex.”
He nodded slowly. “Agreed. No sex.”
The air between them crackled at the word, like an invisible line being drawn.
“And…” Her voice felt a little hoarse. “No… making out. Unless absolutely necessary.”
His brows lifted. “Define ‘absolutely necessary.’”
“Like…” She waved a hand. “If your aunt is following us with a camera and demands a kiss for the holiday card.”
He exhaled, a hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “In other words, public displays of affection only when we’re being watched by someone whose opinion matters. No… recreational kissing.”
“Recreational kissing,” she repeated faintly. “Yeah. No… that.”
He inclined his head. “Agreed. No kissing when nobody’s watching.”
The rule settled between them, solid and terrifying.
“No sharing a bed,” she added quickly. “Ever.”
Pain flickered in his expression—as if he’d already pictured them in one. The thought made her cheeks burn.
“You won’t be staying over at my place,” he said evenly. “And I won’t be staying over at yours. Not for this.”
“For this,” she echoed. The qualifier did strange things to her lungs.
“Hand-holding?” he asked, oddly hoarse.
“That’s… probably expected,” she said. “Engaged people… hand-hold. They… touch.”
He nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing. “We can… hold hands. Hug. Keep it… PG-13. In public.”
“PG-13 with mild language,” she said faintly.
His mouth twitched. “I’ll try not to swear in front of your boss.”
“Oh, please do,” she said. “He deserves at least one four-letter word from a billionaire.”
He sobered. “Emotional boundaries.”
She shifted. “Right. No… catching feelings.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “No falling in love.”
Her heart stuttered at the baldness of it.
She forced a smile. “I think we can manage that.”
“Do you?” he asked quietly.
She blinked. “Yes. I don’t… I barely know you. I like my life uncomplicated.”
“You just told me your life is complicated,” he said gently.
“Exactly.” She spread her hands. “Why would I add romantic angst to that?”
He huffed a soft, humorless laugh. “You’d be surprised how many people do.”
“Well, I’m not ‘many people,’” she said. “I’ve seen enough disaster relationships to last a lifetime. No offense, but you’re… not my type.”
That startled him. “I’m not?”
“No,” she lied easily. “I usually go for… guys who don’t own skyscrapers.”
“Ah,” he said, lips curving. “So I’m too… stable for you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. That’s it.”
His expression turned serious again. “No secrets,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“If we’re doing this,” he said, “we need to know the important things. We don’t have to know everything. But no big, dangerous secrets that could blow up in our faces.”
“You mean like ‘I’m secretly married’ or ‘I’m being investigated by the SEC’?” she asked.
“Exactly,” he said. “Or ‘I’m planning to use this engagement to launch my acting career.’”
She barked a laugh. “Damn. There goes my master plan.”
“I already told you the truth about my family,” he said. “About why I’m doing this. I expect the same from you.”
Her chest tightened. “You know the big ones. My mom. My job. My debt.”
“Anyone who might come out of the woodwork and cause trouble?” he asked. “Exes, estranged relatives…”
She thought of her father, who’d left when she was six and only reappeared when he needed money. “No one who cares enough to make a scene.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we construct a backstory together. Something close enough to reality that we don’t trip over it.”
She nodded slowly. “We met… at the mall. That part’s true.”
“And… we kept running into each other,” he said. “Also true. I came back to… check on the jewelry store.”
“To make sure your employees weren’t throwing you out again,” she said.
“Details,” he said. “We could say I bought something. Asked for your help. Which I did. And then… I asked you out for coffee.”
She smiled faintly. “Bold move for a man being manhandled by security.”
He winced. “I’ll deal with them,” he muttered.
“I’d… like to keep working,” she said quietly. “At Radiance. For now. Until I figure out what’s next. Without Denby, preferably.”
“You will,” he said. “I’ll handle him.”
Heat flared defensively. “Don’t fire him on my account. I don’t need you playing white knight.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not playing anything. If he’s harassing my staff, he’s a liability.”
“And I’m the one who’ll be accused of overreacting if he finds out I went whining to the boss,” she snapped, then clamped her mouth shut.
He flinched, then exhaled. “You’re right. We do this carefully. We gather evidence. We make sure you’re protected. I don’t want to make your life harder, Tessa. I want to give you options.”
Her anger simmered down, leaving only weary frustration.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m… on edge.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Yell at me if you need to. I can take it.”
She snorted. “You say that now.”
He smiled, a little wry. “Exit strategy,” he said, tapping the bottom of the page. “Our…breakup plan.”
She exhaled. “Okay. Hit me.”
“Best case,” he said, “we mutually agree to end the charade in three months. We tell people we realized we’re better as friends. No one is the villain. We each go on our way with plausible dignity.”
“And worst case?” she asked.
“Worst case,” he said slowly, “one of us wants out sooner than planned. We use a pre-agreed phrase to indicate that. We stage a fight in front of whichever audience needs to see it, then we invent a plausible reason. ‘We wanted different things.’ ‘The timing was off.’ ‘We realized we were moving too fast.’”
“That covers your family,” she said. “What about my boss? If he finds out my fiancé was fake this whole time, I’m toast.”
“By then,” he said, “Denby will be gone.”
She searched his face. “You really plan on firing him.”
“If the investigation corroborates what you told me,” he said. “Yes.”
“Investigation?” she echoed.
He slid another paper from the folder—a printed email, redacted in places. *Internal Compliance Inquiry – Lakeside Galleria Tenant Conduct.*
“We’ve had complaints about several stores,” he said. “Yours included. Not by name, but… patterns of behavior. Denby has been on thin ice for a while.”
Hope flickered in her chest. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” he said. “This isn’t just about you. It’s about everyone he’s hurt, or could hurt.”
Her throat tightened. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said simply.
Silence settled again, this time less strained. Tessa stared at the bullet points, feeling the shape of a decision forming, terrifying and weirdly… inevitable.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Ground rules. Let’s get specific.”
His brows rose. “More specific than ‘no sex, no kissing when unobserved, no sharing a bed, no falling in love’?”
“That’s the headline,” she said. “We need… details. What we tell people about how we met. Our first date. Our… proposal.”
His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, to her left hand.
No ring. Just the faint indent from the cheap silver band she sometimes wore on her middle finger for fun.
Her heart skittered. “Do you have a ring?” she asked, then winced. “Stupid question. Of course you have rings. You probably own a diamond mine.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Yet.”
The yet made her both roll her eyes and shiver.
“We’ll get you a ring,” he said. “Something believable, not… tabloidy. We want people to think I love you, not that I’m trying to blind passing aircraft.”
She swallowed. “Isn’t this backwards? Aren’t you supposed to propose *before* you pick out the ring with me in broad daylight?”
“Technically, we already agreed to the engagement last night,” he said. “This is just… selecting props.”
“Romantic,” she said dryly.
“We can stage a fake proposal later,” he offered. “For photos. If you want.”
Her imagination betrayed her—an image flickering of him kneeling, his face upturned, eyes steady and earnest.
Her pulse skipped. “We’ll… cross that bridge when we come to it,” she said hastily. “For now, rules.”
She clicked her pen and started a list on the back of his neat print-out.
1. No sex. 2. No kissing when nobody’s watching. 3. No sharing a bed. 4. No falling in love. 5. No posting about each other without consent. 6. No involving each other’s families more than necessary. 7. No making big life decisions based on this arrangement. 8. No jealousy. (Seriously.)
He watched the words appear, expression unreadable.
“Number eight,” he said quietly. “You think that’ll be a problem?”
She forced a laugh. “If this is convincing, there’ll be… flirting. Attention. You probably have exes at your grandmother’s brunch.”
“None I care about,” he said.
“Still,” she said. “No getting territorial. This is… fake.”
“Fake,” he repeated.
“But we have to *look* real,” she said. “That’s the tricky part. We have to know enough about each other to fake it convincingly. Favorite foods. Allergies. Pet peeves.”
“Anchovies,” he said immediately.
She blinked. “Bless you?”
“I hate anchovies,” he clarified. “Pet peeve.”
She smiled. “I, too, hate anchovies. Look at that. The foundation of a great fake relationship.”
He laughed softly.
“Favorite movie?” he asked.
“Depends on the day,” she said. “Today? *While You Were Sleeping.*”
He tilted his head. “Fitting.”
“Because it’s about a woman lying to a man in a coma for attention?” she asked.
“Because it’s about a woman getting accidentally engaged to the wrong brother,” he said. “And ending up with the one she actually likes.”
Her chest squeezed. “You know that movie?”
“My grandmother loves romcoms,” he said. “I’ve seen them all.”
“That explains a lot,” she said. “Favorite movie for you?”
“*The Sting,*” he said without hesitation.
She narrowed her eyes. “You like con artist movies. Should I be concerned?”
“It’s about outwitting people who think they’re untouchable,” he said. “I find it… satisfying.”
She filed that away. “Allergies?”
“Cats,” he said. “You?”
“Peanuts,” she said. “Like, severely. EpiPen and everything. So if your aunt’s famous dessert has nuts in it, you take one for the team.”
His expression sharpened. “Noted. I’ll banish peanuts from any event you attend.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not losing my fake fiancée to anaphylactic shock,” he cut in. “That would be hard to explain in the quarterly report.”
She laughed, tension breaking. “I can see the headline now. ‘CEO’s fiancée dies at brunch; stock market plummets.’”
“We’d never live it down,” he said gravely.
They spent the next hour trading basics. Favorite foods (her: tacos; him: anything grilled), coffee orders, childhood embarrassments, the names of their parents, the ages of nieces and nephews and cousins.
He told her about growing up in a house where business was the family religion, where dinner conversations were about mergers and zoning laws. She told him about her mom working two jobs and still making Halloween costumes by hand.
He told her about his grandmother, Elise Ward, steel-spined and sharp-eyed, who loved him fiercely and meddled relentlessly. She told him about her mom, Ana, currently obsessed with online bingo and the Hallmark Channel.
By 11:10, their coffee had gone lukewarm and Tessa’s brain buzzed with too much information.
Caleb checked his watch—a simple, understated thing that probably cost as much as her car had before it died.
“You have to get to work,” he said.
She grimaced. “Yay.”
“You don’t sound enthused,” he observed.
“Could be the part where my boss threatened to fire me if my imaginary fiancé doesn’t show up,” she said. “Just a hunch.”
He sobered. “We can… make it less hypothetical.”
She met his eyes. “Are we… doing this?”
His throat bobbed. “Only if you want to.”
She thought of Denby’s hand on her back, his voice purring, *You owe me gratitude.*
She thought of hospital bills and bus schedules and the gnawing fear of never getting out of this loop.
She thought of Lana’s warnings, and the way Caleb’s eyes had gone dark when she told him about Denby.
She thought of his neat bullet points and his ridiculous offer and the way he’d said, without flinching, *I want to give you options.*
Her heart hammered.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s do it.”
Something flickered in his gaze—relief, satisfaction, something sharper.
He stood, hand automatically extending, like they were sealing a business deal.
She stared at it. Then, slowly, placed her palm in his.
His hand was warm and dry, calloused in places. His grip was firm but careful, like he was afraid of squeezing too hard.
“Partners,” he said quietly.
“Partners,” she echoed.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Caleb, with obvious effort, let her go.
“I’ll text you later with details for my grandmother’s brunch,” he said. “It’s on Sunday. In the meantime… when’s your staff party?”
“Friday,” she said. “7pm. At a cheesy faux-Italian restaurant near the mall.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ll be there.”
“You’ll need a name,” she said. “To give Denby. For my fiancé.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to use my real one?” he asked. “Less… to track.”
“If he googles you and finds out you’re the mall owner before Friday, he’ll lose his mind,” she said. “I’d like that pleasure for myself.”
“You want to see his face when he finds out,” he translated.
“Yes,” she said unabashed. “I do.”
He considered, then nodded. “Fair. What’s your fake fiancé’s name?”
“El—” She caught herself. “Eli. Eli Sorenson.”
“Right,” he said. “We should keep that, then. For consistency.”
“You don’t mind being an Eli?” she teased.
“I can be an Eli,” he said easily. “I’ve been called worse.”
She raised a brow. “By who?”
He grinned. “Shareholders.”
The sight of him smiling like that—unguarded, almost boyish—did something ridiculous to her insides.
“Okay, Eli,” she said, standing and sliding his folder back to him. “Friday, seven. Wear something… casual. Denby will combust if you show up in a thousand-dollar suit.”
He sobered. “You sure you’ll be okay until then?”
“I survived him this long,” she said. “Besides, I get to watch his face the first time he sees you. That’ll fuel me for days.”
A glint lit Caleb’s eyes. “I’ll try to be… impressive.”
“You’re supposed to be ‘plausible,’” she reminded him. “Ambiance, remember?”
He grimaced. “I hate him already.”
“Get in line,” she said.
He picked up his jacket, hesitating. “Can I walk you out?”
She opened her mouth to say no.
Then she pictured the bus stop, the long block from the café, the possibility of Denby—who lived not far from here—driving by.
“Okay,” she said. “But if you try to lure me into your limo, I’m out.”
“I drove myself,” he said indignantly. “In a very boring sedan, thank you.”
“Points for relatability,” she said.
Outside, the March air bit at her cheeks. Caleb walked beside her, matching his pace to hers, hands in his pockets.
“So,” she said as they approached the bus stop. “Do we… practice?”
“Practice what?” he asked.
“Being engaged,” she said. “Convincingly. Our… body language. How we look at each other. Where you put your hand. Stuff like that.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We can. If you want.”
“I’d rather not debut our ‘act’ in front of Denby and have it be… obviously bad,” she said. “He’ll whip out every ‘gotcha’ scenario he can think of.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Reps would help.”
“Reps,” she repeated, amused. “You really are project-managing this.”
He smiled slightly. “What would make you comfortable?”
She hesitated, then held out her hand, palm up.
“Try… holding my hand like you would if we were alone,” she said. “But… rated G.”
“Rated G,” he repeated, eyes flicking to her mouth again before slowly dropping to her hand.
He took it.
His fingers slid between hers, their palms pressing together. He curled his hand just enough to cradle hers without squeezing, thumb brushing lightly along the side of her index finger.
Heat shot up her arm. She hoped her face didn’t show it.
“Okay,” she said, voice the tiniest bit breathless. “That’s… fine.”
“Fine,” he echoed, his voice lower than before.
“And then…” She forced herself to step closer, closing the small gap between them. “You’d probably… stand like this.”
She slid her joined hands between them, just in front of her hip. The movement brought her within a foot of his chest. He smelled faintly like clean soap and coffee.
He looked down at her, eyes searching.
“Is this… okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” she lied. “Perfect. Totally neutral. No feelings.”
His mouth twitched. “Of course.”
A bus rumbled up to the curb, brakes squealing. The small crowd around them shifted, gathering their bags.
“We should… stop,” she said, reluctantly stepping back and freeing her hand. “Scene over.”
“Right,” he said, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath. “No rehearsing without… supervision.”
“That’s not a rule,” she said.
“It might have to become one,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He pulled his hands firmly back into his pockets, as if he didn’t trust them. “I’ll see you Friday, Tessa.”
She tugged her bag higher on her shoulder and moved toward the bus, then paused, looking back.
“Caleb?”
“Yeah?” he said.
“One more rule,” she said.
His brows rose. “Yes?”
“No meeting each other’s families alone,” she said. “Ever. We’re… a package deal. If your grandmother wants tea with me, you’re there. If my mom wants to grill you, I’m there.”
His gaze softened. “Deal.”
“Okay.” She nodded. “We can… formalize all this later. Put it in your little folder.”
He smiled, faint but genuine. “Get to work. Text me if Denby pulls anything. I mean it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
He winced. “Please don’t call me that again.”
She laughed. “Noted, *Eli.*”
He watched as she climbed onto the bus, his figure framed by the café’s brick facade and the gray sky beyond.
As the bus pulled away, she caught one last glimpse of him through the window, hands in pockets, head tilted like he was trying to see through the glass.
Her phone buzzed.
> Caleb: For the record, I think you’re more than “ambiance.”
Heat flared in her cheeks.
> Tessa: For the record, you’re more than “plausible.”
She shoved her phone back in her pocket, heart pounding harder than it had any right to.
No sex, she reminded herself.
No kissing when nobody’s watching.
No sharing a bed.
No falling in love.
Rules, she thought, as the mall loomed closer out the window, can be so comforting.
And so, so easy to break.
***