Chapter 2
two
CALLUM
The guy's voice carried across the coffee shop, each word landing with the artful intonation of a person who'd perfected the skill of seeming supportive while actually being condescending.
I'd been watching this train wreck unfold from my usual corner table, laptop forgotten, black coffee cooling beside my hand.
"I heard through the grapevine you were working here. It's cute. Very you."
The comment made my jaw tighten. I'd heard variations of it before—from my own father, from colleagues who couldn't understand why anyone would choose simplicity over advancement. Benign enough on the surface. The delivery turned it into a weapon.
But hearing it directed at Willow, watching her shoulders pull back in that defensive posture I'd come to recognize over a year's worth of morning observations, triggered a protective instinct I didn't have time to examine.
I'm assuming the guy—Devon? Kevin? Ah, right, Devon, the ex-boyfriend—had an unpleasant history with Willow. There was a micro-flare of familiarity as his gaze swept her body that gave away past history. I didn't appreciate that, either.
She handled his barely concealed patronizing well.
Better than I would have. Her customer service mask slipped into place, but I caught the tremor in her fingers as she worked the espresso machine.
Caught the way her smile didn't reach her eyes when Devon announced his engagement, his junior partnership, his perfect Riverside house hunt.
What a prick. I caught a whiff of smug superiority drifting off the guy with all the subtlety of a rank fart in a closed elevator. Who the hell did he think he was? The King of England?
I'd been coming to Brew & Bean every morning for a year. At the outset, I happened to find the hole-in-the-wall coffee place by accident. I'd needed a shot of caffeine between meetings and zipped in for a quick fix.
That's when I met Willow.
Tall, long-haired brunette with sparkling hazel eyes, and warmth hidden beneath all that sharp wit.
What can I say? I was intrigued.
What happened then became the most pleasurable part of my established routine.
Same table, same order, same barista who gave me endless grief about my lack of imagination.
Ordinarily, I took my coffee to go and I was out the door within fifteen minutes. But today, I lingered.
First, it was her parents, then this guy.
It was like watching a train wreck I couldn’t help rubber-necking.
Willow Monroe was a whirlwind personified—all loopy curls and impulsive honesty and questionable foam art—and I'd spent the past year pretending I didn't notice the way her laugh transformed the entire shop.
Pretending our daily sparring matches weren't the highlight of my morning.
Pretending I didn't time my arrival specifically to catch her shift.
Pathetic, Hayes. Truly pathetic.
Now as I watched Devon treat her as a charity case, every protective instinct I'd buried under decades of emotional discipline roared to life.
"You seem good, though. Comfortable." Devon's voice dripped with condescension. "I'm sure it takes a lot of skill to do what you do."
The subtext: Your little job is menial and I feel superior to you in every way.
Willow's smile became brittle. "You'd be surprised."
Devon paid, left a dollar tip that looked more paltry than generous, and turned toward the door. Then he paused, pivoting back with that particular look I'd seen on a hundred privileged faces—the one that preceded a verbal knife disguised as casual curiosity.
"Hey, are you seeing anyone these days? I always wondered if you'd find—"
"Yes." Willow's voice cut through his question with startling force. "Actually, I am."
Devon's eyebrows rose. Vanessa looked mildly interested. I stiffened, holding my breath for her answer.
"Really? That's great! Anyone I'd know?"
Willow's gaze darted around the shop—past the empty tables, the decorative plants, the espresso machine—and landed directly on me. I watched her face cycle through panic, calculation, and desperate resolve in the span of two heartbeats.
Oh no. Don't do it.
"Callum," she blurted. "Callum Hayes. We're together."
She did it.
Every head in the vicinity swiveled toward me.
Devon's skepticism was palpable. Vanessa's polite interest sharpened into genuine curiosity.
Behind the counter, her coworker, the one named Mika had frozen mid-wipe, her rag suspended over the espresso machine, mouth hanging open.
And Willow—Willow looked as though she wanted the floor to swallow her whole but was too stubborn to stop talking.
"The architect?" Devon's tone dripped with disbelief. "The guy whose name is on that giant building in the center of town?"
I should have stayed in my seat. Should have let her flounder through this catastrophic lie and watched the whole thing collapse under its own absurdity. Our daily interactions consisted of bickering over foam art and trading verbal jabs about life choices.
But it was the panic flitting across Willow's face that prompted me to stand, cross the shop and slide my arm around Willow's waist with the purposefully casual possession that suggested we'd done this a thousand times.
Mika's rag hit the counter with a wet slap. I didn't look at her, but I could feel her stare boring into the side of my head.
"Devon, right?" I kept my voice level. "I've heard about you."
His face flushed. "Good things, I hope."
"Sure." I didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. My tone implied otherwise, and watching him squirm was its own reward. The man had the emotional intelligence of a golden retriever—all charm, no depth—and it showed in the way his confident facade crumbled under minimal pressure.
"Well." Devon's composure cracked around the edges. "That's... unexpected. Good for you, Willow. Really."
He grabbed Vanessa's elbow and steered her toward the door with considerably less swagger than he'd entered with. The bell chimed behind them.
I counted to five. Then I dropped my arm and stepped back.
The loss of contact felt oddly significant. Her waist had been warm through her apron, her body fitting against my side in a way that had no business feeling so natural.
“And here I could’ve been asking for the friends and family discount this whole time,” I drawled.
Willow's face had gone crimson. "I'm so sorry. He was doing that thing where he pretends to care while actually rubbing my face in his success, and I just—your name came out before my brain caught up."
“I noticed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I panicked and you were the best option in the moment! Looking all..." She gestured vaguely at my suit, my face, my general existence. "You know. And he was being so smug about his perfect fiancée and his perfect life, and I wanted him to choke on it."
"Mission accomplished. He looked ready to swallow his tongue."
Behind us, I heard Mika emit a strangled noise—half gasp, half laugh. Willow shot her a look that could curdle milk. Mika held up both hands and retreated to the far end of the counter, but her gaze kept darting back to us with barely contained curiosity.
“God, I’m really sorry." Willow pressed her palms to her cheeks, mortified.
"I'll tell him the truth. Track him down and explain that I'm a pathological liar who can't handle her ex's pity face. You can go back to your coffee and pretend this never happened. Actually, this is your fault for being here in the first place. You never stay this long.”
The fact that she noticed gave me a strange thrill. I ignored that red flag, choosing instead to latch onto an equally absurd idea that her announcement had given me. “What if you didn’t?”
Willow blinked. "Didn't what?"
"Tell him the truth."
"Are you suggesting I maintain this lie? Indefinitely? About us being together?"
My mouth curved in an indulgent smile. “Not indefinitely,” I corrected. “Three months.”
She stared at me as though I'd suggested she juggle flaming chainsaws. "Three months of pretending we're dating. You and me. Have you lost your mind?"
"Possibly, but your wild choice gave me an idea."
Her wary expression was valid. What I was about to propose was on the side of nuts. "What's this idea?"
I glanced toward Mika, who was now aggressively reorganizing syrup bottles while angling her body to catch every word. "Can we talk somewhere more private?"
Willow followed my gaze, sighed. "Mika, I'm taking a five."
"Take your time." Mika's voice was suspiciously cheerful. "I'll just be here. Not listening. At all."
Willow led me to the small hallway near the back, past the restrooms and the supply closet. Not exactly private, but at least Mika would have to physically follow us to eavesdrop.
"Have you heard of Richard Ashford?"
Recognition sparked in her eyes. "The developer guy?"
I nodded, impressed she knew the name. "He's choosing an architect for a project I’ve been trying to land for months. Three firms are competing, mine included.” I kept my voice level, professional.
"Here's the thing—Ashford makes decisions based on more than portfolio quality.
He values stability. Family values. That wholesome image that suggests reliability. "
"And you don't have that image."
“Not in his eyes. I’m forty. Divorced. Known for being..."
“A player?”
“Selective.”
She cocked her head at me. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I’m probably the opposite of what you would consider a player. I’m prohibitively selective in who I choose to spend my time with.”
“Which probably makes it hard to find a date,” she surmised.
“You could say that.” I left out the part where my last three dates had ended unceremoniously with zero prospects of a second date — by my choice.
Small talk was tedious, the women in my circles tended to be shallow, and I had very little tolerance for people who were cruel to animals. That’s a story I won’t even get into.
“Hmm, so you think having a girlfriend will help you get the job?”
"I think Ashford responds to narrative. The workaholic who's found someone worth making space for—it's compelling. Humanizing." I met her stare directly. "And before you ask, yes, I'm aware how calculating that sounds."
"It sounds exactly as I'd expect you to sound." Willow studied me with those sharp hazel eyes that missed nothing.
I didn’t know if I should be impressed or insulted.
"And then we have a dramatic breakup at the end of the three months and go back to normal?,” she said, considering the wild idea.
I shrugged. “Pretty much. That's the idea.”
She was quiet for a long moment, and I could practically see her mind working through implications and possibilities. "What's in it for me?"
Fair question. I respected her clear-eyed pragmatism.
“Three months with me, and everyone in your life sees you differently. Not the girl who dropped out of physical therapy school. Not the barista with no ambition. The woman who caught the attention of an established architect. A person who sees your worth."
She made a face. "You sure think a lot of yourself."
I held her gaze. "You want people to stop questioning your choices? Date a person who makes those questions irrelevant."
"You know it's 2026, right? Women don't need a man to validate their existence."
"No, but social conditioning runs deep. People judge. This gives you breathing room—a temporary buffer. Plus, you'll get entertainment out of the deal. Five-star restaurants and such."
"What makes you think I care about that kind of stuff?"
"Who doesn't enjoy a good time on another person's dime?"
"Fair point." She paused, brow furrowing. "What about your daughter? Won't she have questions about her dad's new girlfriend?"
The question caught me off guard. "You know about Elena?"
"You mentioned her once. A few months ago. You were on the phone when you came in—sounded stressed—and after you hung up, you said you needed your coffee extra strong to deal with a stubborn twenty-year-old." She shrugged. "I assumed it was your kid."
I'd forgotten that. Forgotten that Willow paid attention to things beyond coffee orders. "Elena lives in California with her mother. She won't be a factor."
"If you say so." Her tone suggested she didn't believe me, but she let it drop.
Willow chewed her lip, and I forced myself not to track the movement.
Not to notice how the afternoon sun from the shop's front windows caught in her hair or how small she looked standing in this cramped hallway.
Seventeen years. The age gap I'd used as a shield for a year of pretending I didn't see her romantically.
I was too old for her. At least that's what I kept telling myself when my thoughts wandered where they shouldn't.
"Ground rules," she said at last.
"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 the contact. 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.