Chapter 10
Ten
The café was small, tucked between a boutique bookstore and a florist that smelled like fresh-cut stems and soil. This was the kind of place where people sat with their laptops, sipping oat milk lattes and pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversations around them.
I curled my fingers around my coffee cup, my stomach a knot of nerves. Was playing the part of Dean’s fiancé even worth it? I could tell them. I could tell Jake, John, Katie, and Tuesday—if I wanted to…
I could sit them all down and tell them the truth—that I had a side business escorting rich, powerful men to events. That it helped me make enough money to live comfortably, to save, to never rely on anyone but myself ever again.
But then… I’d have to explain. To answer a million questions. To convince John and Jake that I could take care of myself if anything turned down a path that wasn’t good.
And that…
That was the part that felt too heavy right now. Because part of me knew I was playing with fire. Part of me knew it was only a matter of time before I met the wrong client. Before I took something I couldn’t handle with measly pepper spray and the self-defense class I’d taken at the Y.
So instead, I would go on this retreat.
One week of my life. Playing pretend with people I would never see again.
One week of smiling and nodding in all the right places.
Then it would be over, just like Dean said, and I would never have to see him again.
I could manage my accounts while I was away. Answer emails, filter requests, and engage just enough to keep everything under control.
It would be fine.
I could do this.
I could pretend.
The bell above the door chimed, pulling me from my thoughts.
I looked up. Dean stood at the entrance.
He looked… different. Not corporate and calculating. Not shirtless and unexpected. But somehow, this version of Dean was more handsome than all the rest.
Maybe it was the jeans—soft and worn, as if they’d been washed a hundred times—or the gray T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders in a way that wasn’t trying too hard.
There was something about him standing, unaware that I was watching him, that felt unbearably honest. Like I was seeing the real version of him for the first time. No performance. No walls.
His dark hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d run a hand through it a thousand times on the way over and hadn't bothered to check a mirror. He always seemed so sure of himself, but it was things like this that made me wonder. The quiet giveaways under all that confidence.
And then there were his eyes—dark, steady. Sharp enough to catch everything, yet unreadable enough to keep me guessing.
He scanned the café, one hand on a briefcase, the other shoved in his pocket… and then his gaze found mine.
And he smiled.
Damn him—his whole face lit up, easy and unguarded, looking genuinely happy to see me.
He started toward my table, casual but sure, each step more confident than the last. My heart thudded stupidly against my ribs, as if it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all a big game of pretend.
He stopped just in front of me, head tilted slightly to one side. “I’m gonna go order a coffee. Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head, gesturing toward my cup. “Already covered.”
But inside, I almost choked, because the air between us was charged with a type of current I didn’t want to recognize.
He was just standing there, looking like that, asking me something so normal—yet somehow it felt like the most intimate, personal thing I’d experienced in years. My skin felt too tight, my pulse beat out of sync, like some part of me still hadn’t figured out how to be around him without unraveling.
“If you change your mind...” he said, offering a small nod before walking toward the counter.
I exhaled the moment he slipped out of sight, then stared down at the table, willing my heart to calm the hell down.
He returned a few minutes later, coffee in hand, and slid into the seat across from me. We exchanged a few simple pleasantries—how was the drive, how was the coffee—until he set his cup down with a quiet finality and looked at me like he was already tired of pretending.
“So,” he said, calm and direct. “Let’s rip off the Band-Aid, shall we? What are your terms?”
I swallowed, hard, because I wasn’t ready for the shift—and wasn't used to this level of directness. But I reached into my bag anyway, pulled out the manila folder I’d prepared the night before, and slid it across the table.
He took it without hesitation, flipping it open with the same focused expression I’d seen at the party. That version of Dean who studied people like he could see straight through them, if they’d just hold still long enough.
Inside were the basics:
No touching without consent.
No bed sharing.
Strictly companionship.
PDA in public spaces only—not behind closed doors.
Start and end of dates clearly defined.
Nothing romantic. Nothing messy.
The terms were a version of safety I’d learned to put on paper.
He skimmed the pages, nodding at a few, frowning at others. Then he paused, reached for the pen beside my cup, and drew a line through one of the clauses.
My stomach tightened. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re leaving yourself too exposed,” he said, eyes still on the page. “This part—about touch—it’s too vague. It doesn’t protect you.”
He rewrote the line in a few short strokes. I leaned forward to read it.
Physical contact must be explicitly initiated and consented to by me, verbally or in writing, at the time of occurrence.
It was legal. Precise. Ironclad.
He slid the folder back across to me. “That version holds up.”
I blinked, surprised. Not by the correction—but by the fact that he’d amended it in my favor.
Before I could respond, he reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a second stack of papers—thicker, more formal—and set them on the table.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My terms,” he said. “Standard NDA.”
I raised a brow.
“You can’t disclose anything about me, this arrangement, or who you really are,” he said. “And in return, I won’t say anything to your friends. Once it’s over, it stays between us. For good.”
I picked up the pages, flipping through them slowly. The language was dense but clear. Professional. Binding. And when my eyes landed on the payment line, the rest of the text faded away.
The number was staggering. The same one he’d thrown out at the hotel the night we’d met, yet seeing it in black and white made something twist in my chest.
Guilt.
That old, familiar voice slid through my mind—quiet, cruel, the one that always knew where to cut deepest. You’re not worth it, it whispered. Your time, your presence… you’ll never be worth that much.
I swallowed hard and shifted in my seat.
Taking this kind of payment felt… uncomfortable.
But it would give me something I’d never had before—stability.
A little breathing room. The freedom to not panic every time I felt a twinge in my side or something in my apartment broke, knowing I didn’t have insurance or a safety net to catch me if things went wrong.
I wouldn’t have to worry about my car dying in the middle of a shift or missing a week of work and wondering how I’d cover rent. I’d have a cushion. Something soft to land on when life inevitably got hard.
I’d never again sit in a dark apartment, weighing impossible choices over the cost of diapers.
If Dean had that kind of money to burn, I might as well be the one holding the match.
I reached for the pen on the table, but he stopped me, sliding a sleek blue one across instead. “Use this,” he said. “Always sign in blue—it’s easier to tell it’s real.”
The comment caught me off guard—not because of what he said, but because it sounded like he was looking out for me. Like he cared in some small, deliberate way he didn’t want to admit.
I signed my name before I could think twice. “Anything else?” I asked, pushing the pages back toward him, suddenly desperate to leave.
“I sent a form to your email,” he said. “I’ll need it completed before the weekend.”
I nodded. “Okay. When do we leave?”
“Monday. I’ll pick you—”
“No,” I cut him off, too fast. “I’ll meet you at your place. I’ll leave my car there. You don’t need to know where I live.”
Something flickered across his face. Surprise. Disappointment. And something else I couldn’t quite name.
But he nodded, his eyes meeting mine with a softness that made me almost uncomfortable. “Fair enough.”
I stood, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, before I could talk myself out of this. I was ready to go. Ready to breathe. But before I could take a step, he reached into his briefcase one last time and pulled out a binder.
“What’s this?” I asked, when he handed it to me.
“Just some information you’ll need to know before the retreat.”
I opened it, half expecting an itinerary or packing list.
But it wasn’t either...
It was him.
It was the story of us.
Page after page.
I looked up slowly. “You really did all this?”
He didn’t smile. Just held my gaze.
“If we’re going to pretend,” he said softly, “we should at least be convincing.”
I dropped my keys on the entry table the moment I got into my apartment, set my bag on the counter, and carried the thick folder to the couch.
I should have left it for later.
Should’ve poured a drink. Watched something stupid. Done literally anything else.
But instead, I curled up with a blanket, flipped open the folder, and started reading.
It was everything.
Pages and pages of details: Places we’d been. Fake vacations we’d never taken. Restaurants we supposedly loved. And I read every word like it was the most gripping piece of fiction I’d ever come across.
Because in a way… it was.
Every detail was meticulous. Carefully crafted, but not cold or clinical like I’d expected. It was flawed in the best kind of way—like someone had tried to tell a love story and ended up revealing more than they meant to.
And then I flipped to a page labeled Dean Weston: Personal Background.
My fingers stilled.
This was different. This wasn’t just the relationship. This was him.
Not the buttoned-up version I’d met at the bar. Not the man who could draft a contract without blinking.
Just Dean.
The first lines were simple: thirty-three years old, six-foot-four, two-thirty. UCLA Law. Runs most mornings. Played volleyball in high school.
But then the tone changed—softened a little.
He has a scar on his chin from falling out of a tree in third grade—trying to rescue a cat that wasn’t actually stuck.
He once broke his arm jumping off the garage roof with a towel around his neck, convinced he could fly like Superman. His sister had dared him, and he never turned down a dare when he was eight.
He was born in San Diego but moved to Los Angeles when he was ten.
He spent lots of time at his grandparents’ cabin where he learned how to fish.
Where he’d split firewood for the first time.
Where he sat around a rickety table learning to cheat at poker with a glass of ginger ale and a bowl full of Hubba Bubba Bubblegum.
He grew up with a younger sister who was obsessed with rom-coms. Not in a casual way—in a memorize-every-line, cry-over-the-trailers kind of way. And because of her, he knows more about Ten Things I Hate About You and How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days than any grown man should ever admit to.
A smile tugged at my lips. I could see it—Dean, arms crossed, rolling his eyes while secretly keeping track of plot points.
I kept reading.
He taught himself to cook in college—sort of. He can make exactly four things. Steak, eggs, grilled cheese, and pancakes. That’s it. Anything else is a gamble.
He has a soft spot for old cars and once spent an entire summer restoring a ’69 Mustang with his grandfather when he was fifteen. It never really ran right, but he still has it in his garage to this day.
His first pet was a three-legged dog named Murphy, who followed him everywhere and used to sleep in his bed every night, even though he was supposed to sleep outside.
Something shifted in my chest. Something small but undeniable.
This wasn’t him—not really. Just words on a page. Facts, curated and typed up for the sake of a performance.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
But it did…
Because somewhere between the dog-loving, rom-com-watching, poker-cheating kid and the man I’d met, I could feel the real version of him start to take shape.
I exhaled and shook my head, trying to push the feeling away. This didn’t change anything. This was still a job.
One week. That was the deal.
I closed the folder, set it on the coffee table, and walked to the shower—ignoring the way my chest still felt strangely full.