Chapter 2
Evie
Evie sat at the edge of a weathered café booth, fingers wrapped tightly around a cup of lukewarm coffee that had long since gone cold. She didn’t drink it. She just held it, letting the warmth seep into her palms.
Her gaze flicked to the window, watching raindrops trail down the glass in uneven lines, colliding and splitting apart like they couldn’t decide which way to fall. The soft hum of chatter, the clang of dishes, and the hiss of the espresso machine all melted into background noise.
Her eyes shifted to the man across from her.
James Reed.
Calm as ever. Unbothered. Like this was just another deal on another Tuesday. He sat with one arm draped casually along the back of the booth, his other hand tapping lightly against the side of his coffee cup.
His suit was, of course, impeccable—charcoal gray, crisp lines, no creases. His watch gleamed faintly as he adjusted his cuff. His gaze stayed on her, quiet but sharp, like she was another asset to be calculated, cataloged, and signed.
Not this time, Reed.
Evie leaned back against the booth, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of her cup. Her gaze stayed on him, steady and cool, giving nothing away.
“Alright,” she said, her voice light but firm like she was calling the shots, “let’s talk terms.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and that was enough. A small, barely-there shift, but she caught it. Gotcha.
“Terms,” he repeated, leaning forward and reaching into his leather briefcase on the seat beside him.
He pulled out a crisp, thick stack of papers, each one perfectly aligned and clipped at the corner. He dropped it on the table with a soft, satisfying thud.
Evie blinked at the stack of papers, then raised a brow, tilting her head like she’d just seen something amusing.
“Wow,” she said, tapping a single manicured finger against the top page. “You bring the whole playbook or just the greatest hits?”
“Both,” James replied smoothly, his lips curling just slightly at the edges. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers laced together like he was settling in for a negotiation. “Unlike last time, I’m prepared.”
Her brows shot up, amusement flashing across her face.
“Oh, you mean last time when I carried your entire family dinner like it was my Broadway debut?” She tilted her head, eyes glinting with challenge. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He didn’t bite. Of course, he didn’t. James Reed didn’t get rattled. Not unless you really knew how to push him. But she caught the way his eyes flicked to hers, just for a second longer than usual.
“Consider this my way of returning the favor,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk but just as sharp.
He pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and clicked it once, the sound sharp.
“No surprises this time. No improvisation. Everything is laid out.” He flipped to the first page and tapped it with the pen.
“Fine,” she said, sliding her cup to the side and leaning forward to get a better look. “Walk me through it, Mr. Prepared.”
His eyes stayed on her for a beat too long before he started.
“Six months. Public appearances as needed—charity galas, family dinners, press conferences, anything that requires the 'image' of a settled man. In return, you’ll receive monthly payments in installments, with a final bonus at the end.”
“Define ‘as needed,’” she cut in, tapping her finger on the phrase like she’d spotted something suspicious. “I’m not about to be on-call 24/7 like some personal assistant.”
“You’re not,” he replied coolly, tapping the paper with his pen. “I’ll give you 48 hours' notice for events. If there’s an emergency, I’ll call, and you’ll show up. Emergencies are rare.”
“Emergencies are messy,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Messy costs extra.”
His lips twitched.
“Noted. Next.” He flipped to the next page. “Rules of engagement.”
“Sounds romantic,” she muttered, leaning back with her arms crossed.
He didn’t flinch. He never did. He tapped the page with the pen, his eyes still locked on hers.
“The rules are simple,” he replied, his voice low and cool. “Play in love. Convincing, believable, perfect together.”
“You know that requires actual chemistry, right?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second too long, then slowly rose to meet hers again. His smirk came back—slow, sharp, and far too dangerous.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, steady, and entirely too sure of itself. “Chemistry won’t be a problem.”
Her heart did something stupid in her chest, but she shoved it down so fast it didn’t have time to breathe.
“Careful, darling,” she said, leaning forward to mirror his posture, eyes locked on his like she was ready for war. “If you play with fire, don’t be surprised when it burns.”
His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
“I never get burned,” he said softly.
Her grin came slow, sharp, and dangerous.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t bite. With a flick of his wrist, he turned to the next page.
“Next,” he said, flipping to the third page. “Wardrobe.”
Her eyes rolled before he could even finish.
“Don’t worry,” she said, tilting her head with sarcastic sweetness. “I have taste.”
“Debatable,” he muttered, his eyes flicking to her sneakers—worn, comfortable, and absolutely not the kind of thing his typical "dates" wore. Her grin widened, sharp as broken glass.
“You know, for a man who needs my help, you’ve got an awful lot of opinions.” He leaned forward, arms resting on the table, his eyes locked on hers like he’d just decided to stop playing nice.
“I don’t need your help. I’m offering you an opportunity.”
Her fingers drummed slowly on the table, deliberate in tapping once… twice… three times. Then she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing just a little as her smile turned colder.
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, leaning back into the booth like she had all the time in the world. “And I’m offering you a miracle. Let’s not get it twisted.”
She paused for a moment and then added with a scoff, “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re predictable,” he countered, flipping to the next page.
Her grin faded, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I knew you’d argue about the clothes,” he said, his eyes steady as he glanced up at her.
“So I made a compromise.” He flipped the page toward her, revealing a list of high-end boutiques and stylists.
“Pick your own wardrobe, my treat. But keep it clean. You’re not starring in a Sundance film. ”
Smug jerk.
“Fine,” she muttered, leaning back, too, arms folded across her chest. “Anything else, Mr. Prepared?”
He glanced down at the final page.
“Just one more.” He slid it toward her, tapping his pen against the heading. Privacy Clause.
Her eyes scanned it quickly. She knew what it was. Of course, she did.
“Can’t sell the story, can’t spill the secrets, can’t tell the world that James Reed was so desperate for a wife he hired me to play the part.” Her eyes lifted, her grin sharp as ever. “Don’t worry. Your pride is safe with me.”
“Good,” he said quietly, watching her far too closely.
They both stayed still, eyes locked in an unspoken dare. Neither one blinked.
Evie slowly reached for the pen, her fingers curling around it in a slow motion. Her eyes never left his.
“Six months” she said, flipping to the last page. “But don’t blame me if you end up wanting more than you bargained for.”
“Six months,” he repeated like he was stating an unbreakable fact.
His grin was slow and dangerous, but he didn’t say a word.
She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her name.
The moment she lifted it, she leaned back with a satisfied smile. Checkmate, Reed.
Silence fell between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was sharp, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
“Alright,” she said, tilting her head toward him. “I’m in.”
“Good,” he replied, just as cool, just as controlled. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb.
“I’ll have the photoshoot scheduled by next week,” he said, his voice smooth and steady like every part of this was already set in stone. “Once the pictures are out, so is the story. We’ll be official.”
Evie raised a brow, her lips curving into a slow, amused smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, do I not get a say in this imaginary wedding?”
He glanced up, finally meeting her gaze, his expression as sarcastic as his tone. “Sure you do. You can pick the exact shades of blush for the bouquet you’ll toss… you know, at the press.”
Her laugh came quick, short, sharp, and fake.
“You better hope I don’t throw it at you instead.”
“Careful, Monroe,” he said, eyes still on his phone but his voice just sharp enough to land. “You wouldn’t want me to think you’re catching feelings.”
Her eyes went wide with fake surprise.
“Feelings?” she echoed, pressing a hand to her chest like he’d insulted her honor. “You must have me confused with one of your past conquests. I’m here for the check, not the charm.”
That got him to glance up, eyes squinting slightly like he was studying her, looking for cracks. Good luck with that.
“I’ll remind you of that when you’re calling me ‘darling’ in front of the cameras,” he said, tilting his head like he was already imagining it.
“See you at the altar, darling,” she said, tossing the pen onto the table.
He watched her leave. Of course, he did.
He always watched.
*****
The studio lights were too bright. Too hot. Too intentional.
Evie stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, her eyes locked on the camera lens like it had personally wronged her.
At 5’4” with curves that didn’t ask for permission, she was impossible to overlook.
The fitted ivory blazer hugged her size 16 frame like it had been molded for her body alone—because, of course, it had.