Chapter 3
three
WILLOW
The architectural firm of Hayes & Thornton occupied the entire fifteenth floor of a glass tower that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood. I stood in the lobby, staring at the brushed steel elevator doors and questioning every decision that had led me here.
My phone buzzed.
15th floor. Reception will direct you to my office.
No greeting. No pleasantries. Just instructions delivered in the same clipped tone he used to order his boring coffee.
Get over it, Willow. This isn't real. It's a business transaction that will be mostly mutually beneficial.
I stepped into the elevator and watched the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from polished surfaces.
Target dress, thrifted cardigan, sneakers I'd tried to clean but still bore coffee stains.
I looked exactly as I was: a coffee shop manager who didn't belong in buildings with marble lobbies and abstract art worth more than my parents' retirement accounts.
The elevator doors opened onto a space that screamed money and taste.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city.
Modern furniture arranged in perfect geometric alignment.
A reception desk where a woman with a sleek bob and designer glasses looked up with a polished smile that faltered for a microsecond at my appearance.
"You must be Willow. Mr. Hayes is expecting you." She gestured down a hallway lined with architectural renderings. "Third door on the left."
"Thanks."
I followed her directions, my sneakers silent on expensive carpet.
Callum's office was exactly what I'd expected: minimalist, organized to the point of obsession, dominated by a massive desk and drafting table. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view that made my stomach flip.
He stood at those windows now, phone pressed to his ear, looking every bit the intimidating executive that chewed on lesser humans for breakfast.
What have I gotten myself into? Too late for that reality check now.
He turned when I entered, held up one finger.
"I understand your concerns, Richard, but the timeline is aggressive regardless of who you choose. My team can deliver quality without compromising the deadline." Pause. "Yes, I realize I’m not the only architect in town. Of course. Looking forward to the gala. Wouldn’t miss it.” He ended the call, set his phone down with precise care. "Willow."
"Callum." I stayed near the door, aware of how out of place I was. "Nice office. Very... you."
"Meaning?"
"Controlled. Organized. Probably color-coded by architectural period or whatever architects obsess over."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Alphabetical."
"Of course they are."
"Says the woman who arranges coffee beans by roast darkness."
"That's just good sense. Your level of organization is pathological, possibly bordering on a disorder."
"And yet you're here, agreeing to a mutually beneficial arrangement that requires exactly that kind of attention to detail." He gestured to a leather chair across from his desk. "Sit. We need to establish specifics."
I dropped into the chair, which was both comfortable and intimidating. "I thought we already did that."
"I prefer to be thorough." He settled into his own chair with ramrod posture that screamed expensive etiquette lessons—which only deepened my reluctant curiosity about Callum the man, not just Callum the guy I was fake dating.
"We have three months to convince everyone we're in a committed relationship.
That requires consistency, attention to detail, and absolute discretion. "
"Yeah, I get it."
"Good. Reminder: romance isn't the goal. Credibility is." He pulled out a legal pad—of course he had a legal pad—and uncapped a fountain pen. "Question one: how long have we been dating?"
I blinked. "Are you quizzing me on our fake relationship?"
"In the story we're selling, Willow. How long?"
I resisted the urge to make a sarcastic face. Right. The story. The lie we'd be feeding everyone including my parents and his business associates and anyone who asked why the coffee shop manager was dating the architect who'd spent a year critiquing her foam art.
"Six weeks," I said. "Long enough to be serious, short enough that people won't question why they haven't heard about it."
He nodded with approval. "How did we start dating?"
"You admitted my coffee art is brilliant?"
"Be serious."
"I am serious. You've been insulting my foam hearts since the day you walked into my shop."
"I've been offering constructive criticism. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
He set down his pen, leaned back in his chair. "This won't work if you can't take it seriously."
"This won't work if you can't relax." I crossed my legs, watched his gaze drop then snap back up. "We started dating after you came in one morning and actually complimented my latte art. I was so shocked I said yes when you asked me to dinner."
"I would never compliment your latte art."
"Hence my shock."
"Willow—"
"Do you want a believable story or not? People who know you will find it strange that you grew a personality and asked me out. The compliment gives you a reason."
He watched me, those gray eyes seeing more than I wanted them to. "Fine. I complimented your work. You agreed to dinner. Where did I take you?"
"Somewhere expensive and pretentious where the menu doesn't have prices."
"I'm not pretentious."
"You wear cufflinks to a coffee shop."
"I wear cufflinks to work. The coffee shop is on my way."
"You order black coffee and judge people who add flavor."
"I order black coffee to appreciate quality beans. Your espresso blend doesn't need enhancement."
That stopped me. "You... appreciate my espresso blend?"
"It's excellent. Single-origin Ethiopian, if I'm not mistaken. Floral notes, medium acidity, clean finish." He picked up his pen again. "I took you to Marcello's. Italian, upscale but not ostentatious. We shared the burrata and you ordered the carbonara."
"How do you know what I'd order?"
"You always arrive at the shop smelling faintly of garlic and cheese on Wednesdays. I assume that's your day off and you cook Italian, but you still pop in to make sure things are running well."
I stared at him. "You notice what I smell like on my day off?"
"I notice details. It's part of my job."
"Noticing what your fake girlfriend smells on her day off is not part of your job." Also, if I smell like garlic and cheese, is that a good thing?
"It is now." He made another note. "What else do I need to know?"
"About what?"
"You. Your life. The things a boyfriend would know after six weeks."
Right. We'd spent a year trading barbs over a coffee counter but I didn't actually know anything real about him. Didn't know his favorite food or his middle name or about his marriage that ended.
"My favorite color is green," I said. "The specific shade of new leaves in spring.
I'm allergic to shellfish but I lie about it whenever I can get away with it—admitting allergies embarrasses me. I panicked halfway through my physical therapy program and dropped out. My parents are disappointed but too polite to say so directly. I read romance novels and cry at parades. I believe in love for other people but not so much for myself because people suck and judging by my past boyfriends, my picker is broken.”
Honesty tumbled out, more raw than I'd intended. Callum wrote without looking up. "Keep going."
In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.
“All right, let’s see, I’m terrified I'm wasting my life," I continued, unable to stop now that I'd started.
"That Devon was right and I lack ambition. That managing a coffee shop is settling, not choosing. That I'm twenty-three and already behind everyone else my age. At the end of bad shifts, I eat my feelings in ice cream. Chocolate, specifically. And somedays, I bed-rot all day because I can’t bring myself to do anything else.”
Callum's pen stopped. He looked up, and I caught an unexpected softness crossing his face.
"Devon was an idiot," he said. "And you're not behind. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
"How would you know?"
"You show up every morning at five-thirty to open a shop that barely breaks even.
You remember every regular's order and ask about their families.
You create art in foam that lasts thirty seconds because you believe those thirty seconds matter.
That's not settling. That's choosing to care about what most people consider disposable. "
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't process Callum Hayes—the man who'd spent more time criticizing my work than being pleasant—defending my choices with more conviction than I'd ever managed. Who was this guy and where was the stiff, zero-joy, black coffee drinker that bullied me every morning?
"Your turn," I said, voice rough. "Tell me things a girlfriend would know."
He set down his pen with deliberate care.
"I'm forty years old. Divorced—my marriage ended eight years ago.
I have a daughter, Elena, who's twenty and lives in California.
My middle name is James. I grew up in Boston, went to MIT, moved here fifteen years ago to start this firm with my business partner, Graham.
I work seventy-hour weeks since I don't know how to do anything else.
My apartment is in the same building as my office—commuting feels wasteful. "
“You never leave this building? That’s depressing.”
"It's efficient."
"It's sad. When do you see friends? Have hobbies? Live?"
"I have dinner with Graham once a week. I run every morning. I read architectural journals."
"Architectural journals don't count as hobbies."
"They do if you enjoy them."
I leaned forward. "What do you do for fun, Callum? Real fun, not work disguised as recreation."
He met my stare, and for a moment I caught uncertainty shifting behind his control. Or loneliness.
"It's been a while since I thought about fun," he admitted.