Chapter 5
five
WILLOW
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to reconcile the woman looking back at me with the barista who'd been slinging lattes twelve hours ago.
The forest-green fabric hugged curves I'd forgotten I had.
The neckline dipped low enough to be interesting without being scandalous.
My hair fell in loose waves over my shoulders—courtesy of a YouTube tutorial and forty-five minutes of cursing at my curling iron.
I looked... expensive. Polished. As if I belonged at a charity gala instead of behind a coffee counter.
The illusion would shatter the moment I opened my mouth, but hey, at least I'd photograph well.
A knock at my door. Not a text. An actual knock.
I opened it to find Callum Hayes in a tuxedo that fit him with the attention to detail that screamed “private tailor,” one hand braced against my doorframe, the other holding a single white rose. His gaze swept over me, and I watched his face cycle through several emotions in rapid succession.
Surprise. Appreciation. And then—unless I was imagining it—raw, undisguised want.
"You're staring," I said.
"You're stunning." His voice came out rough, almost reluctant, as though he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He handed me the rose. "For you."
"A gentleman caller. How very 1950s of you." I stepped back to let him in, watched his architect's eye immediately start cataloging my apartment. The popcorn ceilings. The avocado-green kitchen tiles. The shag carpet that had seen better decades.
His mouth opened.
"Don't," I warned.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face is saying plenty."
"It's just—" He gestured at the ceiling. "That texture. And the fixtures. This building is circa 1972, isn't it?"
"1974, actually. And I find it charming." I set the rose on my kitchen counter—harvest gold laminate, original to the building. "It has character."
"It has asbestos, probably."
"Retro charm."
"Lead paint."
"Vintage aesthetic."
"Willow, the bathroom tiles are—"
I held out my hand, palm up.
He stopped. "What?"
"You owe me ten dollars."
"For what?"
"I bet you ten bucks you couldn't keep your judgment to yourself about where I live." I wiggled my fingers. "Pay up, Hayes."
He stared at me for a beat, then laughed—a real laugh, genuine and surprised, that transformed his entire face. Made him look younger. Made me want to hear it again.
"Fair enough." He pulled out his wallet, extracted a crisp ten-dollar bill, and placed it in my palm. "You win this round."
"I plan to win several more." I tucked the bill into my clutch. "Ready?"
"After you."
We walked down three flights of stairs—the elevator had been "temporarily" out of service since I'd moved in two years ago—and emerged onto the street.
His car waited at the curb, sleek and dark, with understated luxury that whispered money rather than screamed it.
Not a sports car. A sedan. But a sedan that was shipped to the buyer and never spent a day in a showroom.
A far cry from my Honda Accord, parked in its usual spot three spaces down. I'd had that car since I was sixteen—a hand-me-down from my older cousin that had seen me through high school, my college years, and every shift at Brew & Bean since.
There was a French fry lost somewhere under the passenger seat that I'd been meaning to find for approximately six months.
The whole car had taken on a distinct eau de McDonald's—that particular post-midnight stale grease aroma, the kind you got when the cleaning crew forgot to dump the old fryer oil.
Callum's sedan probably had never seen a French fry in its life.
He opened my door, waited until I'd arranged myself and my dress in the passenger seat, then closed it with deliberate care. Very gentlemanly. Very un-Callum.
Or was it? I'd spent a year assuming I knew him based on coffee orders and verbal sparring. Turned out I'd barely scratched the surface.
The interior was all leather and wood accents, immaculate in a way that suggested regular detailing. I felt vaguely guilty, as though my presence might somehow contaminate his pristine vehicle with the ghost of stale fries.
The drive to the gala took twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of sitting in a confined space with a man who made my pulse do stupid things, trying to remember all the details we'd rehearsed and failing to concentrate on anything except him.
His cologne. The way his hands looked on the steering wheel. The sharp line of his jaw in profile.
I did not lean closer.
"Richard Ashford," Callum said, breaking the silence. "What do you remember from the information I emailed you?”
"Sixty-two, self-made billionaire, three ex-wives, no kids. Built his fortune in real estate, made the real money in tech investments. Values loyalty and authenticity above everything, which I find hilarious given that he’s cycled through three wives already,” I ticked off the facts he'd drilled into me.
"His current wife's name is Eleanor. They've been married four years. She used to be an interior designer before she became a philanthropist or as I like to call them, ‘A Lady Who Lunches’.”
"Good."
"I'm going to forget all of that the moment we walk in."
"You won't."
"You have a lot of faith in me."
"I have faith in your ability to improvise." He glanced at me, then back at the road. "You do it every morning when customers try to order drinks that don't exist."
"That's different. Those people don't control whether your firm gets a multi-million-dollar contract. Completely different level of pressure.”
"The principle is the same. Read the room, adapt accordingly, don't let them see you sweat."
"Spoken like a man who's never sweated in his life."
"I sweat."
"Metaphorically?"
"Literally. I run five miles every morning."
"Of course you do." I turned to look out the window, watched the city blur past. "What if I mess this up?"
"You won't."
"But what if I do? What if Eleanor asks me a question I can't answer, or Richard sees through us, or I trip and fall into the champagne fountain—"
"There's no champagne fountain."
"There's always a champagne fountain at these things."
"There isn't. I've been to Richard's galas before." Callum's hand left the steering wheel, landed on my knee. Warm and solid and grounding. "Willow. Look at me."
I looked. Oof. He was fine. Like, my eyeballs can’t handle all that hotness in one human male.
"You're going to be fine," he said. "Better than fine. You're going to walk into that room and charm everyone you meet, and I'm going to spend the entire night trying not to stare at you in that dress."
"Trying? Or failing?"
"Both, probably. But that’s a good thing. I should be obsessed with new girlfriend, right?” His hand squeezed my knee, then returned to the wheel. "We've got this."
We. As if we were actually a team. As if this arrangement had become a partnership when I wasn't paying attention.
I wasn't sure whether to find that comforting or terrifying.
The gala was being held at the Ashford Estate, a sprawling property on the outskirts of the city that looked as though it had been plucked from an English countryside and dropped into American suburbia. Manicured gardens. A circular driveway. Valets in matching uniforms.
I was so out of my league it wasn't even funny.
Callum came around to open my door, offered his hand. I took it, let him help me out of the car, and tried not to wobble on my heels.
"Breathe," he murmured near my ear.
"I am breathing."
"You're hyperventilating."
"Same thing."
His hand found the small of my back—warm, possessive, exactly where he'd said it would be during our practice session. Except the reality of his touch was nothing compared to the rehearsal. This felt deliciously more possessive, more sensual.
I kind of loved it.
We walked up the stone steps together, through double doors held open by staff in black tie, into a foyer that sparkled with wealth and privilege. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Floral arrangements taller than me.
And people. So many people. Women in gowns that made my emerald dress seem bargain-rack cheap. Men in tuxedos discussing stock portfolios and real estate holdings. Everyone holding champagne flutes and laughing at jokes that probably weren't funny.
"How much do you think these flowers cost?" I murmured.
"More than your monthly rent."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
"Don't think about it." His hand pressed more firmly against my back, guiding me deeper into the crowd. "Think about how much you're going to enjoy making fun of every aspect of this party on the drive home."
"Now that's a plan I can get behind."
A server passed with a tray of champagne. Callum snagged two glasses, handed one to me.
"Liquid courage," he said.
"I thought you disapproved of adulterating perfectly good beverages."
"That's coffee. Champagne is meant to be consumed with abandon."
"With abandon? Who are you and what have you done with Callum Hayes?"
He clinked his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”
I sipped the champagne—crisp, expensive, probably older than me—and scanned the room.
Everywhere I looked, I felt the gap between these people and myself.
They discussed summer homes in the Hamptons.
I was calculating whether I could afford to get my car's oil changed this month.
They wore jewelry that could pay off my student loans.
I was wearing earrings from Target that I hoped passed for real.
A couple approached us—man in his sixties, silver hair slicked back, expensive suit. Woman beside him, early fifties, elegant in a way that screamed old money. Her gaze swept over me, assessing.
"Callum!" The man extended his hand, pumped Callum's with enthusiasm. "Glad you could make it."
"Richard. Eleanor. Thank you for having us." Callum's hand stayed firmly on my back. "May I introduce Willow Monroe."