Chapter 5
The office was still in that eerie, after-hours way.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while phones and keyboards had fallen silent hours ago.
He sat at the head of the conference table, laptop open, legal pad and Montblanc pen aligned.
Across from him, she perched on the chair’s edge, legs tucked beneath her with casual confidence.
“Thank you for staying late.” His eyes remained on his screen.
“Of course.” She spun her pen. “It’s not every day your boss proposes a fake engagement.” A grin touched her lips but vanished when he looked up at her. “I mean, happy to help.”
“Good.” He turned the laptop toward her, displaying meticulously formatted bullet points. “We need a consistent narrative—key milestones, dates, reasons for the relationship’s progression. If we’re going to convince Andrew Beauchamp, this story must hold under scrutiny.”
“Milestones?” She tilted her head, golden hair catching the light. “Like when we first met? Or ‘first time I forgot your coffee order.’”
“First meeting.” He crossed his arms. “Noone forgets my coffee order.”
“Right. Black, no sugar, no joy.” She scrawled details at the top of the page in her loopy, colorful handwriting, her sparkly pen moving with exaggerated flair. “Okay, Mr. Logic, what’s the plan?”
“Keep it simple. We met here. At work.”
“Sure, but boring.” She wrinkled her nose. “Can’t we add some sparkle? A coffee-shop meet-cute?”
“That didn’t happen,” he stated flatly.
“But isn’t the point to craft a story that’s romantic and swoon-worthy?”
“Romance isn’t the objective. Credibility is.”
“Ronan.” She gave him that imploring look that made him feel both challenged and oddly disarmed. “For people to believe this, it has to feel real. People aren’t spreadsheets. Even Andrew Beauchamp.”
“That’s debatable,” he returned, earning her laugh. He exhaled sharply. “Fine. But we still met at work. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Logical.” She tapped her pen against her chin. “But not memorable. What if we started with a more serendipitous beginning? Like locking eyes across the room at a gala.”
“I wouldn’t have met you anywhere else but here.
” The words slipped out unchecked, landing like a pebble in still water, sending ripples through the space between them.
She blinked, her pen pausing mid-tap. For once, she seemed at a loss for words, her bright, teasing demeanor dimmed by a more subdued quality.
“Well…” Her voice was quieter now when she finally spoke. “When you put it like that.”
“Let’s move on.” His gaze dropped back to his laptop, though the air in the room felt different now, charged.
“Right. So…first date? Please tell me you’re not going to say the office break room.”
He looked at her. “Focus.”
“Fine, fine.” A laugh escaped her. “But if we’re sticking to the truth, we need to add some color. No one will believe you swept me off my feet over spreadsheets.”
“Why not?” He frowned. “It makes sense. It’s logical.”
“We’re crafting a love story, not a business proposal. Love doesn’t come with bullet points.”
“I’d argue structure is what this needs.” He maintained his position. “The truth is the strongest foundation.”
“Sure.” She tilted her head. “But even truth needs sparkle. What if we say you noticed me at one of those corporate parties you pretend to enjoy?”
“Pretend to enjoy?” He shot her a dry look.
“Picture it. You’re brooding by the bar in your perfectly tailored suit, and then”—her voice took on a dramatic flair—“you see me under the chandelier, laughing, and everything changes.”
“Everything changes,” he repeated flatly.
“Too much?” She laughed. “But admit it—better than ‘we met because you caught me stealing your stapler.’”
His gaze found hers, direct and sure. “Like I said before, I wouldn’t have met you anywhere else but work.” His voice dipped, low and even, and the truth of it hovered in the space between them.
She froze, her playful comment stopping before she said it. His words seemed to make the room go quiet.
“Well,” she said after a beat, her expression shifting as she processed the underlying tone. She straightened, her spine stiffening, her voice cooler now, more distant. “I didn’t realize we were that different.”
He exhaled. “Not different, but from different circles.”
Devney offered a small, tight smile. “Ah, circles. Right. Mine tend to be less…gilded, I suppose. More prone to glitter pens than golf courses.”
“Let’s move on. We still need to decide how long we claim we’ve been together.”
A short, humorless laugh escaped her as she shook her head. “You know, if you can’t even see this working, how is anyone else supposed to believe it?”
“We can be believable.”
“Good. Then let’s figure out how.”
The conference room felt strangely cozy, a lamp casting light on the open notebook between them.
“Let me grab my sword and shield.” Her pen was poised. “What’s our first dragon to face?”
“Timing.” His delivery was crisp. “He’ll question why this is happening suddenly. He knows I don’t make impulsive decisions.”
“Which is why we lean into that. We tell him it’s been building. We wanted to be sure before going public. You’re measured, I’m practical—it fits.”
He considered her answer. “Fine. But he’ll also dig into how we met. You said earlier that he might not buy into an office romance.”
“Good thing this isn’t technically an office romance.” A sly grin touched her lips. “It’s a professional connection that blossomed outside work hours. Think of it as romantic overtime.”
“Romantic overtime?” The corners of his lips curved.
“Yes. Trademark pending.” She jotted a note. “Next objection?”
“Chemistry,” he stated bluntly. “He’ll want to see proof. Real moments that sell the relationship.”
“Easy. We talk about inside jokes, quirks, how you actually smile when no one’s looking.”
“I don’t smile,” he corrected.
“Precisely. It’s believable because it’s realistic. And if he still doubts us, we dazzle him with a ridiculously romantic proposal story—one so swoony he won’t question a thing.”
“Right, the proposal,” he said dryly. “Because that will be a breeze.”
“We’ll get there.” Her confidence didn’t waver. “Beauchamp won’t know what happened. What else?”
He hesitated, drumming his fingers against the table.
He wasn’t sure if he was more irritated or impressed by how naturally she steered the conversation.
Their rhythm was effortless—too effortless.
He glanced at her, her expression lit by the lamplight, and felt an unsettling quality creep in.
He recognized, with some discomfort, that he was starting to depend on her.
“Okay, time-out. My brain’s officially fried.” She dropped her pen and stretched dramatically. “We need food before we lose all sense of humanity.”
Thirty minutes later, they were unpacking cartons of pad thai and spring rolls, the spicy-sweet aroma filling the room.
“All right.” She spoke through a mouthful of noodles, unbothered by decorum. “Let’s brainstorm proposal settings. Somewhere meaningful. Romantic. Memorable.”
“Meaningful.” He poked at a spring roll with his chopsticks. “We’ve known each other for six months. Define meaningful.”
“Your lake house.” Her suggestion came without hesitation as she set her takeout box aside.
Her voice took on a quieter, wistful quality.
“Think about it. Calm, close, only the two of us. Imagine the sun setting over the water, the whole place glowing gold. You’d have a ring in your pocket, nerves kicking in, and you’d go for it, no hesitation.
No speeches, no grand gestures. Simple and real. ”
Her words made the scene so clear that for a moment he forgot it wasn’t real. The lake house offered silence and solitude, its sunsets breathtaking. And the thought of standing there with her, caught in that golden light…
“Too much?” Her voice pulled him back.
“Not necessarily. It’s isolated.” He set his chopsticks down. “No through-roads, only a dirt path leading to the water. There’s a dock, and sometimes people fish, but mostly it’s peaceful. A good place to disappear if needed.”
“Fishing?” Her voice rose an octave. “You? With a fishing pole? I need photographic evidence.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his mouth twitching. “It was one time. In a rowboat, not waders.”
“Even better!” She clasped her hands dramatically. “Please tell me you wore one of those vests with all the little pockets.”
“You’re impossible.” His tone was dry, but he didn’t deny it, which only encouraged her.
“So our fake engagement story involves the ever-dignified Ronan Wilder fumbling with fish and hooks?” A smile played on her lips.
“Not exactly.” His voice was careful, city lights reflecting off his glasses. “I was twelve. My uncle insisted I learn ‘life skills.’ It became a disaster.”
Her eyes lit up. “I have to hear this.”
He sighed before relenting. “ I caught a fish, panicked, and the line snapped. The fish flopped into the boat, and I nearly capsized us trying to escape it. My uncle had to save both me and the fish.”
She burst out laughing. “I can see it—you, all gangly limbs, flailing while this poor fish—” She couldn’t even finish.
“Are you done?” he asked, watching her.
“Not even close. This is gold. We have to use it.” She spoke between giggles. “You take me fishing at the lake house, try to impress me, but history repeats. The fish goes rogue, and I heroically save the day.”
“You heroically save the day?”
“Absolutely. I wrestle that fish into submission while you sit in awe. That’s when you realize you can’t live without me. Boom. Proposal.” She grinned triumphantly.
“That’s absurd.”
“Absurdly charming.” She pointed a takeout chopstick at him. “Which is why it’s perfect. Trust me, people eat up this kind of thing. It makes you seem…human.”
He went silent. Human. As if that was a trait he needed to work on. This ridiculous charade was already pushing his patience to its limit.
Apparently satisfied with his silence, she snapped her notebook shut with a flourish and pushed back her chair.
“Well,” she announced, rising to her feet, “I think that’s enough fake romance for one night.
Unless you’ve got any other thrilling details to add, like how we bonded over our mutual love of spreadsheets. ”
He watched her, debating whether to dignify that with a response.
For once, she said nothing, her gaze fixed on him, thoughtful. The oversized conference room felt different, like the air had shifted around them.
“I think we’ve exhausted all angles.” He leaned back. “You did a good job.”
She froze mid-motion, her bag half-slung over her shoulder, then turned to him, her expression filled with feigned disbelief. “Was that—” She gasped dramatically, clutching a hand to her chest. “A compliment? From you? Stop the presses.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Noted.” She grinned at him, wide and easy. “Goodnight, boss man. Try not to overthink this whole ‘pretend to love me’ thing. You’ll sprain a muscle.”
“Goodnight,” he said.
She lingered a second longer than necessary, her eyes sweeping over him as if weighing unspoken words before deciding against them. Then, with a playful wink, she turned and walked away. The door swung shut behind her.
He sat still, staring at the vacant space where she’d been only moments ago.
The room felt bigger now. Colder.
“Just business.”