Chapter 2
Aiden
The conference room smells like dry-erase markers and ambition.
Hazel has transformed the space into what looks like a war room—promotional materials spread across the polished table in color-coded stacks, multiple devices scattered like digital landmines, and a whiteboard covered in hashtags that make my eye twitch.
What I'd assumed would be a straightforward media briefing is clearly something else entirely.
"Okay, so I've mapped out your entire relationship arc.
" Hazel swipes through their tablet with the intensity of a general planning an invasion.
"Meet-cute at the warehouse—already captured, thank God.
First public appearance this weekend. Gradual escalation of intimacy cues over the following three weeks. "
Intimacy cues. My coffee suddenly tastes like regret.
Riley sits at the far end of the table, her posture rigid enough to pass a military inspection. Her hair is pulled back in that practical style she favors, wire-rimmed glasses reflecting Hazel's presentation slides. Everything about her screams "I would rather be anywhere else."
That makes two of us.
"The key is authentic chemistry." Hazel bounces slightly in their chair. "Think less performance, more natural connection."
Riley's eye twitches. Just barely, but I catch it.
"Now, physical proximity is crucial." Hazel stands and begins demonstrating on an invisible partner—a hand placed on an imaginary shoulder, a lean-in suggesting intimate conversation. "Casual touches. Meaningful glances. Standing just slightly closer than colleagues normally would."
This is my life now. Getting coached on fake romance like a contact sport.
"Exactly how much physical contact are we expected to display?" Riley's voice carries the strain of someone holding it together through sheer force of will.
"Nothing dramatic." Hazel waves a hand. "We're aiming for 'couple comfortable with each other but respectful in public settings.' Think established relationship rather than new romance."
The irony isn't lost on me. We're supposed to fake an established relationship when twenty-four hours ago, we couldn't have a conversation without it turning into a shouting match.
"Let me show you the venue." Hazel pulls up photos on their tablet—stone columns, wooden beams, river views. "Riverside Park Pavilion. The architecture provides perfect framing for intimate moments, and the water backdrop tests beautifully for romantic shots."
Riley flinches at "intimate moments." Her jaw tightens in a way I'm starting to recognize as her default stress response.
This whole situation is costing her more than it's costing me. My reputation can survive being seen as the charming guy who dates his colleague. Hers—built on being taken seriously in a field that doesn't always welcome women—is taking a direct hit.
"Why don't we practice somewhere more private first?" The suggestion comes out before I fully think it through. "Riley, could we use your lab? Away from potential audiences?"
Her eyebrows rise slightly. Surprise, maybe, that I'd consider her comfort.
Hazel's eyes light up. "Yes! Perfect. Get comfortable with the dynamic before going public. Love it."
Riley pauses, then nods stiffly. "Fine. The lab should be empty this morning."
Twenty minutes later, I'm following her through corridors lined with warnings about chemical hazards and evidence protocols. She moves with purpose here—shoulders relaxing incrementally the deeper we go into her professional territory.
Her access card beeps, and the door swings open to reveal something I'm not expecting.
The investigation lab stretches before us like a scientific sanctuary.
Sterile white walls lined with equipment that belongs in a research university, not a municipal building.
High-powered microscopes. Chemical analysis stations.
Evidence lockers arranged with military precision.
Everything organized with the kind of meticulous attention that speaks to both expertise and—if I'm being honest—a touch of obsession.
"This is incredible." The words escape before I can stop them.
Riley glances back, and something in her expression shifts. Less guarded. Almost pleased. "Most people don't realize how sophisticated arson investigation has become."
She moves toward one of the analysis stations with fluid confidence—completely different from the rigid woman who sat through Hazel's presentation like she was enduring a root canal.
"This gas chromatograph can identify accelerant traces at parts-per-million levels." Her hand brushes across the equipment with obvious affection. "We can determine not just what started a fire, but often where the accelerant was purchased. Sometimes even when."
I step closer, genuinely fascinated. This isn't the sharp-tongued investigator who accused me of posting thirst traps. This is someone who loves her work so deeply it transforms her.
"Evidence collection that looks random to most people follows very specific protocols." She pulls out a sample container, handling it with practiced precision. "Temperature patterns, burn trajectories, chemical residue analysis—it all builds a complete picture of what actually happened."
"Like reading a story no one else can see."
She looks up at that, green eyes sharp behind her glasses. "Exactly. Most people just see destruction. I see a narrative."
I didn't expect to respect her this much. Three years of working adjacent to Riley Pritchard, and I'd written her off as uptight, by-the-book, incapable of seeing past her precious protocols. Turns out I wasn't paying attention.
My gaze drifts to her desk—neat stacks of files, a high-end laptop, and tucked between case folders, a small, framed object that doesn't fit the clinical aesthetic. A vintage fire inspector badge, brass tarnished with age but still dignified.
"That was my father's." Her voice has gone quiet. Softer than I've ever heard it. "He always said evidence tells the truth when people won't."
The weight of that statement settles between us.
No wonder she reacted so strongly to our staged relationship.
Her entire career is built on objective truth, on evidence that can't be manipulated.
Being asked to perform a lie—even a harmless one—probably feels like betraying everything she stands for.
"He was an inspector?"
"Thirty-two years with the department." She picks up the frame, thumb tracing across the glass. "Line-of-duty accident when I was twenty-five. I became an investigator because I wanted to follow his path, but I chose arson specifically because I liked the precision. The objectivity."
The lab falls quiet except for the low hum of equipment and ventilation. She sets the frame back in its exact position—muscle memory.
"He would have hated this social media circus." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "Dad believed in letting work speak for itself. Never understood why anyone would want attention for just doing their job."
I watch her reorganize already-perfect stacks of files—a nervous habit, processing emotions through familiar routines.
The competence runs deeper than I'd imagined.
The dedication to integrity makes our fake relationship feel less like an inconvenience and more like asking her to betray her core values.
"The department's lucky to have you." The words come out more sincere than I intend. "This level of expertise... most people have no idea what goes into this work."
She glances up, less guarded than usual. "Most people think investigation means sifting through ash and making educated guesses. They don't realize every sample, every measurement, every analysis has to stand up in court under cross-examination."
"Building a case one molecule at a time."
"Exactly." Genuine surprise in her voice—like she's not used to colleagues understanding. "One mistake in protocol can destroy an entire prosecution. Every piece of evidence has to be defensible, reproducible, absolutely accurate."
She's not just good at her job. She's building something—honoring her dad while carving out her own space. That takes guts.
Hazel's coaching about authentic chemistry suddenly seems irrelevant compared to this glimpse of who she actually is without the professional armor.
"So." She clears her throat, and the vulnerability disappears behind her usual composure. "We should probably practice the... proximity thing. Before this weekend."
Right. The reason we're here.
"Hazel mentioned casual touches." I move a step closer, watching her posture stiffen. "Maybe we start with something simple. Standing near each other without looking like we're about to commit mutual homicide."
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "That might be ambitious."
"I'm an optimist."
We stand there, maybe two feet apart, both of us clearly uncomfortable. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. A centrifuge whirs in the corner. Romance is definitely not in the air.
"This is ridiculous," she mutters.
"Completely ridiculous."
"We're two professionals who can't figure out how to stand next to each other."
"To be fair, yesterday we were screaming about Instagram angles. Personal growth takes time."
That gets an actual laugh—short, surprised, like it escaped against her will. The sound does something inconvenient to my chest.
"Okay." She squares her shoulders like she's approaching a difficult evidence sample. "Casual touch. Where would you normally...?" She gestures vaguely.
"Maybe here?" My hand hovers near the small of her back. "Tell me if this is weird."
"It's already weird." But she doesn't move away, so my palm settles against her lower back. The fabric of her blazer is smooth, professional, and my hand absolutely does not want to stay there longer than necessary for practice purposes.
Her breath catches. Just slightly. Probably discomfort.
"See?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Not so bad."
"It's fine." She's facing the evidence lockers, jaw tight. Not looking at me. "Totally fine. Very... casual."
We stand there for approximately four seconds before she steps away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Good. That's... we can do that. Probably." She's already moving back toward her desk, putting distance between us. "We should review Hazel's schedule. Figure out talking points for this weekend."
The shift back to business is so fast I almost get whiplash. But that flush creeping up her neck tells a different story.
Maybe the chemistry isn't as fake as we thought.
Or maybe I'm imagining things because the alternative—that Riley Pritchard might actually affect me—is not something I'm prepared to deal with right now.
"Talking points." I clear my throat. "Right. Good idea."
She pulls up something on her laptop, and we spend the next hour reviewing logistics like two people who definitely weren't just standing too close and feeling... whatever that was.
Professional. I need to stay professional.
But watching her explain evidence protocols with that passion in her voice, her father's badge glinting in the corner of my vision, I'm starting to suspect professional isn't going to cut it for much longer.
Later that night, I'm staring at my apartment ceiling and replaying the moment my hand touched her back.
Four seconds. That's all it was. Four seconds of contact through a blazer, in a fluorescent-lit lab that smelled like chemicals, with a woman who spent three years thinking I was a shallow publicity hound.
Four seconds shouldn't be keeping me awake.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from my buddy Derek.
Derek: Saw the video. You and the hot investigator, huh? Nice work.
I don't respond. Partly because "it's fake" isn't something I can text without risking it getting screenshot and shared. Partly because "hot investigator" hits differently now that I've seen the way Riley's eyes light up when she talks about gas chromatography.
The ceiling offers no answers.
She accused me of chasing publicity, of caring more about my image than my job.
And yeah, that stung—mostly because there's a kernel of truth in it.
I do care about public perception. I have cultivated a social media presence.
The charity car wash post did have multiple angles, and not all of them were strictly necessary for fundraising purposes.
But she doesn't know about the three years of training certifications I've collected.
The crisis intervention courses. The advanced structural assessment qualification I finished last month.
The promotion review coming up that I've been preparing for since before she and I ever exchanged a civil word.
Wade thinks I'm coasting on charm. Half the department probably agrees with him. The social media following just reinforces the image: Aiden Gentry, the firefighter who's better at selfies than strategy.
I've been working twice as hard to prove otherwise. Every certification, every volunteer hour, every tactical decision documented and filed. Because I know my record will be scrutinized differently than someone like Wade's.
I saw her lab today—the equipment, the precision, the legacy she's building. Maybe it's time someone saw mine.
Tomorrow we'll practice more "casual touches" and "meaningful glances." We'll prepare for a weekend of pretending to be something we're not.
But tonight, I can't stop thinking about the way her breath caught when my hand touched her back.
Four seconds. In a fluorescent-lit lab that smelled like chemicals.
If Derek could see me now, he'd never let me live it down.