5. Tyler
TYLER
"Why do you keep rearranging everything I touch?" Julian asks, glaring at me from across the room, his small hands planted on his hips.
“Am I?" My fingers smooth the already-perfect couch cushion for the third time. I force the corners of my mouth upward, but Julian's narrow eyes told me my smile wasn't fooling anyone.
"You've been acting weird." His eyes narrow with the perceptiveness only an eight-year-old could muster.
He was right. My watch read 6:30—thirty minutes until the mixer.
I adjust my collar, a nervous habit honed through years of board meetings and high-stakes investor pitches.
My shoulders feel tight, knotting with tension reminiscent of closing my first seven-figure deal.
I didn't need to feel this way. This was just Ginger and our carefully crafted plan—a straightforward business arrangement, nothing more.
We knew what we were doing. I'd navigated a hundred complicated mergers without breaking a sweat.
"Did you talk to mom? Is that why you're in a bad mood?" Julian's question snaps me back to reality.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "No, it's not your mom.
" The knot in my shoulders loosened. At eight, Julian already knew the telltale signs of an Amy-phone-call—the tight jaw, the pacing, the sudden need to review his custody calendar.
One less emotional minefield I needed to shield him from.
"Then what?" He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he studies my face. The same analytical expression I'd seen on my own face in boardroom mirrors when identifying the fatal flaw in a competitor's pitch—uncanny and slightly unnerving to see it mirrored in my eight-year-old's eyes.
"Julian." I reach over to ruffle his hair, which he dodged with practiced ease. "Nothing's wrong, Detective Julian. Save your super sleuthing skills for something more exciting than your old man's mood."
"Okay." He shrugs, crossing his arms with an exaggerated eye roll.
He walks towards the sofa and picked up his phone, plopping down with a theatrical sigh.
His small fingers tapping rapidly at the controls, but his eyes flick toward me every few seconds.
My chest tightens. For all his sass, Julian misses nothing.
He notices how his teachers' voices changes when discussing his mother at conferences.
He catches the careful phrasing when I explain business trips.
If Ginger and I tried to sell this 'relationship' to him, he'd spot the fine print faster than my Harvard-educated legal team.
My phone buzzes against the coffee table. Ginger's name lights up the screen. An electric current races up my spine.
GINGER: Is resort mixer code for 'black tie' or 'slightly less casual than ski clothes'? Asking for a friend.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, the corners of my mouth lifting involuntarily. I type back: The friend should wear whatever makes her comfortable. But if she's really asking, smart casual is fine. No snow boots.
Her response comes quickly: Friend says thanks. Also wants to know if you have a color preference for coordination purposes. Because apparently that's what couples do?
A bark of laughter escapes before I could stop it. Julian's head snaps up, eyebrows disappearing beneath his bangs.
Me: Tell friend I'm wearing blue. But matching outfits might be overkill for our first public appearance.
Three dots appear, then: Friend is relieved. Her blue dress is still at the dry cleaners in her imagination.
The muscles in my cheeks ache pleasantly—an unfamiliar sensation these days—when the connecting door swung open. My finger swipe the message away as Ginger and Karl step into the living room.
"Karl!" Julian's phone is tossed to the couch as he leaps up, sulkiness gone. "I was just about to come find you!"
Karl bounds in, all gangly limbs and excited energy.
Behind him, Ginger hovers in the doorway.
The simple black dress skimming her curves without clinging.
Her auburn hair cascading loose around her shoulders instead of imprisoned in the severe updos favored by resort regulars.
Her hazel eyes, more green n this light, watches me.
No glittering jewelry, no designer logo.
My lungs struggle to remember their function.
"Hi," she says, her gaze fixes somewhere around my left shoulder. "Is it too early? We can come back."
"Not at all," I reply, smoothing down the sleeves of my navy button-down. I'd dressed carefully for the evening—dark tailored jeans and a crisp shirt that my stylist insists brought out the blue in my eyes. "We're right on schedule."
"Good," she says, stepping into the suite proper. "Karl wanted to show Julian his new game before dinner anyway."
The boys disappear into Julian's room, door slamming behind them with a bang that echoed in the sudden quiet.
Ginger shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers twisting the strap of her purse.
I clear my throat, then clear it again when no words followed.
The clock on the wall ticks between us, each second stretching longer than board meetings where hostile takeovers hung in the balance.
"So," I say, gesturing at her outfit. "Not blue."
"Shocking development," she deadpans, but the corner of her mouth quirks upward. "I'm full of surprises."
"I'm beginning to see that." My fingers tap against my thigh. I clear my throat, again. "You look nice."
Her eyes widen, lips parting. For a heartbeat, something unguarded flashes across her face—surprise? discomfort? —before her features rearranged themselves. "Oh. Thanks. You look..." her gaze travels from my fresh hair cut to my polished shoes, "...very put together."
The corner of her mouth twitches. "Though I'm a little disappointed you didn't go with a tuxedo and top hat."
"I save those for the second fake date," I reply, matching her dry tone. "Sets expectations too high otherwise."
"Don't worry," she says fine lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "If we show up too coordinated, people will think we planned this."
"Heaven forbid," I say, pressing a hand to my chest with exaggerated horror.
I move to the entryway mirror for one final check, adjusting my collar.
The arrangement was bizarre—that much was certain—but unlike the women who slipped business proposals between flirtations or the ones who constructed elaborate fantasies about "saving" the lonely widower CEO, Ginger had laid out terms like a contract negotiation.
No pretense, no flattery, just straightforward problem-solving with clear boundaries and mutual benefit.
When I turn back, she stands by the bookshelf.
One slender finger tracing the spine of my dog-eared copy of 'The Art of War.
' I was approaching this like any other negotiation, but something about Ginger's direct manner kept catching me off guard.
She didn't fit neatly into my usual categories, and that was. .. unsettling.
"Ready?" I ask catching her attention.
"We should discuss strategy before we go. How did we meet? How long have we been together? Basic backstory stuff."
"Right," I nod leaning against the armchair. The same approach I took with press statements after difficult quarters. "Simple is best. We met here at the resort when our sons became friends. Recent development, still getting to know each other."
"The closer to the truth, the easier to maintain," she agrees. Her fingers capturing a rebellious strand of hair, securing it behind her ear. A flush creeping up her neck as she clears her throat. "What about... physical stuff?" Her gaze fixes on a point somewhere over my left shoulder.
"Hand-holding in crowded spaces seems reasonable," I suggest, adopting the same tone I used discussing quarterly projections. "Maybe an arm around the shoulder or waist if the situation calls for it. Nothing that would traumatize the children."
"Or us," she adds with a wry smile, fingers fidgeting with her purse strap.
"Speak for yourself. I'm an excellent hand-holder." I flex my fingers demonstratively.
She rolls her eyes, but pink blooms across her cheekbones like watercolor on wet paper. "Good to know you've been practicing."
"It's all in the thumb placement," I explain, maintaining my most solemn boardroom expression. "Rookie hand-holders always forget about thumb tension. It's Hand-Holding 101—I've seen relationships fail because of improper thumb-to-palm ratios. Tragic, really."
"I'll keep that in mind," she says, her lips twitching with the effort of suppression. She glances at her watch, the delicate gold band catching the light. "We should round up the boys if we're going to make it to the mixer."
"About that," I say, lowering my voice and stepping closer. The subtle scent of her perfume—something citrusy and bright, like sunshine bottled—drifts between us. "Are we telling them about our... arrangement?"
She shakes her head firmly, eyes widening with alarm. "Absolutely not. Karl would either be confused or try to play matchmaker for real. Last month he tried to set me up with his math teacher." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Let's just say we're all having dinner together."
"Agreed," I say, relieved we were on the same page. "Julian's been not-so-subtly suggesting I need more 'grown-up friends' anyway."
"Karl told me I need to 'get back in the dating pool' last week," Ginger confides, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Apparently, my romantic life is a concern for the under-ten demographic."
I laugh, imagining the conversation. "The next generation of matchmakers."
"God help us all," she mutters, then raises her voice. "Karl! Julian! Time to go!"
The boys emerge from Julian's room. Remaining engrossed in their game, barely looking up as we herd them toward the door like distracted sheep.
"Where are we going?" Karl asks, glancing up.
"Dinner," Ginger answers. "In the main restaurant."
"Cool," Julian says, immediately returning his attention to the handheld device he and Karl were sharing. It amazes me how the boys have bonded—just days ago they'd been strangers, and now they move in perfect synchrony, finishing each other's sentences like they'd known each other for years.
I exchange an amused glance with Ginger. "Well, at least they're easy to please."
"For now," she agrees, her lips quirking upward. "Wait until they discover girls."
I groan. "Don't remind me."
We walk toward the elevator, the boys trailing behind us, Ginger and I falling into easy conversation about the challenges of parenting. As we reach the elevator, I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her in—a gesture I second-guessed when I feel her tense beneath my touch.
"Sorry," I murmur, withdrawing my hand. "Force of habit."
"It's fine," she says, her voice equally low. "We're supposed to be a couple, remember? You can touch me occasionally."
She says it with such practical directness that I have to fight a smile. "Noted."