Chapter 6 #2
She took my hand. Her fingers were cold through her gloves, and I resisted the urge to warm them between my palms.
We stepped onto the ice.
The next twenty minutes were an exercise in controlled chaos. Willow clung to my arm with a death grip that would leave bruises, her ankles wobbling in ways that defied physics. I wasn't much better—my muscle memory from a decade ago proved unreliable at best, traitorous at worst.
We fell. Multiple times. Once she went down and took me with her, my attempt to catch her only accelerating our mutual collapse. We landed in a heap of tangled limbs, her beneath me, my hands braced on either side of her head to avoid crushing her completely.
Her face was inches from mine. Eyes bright. Cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. A strand of hair stuck to her lip.
Neither of us moved.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"This is uncomfortable."
"Very."
"The ice is freezing through my jeans."
“Sounds terrible.”
Still, neither of us moved.
A kid skated past, spraying ice in our direction, and the spell broke. I pushed myself up, helped her stand, and we made our way to the rink's edge with what remained of our dignity.
"Okay," Willow said, collapsing onto a bench. "I think we've established that skating is not our sport."
"We could try again."
"We could also set ourselves on fire. Same energy."
I sat beside her, closer than necessary. Our shoulders touched through layers of wool and down. "Hungry?"
"Starving. Falling down is exhausting."
"There's a restaurant around the corner. Looks Italian."
Her eyes lit up. "With carbs?"
"Extensive carbs."
"Lead the way."
The restaurant was small and warm, a place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles. We ordered pasta—carbonara for her, cacio e pepe for me—and a bottle of red wine that the waiter recommended with the confidence of a man who'd made this suggestion a thousand times.
Willow tucked her feet beneath her on the booth seat, a move that struck me as almost feline. Comfortable. As though she belonged here, in this tiny Italian restaurant in a town she'd never visited, across from a man she was only pretending to date.
"So," she said, swirling her wine. "Tell me about Elena."
The question caught me off guard. "What about her?"
"Anything. Everything. You've mentioned her, but you go all stiff whenever she comes up. What's the real story?"
I took a drink of my wine. Considered deflecting. Found that I didn't want to.
"Elena is brilliant—graduated high school two years early, finished her undergraduate at twenty. She's interning at a tech startup in San Francisco now while pursuing her masters. AI development. I understand about thirty percent of what she does."
"That's impressive."
"She's impressive." I turned the wine glass in my hands. "She's also the reason I know exactly how badly I failed at being a father."
Willow didn't flinch. Didn't offer reassurance or platitudes. She just waited.
"When she was young, I was building the firm.
Sixty-hour weeks. Seventy-hour weeks. I told myself I was doing it for her—for her future, her security.
But I wasn't there. Not for recitals or soccer games or the everyday moments that add up to a childhood.
" I set down the glass. "Jessica—my ex—she handled everything.
Until she couldn't anymore. Until she decided Elena deserved a father who showed up, even if it wasn't me. "
"The divorce."
"The divorce. Elena was twelve. She didn't understand why her dad chose blueprints over her. Hell, I didn't understand it either. Still don't, if I'm honest."
"But you're trying now. You said she's coming to visit."
"She is. In a few weeks." I met Willow's gaze. "I've spent eight years trying to rebuild what I broke. Some days I think we're making progress. Other days I'm convinced she tolerates me out of obligation rather than affection."
"Have you asked her?"
"Asked her what?"
"Whether she's tolerating you or actually wants a relationship."
I blinked. "No."
"Then how do you know?"
"I don't. I just... assume."
Willow leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands.
"Here's the thing about assumptions. They're usually wrong.
And even when they're right, they keep you stuck.
You assume Elena resents you, so you act like someone who deserves resentment, and she picks up on that and probably assumes you don't actually want to be close to her. "
"That's... surprisingly insightful."
"I'm a surprisingly insightful person. You just don't notice it when you're too busy criticizing my foam art."
"I notice it."
The admission hung between us. Willow's face did that thing where she tried to hide how my words affected her and failed.
Our food arrived, saving us both from having to figure out what to say next.
We ate. We talked. Not about heavy things—about food and terrible movies and the worst customers Willow had ever served.
She told me about the guy who demanded a "half-caf triple-shot almond milk latte with exactly three ice cubes, no more, no less" and then complained that it was too cold.
I told her about the client who rejected six designs, each more elaborate than the last, before admitting he actually wanted a simple log cabin.
She laughed at my stories. I laughed at hers. The wine disappeared, replaced by coffee and a shared tiramisu that Willow insisted we order despite being full.
"It's a rule," she said, stealing the last bite. "Italian restaurant, you get tiramisu. Non-negotiable."
"You've eaten three-quarters of it."
"You're too slow. Survival of the fastest fork."
"That's not a saying."
"It is now."
By the time we left, the sun was setting, painting the town in shades of gold and pink. The fairy lights on the lampposts had switched on, giving everything a soft, romantic glow that felt almost staged.
We walked. No destination, just movement through streets that looked like a movie set. Willow stopped at a bookshop window, admiring a display of leather-bound classics.
"See anything you want?" I asked.
"Everything. That's the problem with bookshops." She pressed closer to the glass. "Look at that copy of Pride and Prejudice. It's gorgeous."
"Buy it."
"It's probably expensive."
"I'll buy it."
She shot me a look over her shoulder. "You can't just buy me things."
"Why not?"
"We've discussed this. It crosses a line."
"Willow, I've bought you an entire wardrobe. A book is hardly—"
"The wardrobe was part of our arrangement. This is..." She trailed off, turning back to the window. "Different."
I understood what she meant. The wardrobe was transactional. This—a book she'd admired, a gift with no strategic purpose—this was personal.
I should have let it go. Kept walking. Maintained the boundaries we'd established.
Instead, I said, "Wait here."
I was inside the shop before she could argue.
Five minutes later, I emerged with a bag containing one leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice and the horrified look of a man who'd just spent far too much money on a gesture that would only complicate an already complicated situation.
Willow stared at the bag. At me. Back at the bag.
"You didn't."
"I did."
"Callum—"
"Consider it a thank you. For today. For the gala. For agreeing to this ridiculous arrangement in the first place."
“But we didn’t even run into that congresswoman that you were hoping to see.”
I shrugged. “I guess her plans changed.”
She took the bag. Peeked inside. Her face did that complicated thing again—pleasure warring with uncertainty warring with resolve.
"This is a slippery slope," she said.
"I'm aware."
"Books today, jewelry tomorrow, a sports car next week—"
"I wasn't planning on a sports car."
"That's what they all say."
But she was clutching the bag to her chest, and I could see—past the protest, past the deflection—that she was touched.
We resumed walking. Her arm brushed mine. Neither of us moved away.
We passed a café, the same one where we'd gotten hot chocolate earlier. Through the window, I could see couples at small tables, hands intertwined, heads bent close.
Willow had hot chocolate residue on her lip. A smear she'd missed, just visible at the corner of her mouth.
I should have told her. Should have pointed it out and let her wipe it away herself.
Instead, I reached out. Brushed my thumb across the corner of her mouth.
She went still.
My hand lingered. Her skin was warm beneath my fingertips. Her eyes—those hazel eyes that missed nothing and forgave everything—held mine.
No audience. No one watching. No reason to perform.
And I wanted to kiss her more than I'd wanted anything in years. Wanted to close the distance between us and taste the chocolate on her lips and forget every rule we'd established. Every warning Graham had given me. Every rational thought in my head.
She was leaning in. Or I was. Or we both were.
A group of teenagers burst out of the café, loud and laughing, shouldering past us with cheerful obliviousness. We stepped apart. The moment shattered.
"We should head back," Willow said. Her voice sounded strange. Breathless.
"Yeah." Mine wasn't much better. "Long drive."
We walked to the car in silence.
She fell asleep twenty minutes into the drive.
Her head rested against the window, breath fogging the glass in slow, rhythmic patches. The setting sun caught her hair, turned it to amber and bronze.
I kept my eyes on the road. Mostly.
For a heartbeat I was mesmerized by how stunning she was.
In sleep, she lost that guarded expression like she was waiting for the next shoe to drop.
I wanted access to the nooks and crannies that made Willow who she was.
The hurts, the private joys — whatever comprised the landscape that was Willow Monroe.
I shouldn’t care about any of that. If anything, I should be annoyed that I lost an entire day for nothing because like Willow pointed out, Janetta was nowhere to be seen.
But I wasn’t annoyed. I was happy.
The music played low—her pop playlist, which I'd left on. I was getting used to it, God help me. Starting to anticipate which song came next. Starting to associate these ridiculous melodies with her.
This was a problem.
She was a problem.
Not her—she was remarkable. Sharp and funny and frustratingly honest in ways that made me want to be honest too.
The problem was what she was doing to me.
The way I checked my phone for her texts.
The way I'd arranged my entire day around this trip.
The way I couldn't stop thinking about the almost-kiss that had happened and the real kiss that hadn't.
I pulled into her building's parking lot, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment, watching her sleep.
Three months, I reminded myself. That's the deal. Three months, and then this ends.
Except I was already dreading the ending. Already calculating how to extend this arrangement. Already looking for reasons to see her beyond what our agreement required.
I touched her shoulder. "Willow."
She stirred. Blinked. Looked around with the disoriented confusion of someone surfacing from deep sleep. "We're here?"
"Home safe."
She sat up, rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pass out on you."
"You were tired."
"You drove all day. You're probably tired too."
"I'm fine."
She gathered her things—purse, coat, the bag containing her book. Her hand paused on the door handle.
"Today was..." She trailed off. Tried again. "I had a good time."
"So did I."
"Falling down on ice and eating too much pasta. Pretty good day, actually.”
“It was,” I agreed.
She smiled. Not the bright, performative smile she used for customers. Not the sharp, defensive smile she aimed at me when we were bickering. This smile was real. Warm. A little bit vulnerable.
"Thank you," she said. "For the book. For all of it."
"You're welcome."
She got out. Walked to her building. Turned at the door and waved—a small gesture, almost shy—before disappearing inside.
The rational part of my brain was screaming.
This was a mistake. The whole thing was a mistake.
I was developing feelings for a woman seventeen years younger than me, a woman I was fake-dating for business purposes, a woman who deserved better than a workaholic with a failed marriage and a fractured relationship with his only child.
I should end this. Should call her tomorrow and say the arrangement wasn't working, that we should go back to bickering over coffee and pretending we meant nothing to each other.
I should.
I wouldn't.
Graham was right. Willow is a dangerous distraction I didn’t need.
And the worst part—the part I couldn't admit to anyone, barely even to myself—was that I didn’t want to stop.
I wanted more.
So much more.