7. The Proposal
Chapter seven
The Proposal
Ethan
She'd agreed. That was the important part.
But the look on her face when I'd said I barely remembered her from twenty years ago—that flicker of hurt before she'd masked it with professional distance—that look was going to haunt me. But I’d had to say it.
This was a business arrangement. Clean. Professional.
Temporary. Acknowledging, let alone teasing, her about her childhood crush on me would break the rules before the game had even started.
I repeated that to myself as I drove back to my hotel, and it still felt like a lie.
I was at the farmers market at 9:45 AM, fifteen minutes early.
I'd dressed down—dark jeans, a simple button-down shirt, no tie.
The goal was to look like someone who belonged on Lopez Island, not a corporate lawyer on assignment.
Approachable. Casual. The kind of guy who might actually date a local baker.
The farmers market was already crowded, islanders and tourists mingling between stalls of fresh produce, handmade crafts, and artisanal goods.
I spotted Honey & Hearth's booth immediately—a professional setup with a vintage tablecloth, carefully arranged baked goods, and a hand-painted sign that managed to look both traditional and appealing.
Maya stood behind the table, talking to a customer with easy confidence.
She wore jeans and a soft yellow shirt that made her olive skin glow, her dark hair in a braid over one shoulder.
She looked comfortable, in her element, completely unlike the guarded woman who'd negotiated with me in her bakery last night.
I watched her finish the sale—warm smile, genuine laugh, the easy rapport of someone who knew her customers by name. This was Maya Romano's world. These were her people.
And I was about to ask her to pretend I belonged in it.
I approached the booth at exactly 10 AM, as we'd agreed. Maya saw me coming, and something shifted in her expression—the warmth cooling into professional courtesy, her shoulders squaring slightly like she was preparing for battle.
"Good morning," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Those pastéis de nata look incredible."
"They're fresh this morning." Maya's tone was pleasant but distant, the voice she'd use with any customer. "Would you like to try one?"
"Please."
She plated one of the Portuguese custard tarts, handing it to me across the table. Our fingers didn't touch—she made sure of that.
I took a bite, and the flavor exploded across my tongue. Crispy pastry, creamy custard, the perfect hint of cinnamon. It was exactly how I remembered them from twenty years ago, except better. More refined. Professional.
"This is amazing," I said honestly. "Is this your great-great-grandfather's recipe?"
"Modified." Maya's eyes flicked to me, assessing whether I was genuinely interested or just performing. "I spent about a year in Portugal studying traditional methods. This combines his original recipe with techniques from Pastéis de Belém."
"The birthplace of pastéis de nata."
"You know your pastry history." She sounded surprised.
"I did some research last night." I kept my voice low, aware of the other customers browsing nearby. "About you. About the bakery. If we're going to do this, I need to know what I'm representing."
Maya's jaw tightened. "I'm not something you represent. I'm someone you're temporarily pretending to date."
"Poor word choice. I apologize." I finished the tart, savoring the last bite. "Can we talk? Somewhere more private?"
She glanced at her booth, clearly calculating whether she could leave. A woman I recognized from the community meeting—Tessa, with purple-tipped hair and bright green eyes—appeared from behind the stall.
"I've got this," Tessa said, her gaze moving between Maya and me with undisguised curiosity. "Take your time."
Maya looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she just nodded. "Ten minutes."
We walked to a quieter section of the market, near a small gazebo overlooking the water.
The morning sun made the ocean sparkle, boats bobbing peacefully in the harbor.
It was picturesque in a way that made me uncomfortable—too perfect, too much like the postcard version of Lopez Island I'd been trying to forget.
"So," Maya said, crossing her arms. "You wanted to talk. Talk."
I pulled out my phone, opening the notes I'd made at 2 AM when sleep wouldn't come. "If we're going to make this believable, we need to be strategic about it. People need to see us together in the right contexts, at the right times. We need a story that makes sense."
"A story." Maya's voice was flat. "You mean a lie."
"I mean a narrative. How we reconnected. Why we're together. What we're doing." I looked up from my phone. "People are going to ask questions. We need consistent answers."
She studied me for a long moment, and I could see her mind working through scenarios, calculating risks.
"Fine," she said finally. "What's our story?"
"We say we ran into each other in Seattle.
Richard told me you went to school there.
We met at a coffee shop near Pike Place, a few weeks before I came out to the island for the assignment.
" I kept my voice level, professional. "You were there for a culinary supplier meeting, I was grabbing coffee before work.
We started talking, realized we were both connected to Lopez Island—you own the bakery, I mentioned I'd be out here soon for a work trip.
Exchanged numbers, kept talking, one thing led to another. "
"That's convenient. Almost too convenient."
"That's the point. It's boring and ordinary enough that no one questions it. Coffee shop meet-cutes happen every day. Nobody's going to dig into the timeline of a chance encounter over espresso. Besides, everyone already knows we both lived there.” I shrugged.
"Fair point." Maya's mouth quirked, almost a smile. "So the official version is: attractive stranger, coffee shop, charming small talk, discovering we had the island in common."
"Exactly. And the fact that I was so upset the other night at the town hall meeting was to throw people off.
Nothing to verify, nothing to trip over, nothing that connects back to Richard's office or the actual reason you're here.
" I met her eyes. "It's a story people won't ask follow-up questions about.
That's really all a good cover story needs to be. "
"And if someone asks why we never mentioned the Seattle coffee shop before this week?"
"Then we say it felt too new to talk about yet. Which, conveniently, is also true—just not for the reasons anyone will assume."
Maya was quiet, her light brown eyes searching my face like she was looking for deception. "What do you get out of this? Really?"
I'd expected this question, but that didn't make it easier to answer honestly.
"Community acceptance. Right now, the island sees me as a corporate vulture.
If I'm dating you—if I'm with someone they trust, someone who represents everything good about Lopez Island—that changes the perception.
They'll listen to what I have to say about protecting local businesses instead of assuming I'm here to destroy them. "
"And you are here to protect local businesses?" The skepticism in her voice was clear.
"I'm here to fix the mess my firm created," I said quietly. "That includes your permits, your property dispute, and making sure you have the legal protection to survive whatever comes next. But I can't do that if no one will talk to me."
She looked out at the water, her profile sharp against the morning light. I found myself noticing details I shouldn't—the way her braid fell over her shoulder, the slight furrow between her brows when she was thinking, the capable strength in her hands.
"One week," Maya said finally. "That's what we agreed last night. Seven days of this... arrangement. Then we're done and you leave Lopez Island."
"One week," I confirmed. "Maybe two if the legal issues take longer to resolve."
"One week," she repeated firmly. "I don't need two weeks of this circus."
I pulled up a calendar on my phone. "Today's Saturday. If we start today, that takes us through next Saturday. The community meeting was Thursday, so we have six days to establish the relationship before people start asking why you're with me."
"People are already asking." Maya's voice was dry. "Tessa already asked me at the booth between customers why you showed up at the farmers market."
So, she had noticed I’d gotten here early.
"What did you tell her?"
“Just enough.” She turned back to me, her expression guarded. "But she's going to figure it out fast. She's known me since high school. She can read me better than anyone."
"Then we tell her the truth." The words came out before I'd fully thought them through, but they felt right. "If she's that important to you, she deserves to know this isn't real. We need at least one person in on it who can help make it believable."
Maya blinked, clearly surprised. "You want to tell Tessa we're faking?"
"I want you to have backup. Someone who knows what you're actually doing and can cover for you if things get complicated." I met her eyes. "I'm asking you to lie to your entire community. The least I can do is let you tell one person the truth."
Something shifted in her expression—not quite trust, but maybe the beginning of respect. "Okay. I'll tell Tessa."
"Good." I looked back at my notes. "Public appearances. We need to be seen together. The farmers market is a start, but we need more. Dinner at the island restaurant. Walking through town. Maybe I come by the bakery for coffee in the mornings."
"You want to come to the bakery every morning?" Maya's voice held a note of alarm.
"I want people to see us together in casual, natural settings. You open at 6 AM, right? I could stop by around 6:30, grab coffee, chat with you while you work. It establishes a pattern. Makes it look like I'm making an effort."