Chapter 10
ten
CALLUM
She walked out of the guest room and my brain stopped working.
The dress was burgundy—deep and rich, the color of wine held up to candlelight. It draped across her shoulders, dipped at the back, and moved when she moved in a way that made me forget I was supposed to be a functioning adult with a vocabulary.
I'd seen Willow Monroe in a lot of contexts over the past year. Behind the coffee counter, hair escaping its bun, apron dusted with espresso grounds. In the emerald gown at Ashford's gala, looking polished but uncertain. In my borrowed sweats, curled on my couch with a nineteenth-century novel.
This was different.
She wasn't playing dress-up tonight. Wasn't trying to fit into a world that intimidated her. She wore the dress the way she wore her opinions—with a confidence that dared you to comment.
"Your mouth is open," she said. "Might want to close that before you catch flies."
I shut my jaw. Tried to find language adequate to the situation and failed spectacularly. "That dress is—you look—" I stopped. Ran a hand over my face. "I had a vocabulary ten seconds ago. I'm sure it's around here somewhere."
"The color's called bordeaux." She smoothed a hand down the fabric, a small smile playing at her mouth. "The saleswoman at Nordstrom tried to put me in pink. I told her I'd rather eat glass."
"Dramatic."
"Accurate." She grabbed a clutch from the entry table—small, black, purchased with my credit card and worth every penny. "Ready?"
I wasn't. I wasn't remotely ready to spend an evening in public with this woman after what had happened on my couch thirty-six hours ago. After the kiss that had rewritten my neural pathways and left me incapable of thinking about anything else.
But here I was. Tuxedo pressed. Car waiting. Every rule we'd established in ashes.
"Ready," I said.
The drive to the Whitmore Gallery took twenty-two minutes.
Twenty-two minutes of sitting in close quarters with a woman who'd tasted of vanilla and stolen sleep and the want I'd forgotten I was capable of feeling.
Twenty-two minutes of not talking about the kiss.
Not mentioning how I'd stood in the hallway outside her door last night, hand raised to knock, before talking myself out of it.
Not acknowledging that every atom in my body wanted to pull the car over and pick up where we'd left off.
We didn't discuss any of it.
Instead, we sat in charged silence while the city slid past my windows, and I reminded myself approximately forty-seven times to keep my eyes on the road.
"Graham texted me," she said, breaking the quiet. "Asked if I could convince you to wear a bowtie instead of a regular tie. Said it would be 'on brand' for the gallery."
“First, how did Graham get your cell number and second, Graham can mind his own business."
"I told him that. In nicer terms." She shifted in her seat, the fabric of her dress rustling. "He also said you've been distracted at work. Implied it was my fault."
"It is your fault."
The admission hung between us. I hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there it was—the truth, unvarnished and inconvenient.
She turned her head toward me. I could feel her gaze on my profile. "Is that a complaint?"
"No."
"What is it, then?"
I considered the question. Considered lying, deflecting, retreating behind the wall I'd spent eight years constructing.
"An observation," I said. "You've disrupted my operating system, Willow Monroe. I'm still calculating the damage."
She was quiet for a beat. Then: "Good."
I didn't ask what she meant by that. I suspected I already knew.
The Whitmore Gallery occupied a renovated industrial building on the east side of downtown—all exposed brick, soaring ceilings, and steel beams that someone with vision had transformed into a showcase for contemporary art.
An architect's dream, honestly. The proportions were immaculate. The sight lines had been carefully considered. Even the lighting—recessed, unobtrusive, designed to illuminate the work without competing with it—showed thoughtful execution.
I appreciated all of this on an intellectual level while simultaneously being unable to focus on any of it.
My hand found Willow's lower back as we entered. The familiar gesture—the one I'd used at Ashford's gala, the one we'd rehearsed in my office a lifetime ago—felt different now. More possessive. More real.
And she leaned into it.
A small shift. Barely perceptible. But I felt it—the way her body moved toward mine instead of holding itself separate. The way she settled against my palm as if she belonged there.
My pulse did a thing that would've embarrassed me if I'd been hooked up to a monitor.
Forty years old, Hayes. Get it together.
"The atrium is impressive," she said, surveying the space. "Very... industrial chic."
Happy to contribute something of value, I quickly shared. “The original structure was a textile mill. Built in 1923. They did a good job preserving the character while updating the functionality."
"Is that architect-speak for 'I approve'?"
"It's architect-speak for 'I'd have made different choices, but these are defensible.'"
Her mouth curved. "High praise."
"I'm feeling generous tonight."
A server passed with champagne. I took two glasses, handed her one. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I watched her cheeks flush—a subtle pink that had nothing to do with the wine.
Is she acting?
The question had been gnawing at me since the moment we'd left my apartment. Every gesture, every loaded silence, every flush of color—was this the arrangement, or had she dropped the pretense the way I had?
I couldn't tell. That was the problem. Willow Monroe was charming and quick and devastatingly good at reading rooms. If she'd decided to perform "woman falling for her fake boyfriend," she'd be convincing. Probably more convincing than the real thing.
I needed it to be real. The desperation of that want would've alarmed me if I'd had the bandwidth to examine it.
The gallery was crowded with the usual suspects.
Architects I knew from industry events, developers I'd pitched projects to, art patrons whose net worth exceeded the GDP of small nations. People who discussed acquisition prices and summer homes in the Hamptons while holding thousand-dollar champagne flutes with casual indifference.
Willow stayed close to my side, her hand occasionally brushing mine, her body angling toward me when conversations grew tedious. We'd quickly developed a rhythm —a shorthand that seemed intuitive when we needed to communicate without words.
I introduced her. Again and again, to people whose names she'd forget and whose opinions didn't matter.
This is Willow. My girlfriend. Each time I said it, something tightened in my throat.
The lie that wasn't a lie anymore. The arrangement that had transformed into a thing I didn't have a name for.
Richard Ashford found us near a sculpture that looked—to my eye—structurally implausible.
"Callum! And the lovely Willow." He clasped my hand, then turned to her with the warmth he reserved for people who'd passed his authenticity tests. "You look radiant, my dear. That color is extraordinary on you."
"Thank you, Mr. Ashford. Callum tried to convince me to wear beige. I told him I'd rather commit a felony."
Richard laughed—that genuine, delighted sound I'd heard at his gala. "I knew I approved of you. She keeps you humble, doesn't she, Callum?"
"She keeps me on my toes."
"That's what the good ones do." Richard's gaze moved between us with the shrewd assessment I'd come to expect from him. “It’s wonderful to see this ol’ stick-in-the-mud hasn’t chased you off yet.”
“I don’t scare easily,” Willow responded with an engaging smile that Ashford ate up with a spoon.
“Excellent, excellent.” He paused to glance around, searching. "Eleanor's around here somewhere," he said. "She'll want to say hello. Enjoy the evening, you two."
He moved on, absorbed into the crowd. I took a long sip of champagne.
“Old stick-in-the-mud,” she teased with a smile over her glass. “He seems to know you well.”
I rolled my eyes but a smile threatened. “Don’t take anything Richard says to heart. He's spent sixty-two years chasing a fairy tale. Seeing people who look happy gives him misguided hope and a false sense of confidence.”
"Do we look happy?"
The question landed in my gut.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Do we?"
She held my gaze. Didn't answer. Didn't need to.
It happened near the bar.
A man I vaguely recognized—Philip Reeves, developer, known for luxury condos with questionable plumbing and a reputation for being handsy at industry events—cornered Willow while I was getting refills.
I returned to find him standing closer than social norms permitted, his body angled to block her exit, his smile carrying an oil slick of condescension.
"...must be nice, being on the arm of someone so successful.
I'm sure it opens a lot of doors." His gaze traveled down her body with a leisurely assessment that made my jaw clench. Then he had the audacity to try and brush her hair from her shoulder but Willow moved out of reach. His expression didn’t falter, if anything he seemed to enjoy her reaction.
“Tell me, sweetheart, what is it you do?
Aside from looking beautiful, obviously. "
Willow's spine straightened. I recognized that posture—the one she adopted when customers talked down to her, when her parents questioned her choices, when anyone implied she was less than what she was.
"I manage a coffee shop," she said, voice cool. "I also have opinions on architecture, politics, and people who stand too close and try to touch without consent. Would you prefer to hear about any of those?"
Reeves laughed, undeterred. "Feisty. I can see why Callum keeps you around.”
I stepped in beside her, close enough that my shoulder brushed hers. "Philip."
"Callum! We were just getting acquainted with your charming—"