Chapter 6
six
CALLUM
I stood outside Willow's apartment building at ten-fifteen on a Wednesday morning, questioning every decision that had led me here.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had built a successful architecture firm and survived a divorce and learned to function as a reasonably competent adult—kept asking what the hell I thought I was doing.
Showing up unannounced. On her day off. With a plan that could charitably be described as "flimsy excuse to spend time with her. "
The irrational part of my brain, which had apparently staged a coup sometime in the past week, didn't care.
I buzzed her apartment.
No answer.
I buzzed again.
"What." Her voice crackled through the ancient intercom, thick with sleep or annoyance. Possibly both.
"It's Callum."
A pause. "Callum?"
"Hayes. The architect. Your fake boyfriend. We've met."
"I know who you are." Another pause. "Why are you here?"
"Buzz me up and find out."
"It's my day off."
"I'm aware."
"I'm not dressed."
"I'll wait."
Static. Then: “Ugh. This wasn’t part of the deal.”
The door clicked open.
I took the stairs—three flights, since the elevator remained a decorative fixture rather than functional machinery—and found her door already cracked.
I pushed it open to discover Willow Monroe in gray sweatpants, an oversized hoodie that proclaimed "I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie," and a bun that looked as though it had been assembled during an earthquake.
She was holding a coffee mug with both hands, glaring at me over the rim.
"Good morning," I said.
"It was." She took a pointed sip. "Then you showed up."
"Get dressed. We're going on a trip."
"Excuse me?"
"A day trip. You and me. I'm driving."
She stared at me as though I'd suggested we rob a bank. "You can't just show up at my apartment and demand I go on a mystery trip with you. That's not how this works."
"And yet, here I am." I leaned against her doorframe—the same harvest-gold kitchen visible behind her, the same questionable ceiling tiles overhead. "We need to be seen together more. Build credibility beyond charity galas. This is part of the plan. Strategic, if you will.”
"Strategic." She said the word as though testing it for rot. "At ten in the morning. On my day off. With no warning."
"I texted you."
"When?"
"Twenty minutes ago."
She grabbed her phone from the counter, squinted at the screen. "'Be ready in thirty. Dress warm.' That's not a warning, Callum. That's a hostage demand."
"You're being dramatic."
"You're being a control freak." But she was already moving toward her bedroom, coffee still in hand. "Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
She stopped. Turned. "I hate surprises."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Get dressed, Willow."
She made a noise of pure frustration and disappeared into her room. I heard drawers opening and closing, the thump of what sounded like a shoe being thrown, and a muffled curse that I chose not to acknowledge.
I waited in her living room, hands in my coat pockets, examining the space with an architect's eye that I couldn't turn off.
The furniture was mismatched but comfortable—a velvet couch in deep purple, a coffee table that looked like a thrift store rescue, bookshelves overflowing with romance novels and cookbooks.
Plants everywhere, most of them thriving despite the building's subpar natural lighting.
It was chaotic. Colorful. Entirely her.
I found myself cataloging details I had no business noticing. The half-finished crossword on the coffee table. The reading glasses perched on a stack of paperbacks. The throw blanket tangled at one end of the couch, suggesting she'd been there before I buzzed.
She emerged fifteen minutes later in jeans, boots, and a chunky knit sweater the color of rust. Her hair was down now, waves falling past her shoulders. No makeup that I could detect, though I was hardly an expert.
She looked like autumn made human. Not that I'd ever say that out loud.
"This better be worth it," she said, grabbing a coat from a hook by the door. "I had plans today."
"What plans?"
"Doing nothing. Gloriously, deliberately nothing. It’s called bed-rotting and I was looking forward to it.”
“You can bed-rot tomorrow."
“No I can’t.” She locked her door, stuffed the keys into her pocket. “I work tomorrow, remember?”
“Let’s go, we’re wasting daylight.”
We descended the stairs, emerged onto the street, and I opened the passenger door of my car for her. She paused, eyeing me.
"You know I'm capable of opening my own door, right?"
"I'm aware."
"Just checking." She slid inside, and I caught the faintest hint of vanilla as I closed the door.
Not her perfume. Probably her shampoo. Or lotion. Or whatever products women used that made them smell like dessert.
I walked around to the driver's side and told myself to stop noticing how she smelled.
Twenty minutes into the drive, she'd already commandeered the radio.
"This is what you listen to?" She flipped through my presets with undisguised horror. "Classical. Jazz. More classical. NPR. Callum, this is the musical equivalent of beige walls."
"There's nothing wrong with beige walls."
"There's nothing right with them, either." She connected her phone to the Bluetooth without asking permission. "We're fixing this."
The opening bars of a song I vaguely recognized—pop, early 2000s, almost definitely featuring choreographed dancing in the music video—filled the car.
"This is worse," I said.
"This is a classic."
"This is noise."
"This is Britney Spears, and you will show respect." She turned up the volume. "Everyone loves Britney."
"I don't."
"Everyone with a soul loves Britney."
"Are you questioning my soul?"
"I'm questioning your taste." She settled back in her seat, satisfied. "Where are we going? And don't say 'surprise' again or I'll open this door and tuck-and-roll onto the highway."
"It's not the highway yet. You'd just roll into a bus stop."
"Answer the question, Hayes."
I considered maintaining the mystery, but the look she was giving me suggested she might actually attempt the tuck-and-roll. "There's a town about an hour north. Hartfield. It has a skating rink, decent restaurants, and enough charm to satisfy even your aesthetic standards."
"Skating?" Her voice pitched up. "As in ice skating? On ice? With blades attached to my feet?"
"That's generally how it works."
"I'm a disaster on skates."
"Then I'll catch you."
The words came out before I could stop them. I kept my eyes on the road and pretended I hadn't just said that.
“So, let me guess, you’re probably have the skills of like, an Olympic figure skater,” she said.
I laughed, admitting, “Not even close. I haven’t put skates on since Elena was a kid. I’ll probably be just as bad as you think you will be.”
“Then why are we doing this?” she asked in a wail that was almost comical.
I revealed my ulterior motive. “Because at Ashford’s gala I caught wind that Councilwoman Janetta Oliver is going to be there today with her family and she happens to be best friends with Eleanor Ashford.
Being seen together out in the wild is the best way to sell the story that we’re more than just a photo op.
Hartford is far enough away to be thought of as a private outing, but close enough to actually bump into people we know. ”
“Who’s this we in your pocket? I don’t know any of these people,” she grumbled, tucking her arms across her chest. “This job doesn’t pay well enough to give up my day off. Come to think of it, I’m not getting paid, period. I think I need to renegotiate.”
“Too late for that, darlin’,” I grinned, finding her pique damn adorable. “Play your cards right and there’s a hot chocolate in your future.”
She rolled her eyes but added, “You’re springing for extra whipped cream.”
Hartfield looked like a postcard had vomited onto reality.
Cobblestone streets lined with boutiques and bakeries. Lampposts wrapped in fairy lights. A town square dominated by a skating rink where couples glided hand-in-hand, their breath visible in the February air.
Willow pressed her face to the window like a kid at Christmas.
"Okay," she admitted. "This is annoyingly charming."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head." She was already unbuckling her seatbelt. "Is that a bookshop? That's definitely a bookshop. Can we go there?"
"After skating."
"Before skating. As a reward for putting up with you."
"The skating is the activity. The bookshop is the reward."
"Who made you the arbiter of reward sequencing?"
"I'm the one with the car keys."
She narrowed her eyes at me. "Tyrant."
"Pragmatist."
We compromised by getting hot chocolate from a café before hitting the rink. Willow cradled her cup with both hands, steam rising against her pink cheeks, and I had to look away before I did what I really wanted to do.
Which was kiss her. Right there on the cobblestones. In front of the bakery with the steamed windows and the elderly couple walking their corgi and the teenagers taking selfies by the lamppost.
No audience that mattered. Just want, pure and inconvenient.
I didn't.
We got skates. We laced them up on a bench near the rink's edge, and I watched Willow eye the ice with the wariness of someone approaching a feral animal.
"You know," she said, "I once broke my wrist rollerblading. I was twelve. It was very traumatic."
"This is different."
"How?"
"The surface is colder."
"Not helpful."
"I'll be right there with you."
"Also not helpful. You're forty and haven't skated since—when did you say? When Elena was twelve?"
“Yep.” I stood, offered my hand. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. You’re the one who said I needed more fun in my life and yet, you’re the one being the wet blanket.”
She straightened as if I’d thrown a gauntlet. “You make a solid point and I hate being called out for being a hypocrite. So let’s do this. Let’s hee-hee and haw-haw right into the emergency room.”
I laughed. “You’re a woman of extremes. I like it. Let’s go.”