Oliver (Foxy’s Rent-A-Date #2)

Chapter 1

One

OLIVER

Zahra Nazarian .

The name stood out like a neon sign. My coffee mug was frozen halfway to my lips as I stared at the booking request that had just pinged my inbox.

Zahra Nazarian .

The world narrowed to those two words—stark black against white. I blinked once. Twice. Certain I was seeing things. But the name remained.

Zahra Nazarian .

Two-months, premium Rent-A-Date rate, and the kind of money that could cover Emmet’s next tuition payment and maybe even a month’s worth of transition costs.

The burn registered a second too late—coffee slushing over the rim of my mug, the pain sharp and scalding. I hissed through my teeth and slammed it down hard enough to splash onto my desk, staining some of the freshman essays I was grading.

"Fuck." I grabbed a handful of tissues to dab at the spill while my eyes remained fixed on the screen.

Zahra-fucking-Nazarian .

Ten years. It had been ten years since I'd confronted that name outside of my own thoughts. Ten years spent building barriers and routines to keep her out of my life, and out of my mind.

With two sharp clicks, I declined the booking and closed my laptop.

My phone rang less than three minutes later.

Shit .

I considered not answering.

“Shit.” This time I said it out loud.

With another groan, I reached for the device and clicked the green button.

Exhale.

"Oliver Beck speaking."

"Why the hell did you just refuse a two-month booking?" Foxy, my boss at Foxy's Rent-A-Date, snapped through the receiver, her voice clipped.

I kept my voice even, controlled. "Because I didn't want it."

"That's cute. Try again."

The hum of the radiator was the only sound in the room besides Foxy's impatient breathing on the other end of the line. I ran a hand through my already disheveled hair, tugging slightly at the ends. A nervous habit I’d never managed to break.

"It's Zahra Nazarian."

Silence. Then, a huff of exasperation. "Is that code for something?"

"What? No. It's a person. A specific person I can't work with."

"Can't or won't?"

I gritted my teeth. "Both."

"Oliver." Her tone shifted, that dangerous sweetness creeping in that meant I was testing her patience. "You've been with RAD for what, six years now?"

"Seven."

"Seven years,” she repeated, the gravity in those two words heavier than any threat she would have made. “And in those seven years, have you ever turned down a booking just because ?"

"There's a first time for everything."

"Not in my business, there isn't. Not without a damn good reason."

"I have a damn good reason."

"Let's hear it, then."

I paced the length of my office—three steps one way. Three steps back.

The room felt suffocating, as if the distance between the walls was suddenly not enough for the words lodged in my throat.

What could I possibly say? That Zahra Nazarian was the girl who had made me believe in something greater than myself, only to tear it all down? That she'd carved out a piece of my heart and left me incomplete? It sounded pathetic even in my head.

"We have history," I said finally.

"History," Foxy repeated flatly. "What kind of history?"

"The kind that makes working together impossible."

A heavy sigh filtered through the line. "Beck, I'm not your therapist. I don't have time for cryptic bullshit. Did you date her? Sleep with her? Kill her cat? What?"

"High school," I muttered. "We went to high school together."

A beat of silence, then Foxy laughed. The sound grated against my already raw nerves.

"High school? You're turning down a premium booking because of century-old teenage drama?"

"It wasn't just?—"

"Do you know what this client is offering? Eight weeks of premium bookings. Mixers, parties, family functions. A wedding , Oliver. Prime work. The kind of steady income most of the guys would kill for."

My jaw tightened. I knew exactly what it meant financially, which was precisely why seeing her name had hit me like a celestial collision. The timing couldn't have been worse.

"I understand the value of the booking."

"But you're still saying no."

"I’m still saying no."

Foxy let out another long-suffering sigh. "This isn't like you, Beck. You're one of my most reliable people. Professional, punctual, willing to take on the difficult clients no one else wants."

I closed my eyes. She was right. In seven years, I'd built a reputation at RAD for being unflappable. Rich divorcees with wandering hands, nervous clients attending their ex's weddings, the occasional celebrity who needed someone discreet—I handled them all with detached professionalism.

But Zahra Nazarian wasn't just another client.

"I'm sorry, Foxy. Find someone else for this one."

"There is no one else," she said, frustration edging into her voice. "The client specifically requested you. By name."

My stomach dropped. "That's not possible."

"Clearly it is, because that's what happened."

I sank into my chair, mind racing. How? My profile was designed for anonymity—photos were from the neck down, first name only, a short and vague pitch with no identifiers. She shouldn’t have recognized me.

But she did. And she requested me by name

Which means …

Something cold and hard formed in my chest.

The booking had something to do with our shared past. A past I was more than willing to leave far, far behind.

"Listen," Foxy continued, her voice gentler now. "I don't know what happened between you two, and frankly, I don't care. What I do care about is my business and my clients. RAD has a reputation to maintain."

"I understand that, but?—"

"No buts. I need you to be professional about this. Meet with her. One meeting. If after that you want nothing to do with her, I'll figure something out."

"And if I don't go?"

"Then I'll assume you're not serious about working for me anymore."

The threat hung in the air between us. Seven years of built-up goodwill, and she was ready to throw it away over one client. But I knew Foxy well enough to know she wasn't bluffing.

And I needed this job. Especially now.

I thought of Emmet, my younger brother, and the consultation appointment we'd scheduled with a specialist next month. An appointment that would cost more than I currently had in Emmet’s transition account.

"Fine," I said through clenched teeth. "One meeting. Where and when?"

"6:00 PM. Café Lucid on Seventh."

My jaw dropped, and it took me a second to find my voice.

“6:00 PM today?” I croaked. “Four hours from now?”

“Three-and-a-half, if we’re being punctual, which I know you will be.”

I closed my eyes, accepting the inevitable. So much for mental preparation.

"I'll be there."

"Good." I could hear the smile in Foxy's voice. "And Oliver? Wear something navy. It makes your eyes pop."

Then the line went dead.

I tossed the phone onto the desk and stalked to the kitchenette, yanking open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The contents offered no distraction from the storm brewing inside me, so I opted for a stale sugar cookie from one of the glass jars on the counter instead.

This is for Emmet , I repeated to myself, then groaned when I remembered we had planned a pizza night. I slugged back to my office, sitting with a heavy thud.

Need to raincheck tonight, Quark.

What? Why? Did something happen?

I’d never canceled pizza night unless it was an emergency, which only happened once when Tobias needed rescue from a drunk client who got way too handsy and tried to lock him in a storage room.

Foxy stuff.

Since when is Foxy stuff last minute?

Since it’s Zahra Nazarian, and she insisted it has to be me, and it has to be today.

There was a pause, then thirty-five seconds of three dots blinking on the screen, and finally,

THE Zahra Nazarian?

I grimaced.

The one and only.

I don’t care when you’re done with this date, I’m coming over and you’re telling me EVERYTHING.

I laughed despite myself. At least someone understood how messed up this situation was.

If there was ever a time for the aliens to abduct me…

Not before I get the tea, Ollie. You better call me when you’re heading back home.

I sent an emoji of an alien and slipped the phone back into my pocket, feeling marginally better, but my concentration was shot.

With a resigned sigh, I collected the papers I’d been grading and slid them neatly into my satchel before slinging it over my shoulder.

I had less than four hours to figure out how to face Zahra Nazarian without completely losing my shit.

At 5:37 PM, I stepped out of the cab and into Café Lucid on Seventh, adjusting the collar of my wool coat.

The gray skies mirrored my mood, and I ran my hand through my hair, bracing myself to walk into the café.

The door closed behind me with a jingle that sounded more like a warning than a welcome.

Lucid was a cozy spot I’d passed a hundred times but never entered—exposed brick walls, warm lighting that countered the dreariness sneaking in through the windows, and the scent of freshly ground coffee beans.

It was the kind of place that boasted a communal pretense, when in reality it was where people pretended to be deep while sipping overpriced lattes.

But I didn’t care about the ambiance; I cared about control.

I took my coat off as I scanned the bustling space, expecting to secure a strategic position before Zahra showed up.

Twenty minutes was supposed to be more than enough of a buffer, but when my eyes reached the table on the opposite side of the café, she was already seated near the window, angling her chair to face the door, absorbed in her own world.

The sight of her halted my forward trajectory. I was frozen, barely managing to breathe, and my heart struggled to beat.